“I come to this magnificent house of worship tonight because my conscience leaves me no other choice. A time comes when silence is betrayal,” Martin Luther King Jr in 1967 before his speech denouncing the Vietnam War.

Preparing for my trip to Homestead I thought I was probably more ready than anyone to go. For months I have been working remotely organizing and helping others plan their days witnessing. I had communicated with every single person who signed up to witness and I heard back from most of them about their experience. Charlie and I had been in intimate communication almost daily. Yet I was taken aback by the overwhelming emotions I felt pulling up and seeing the Witness Camp on the left and the children’s detention camp on the right. I was, in fact, not the least bit prepared.

After driving down from Miami with Dona (Dona generously drives people from Miami to Homestead if their plane arrives on Tuesdays or Thursdays. I was lucky that my first day was a Thursday and I got to drive with this amazing woman who I had helped so many others coordinate with) the first person I encountered was a fellow Mainer, Tina. This was our first in person meeting. Funny how life is. You meet a neighbor 1,500 miles away in a horrid place keeping children who after fleeing unimaginable violence and dramatic effects of climate change were taken from their families as they entered our country. And there we stood in deep embrace finally meeting each other. When I saw Charlie I was overcome with emotions and sobbed. I didn’t expect that at all. Yet the months of work and stories overcame me and won out. Like any good parent she said, “It’s ok; do it here. But don’t do it on the ladders.” Wise, wise words.

After a short tour of camp I began to help Tina put up a few more signs. I know full well the demands on those who witness daily. The toll of seeing the kids, fighting with Homeland Security guards about where they are legally allowed to stand, and maintaining camp is at the very least, overwhelming. So I helped where I knew I could, I helped with organizing camp. But we stopped when we heard the boys outside and walked down to the ladders. That was the second time I was surprised by my lack of preparation. I had seen many photos and videos of this exact scene. Yet when I climbed the ladders I was overcome again. I was staring the monster in his eye. The monster being the camp keeping these youngins here without their families for indefinite amount of time. Thankfully I was able to follow Charlie’s directions and control my tears until I climbed back down. The ever patient Tina again described what we were observing. Sleeping quarters on the left in the old dilapidated building, school and cafeteria in the tents. Many of the older boys we saw were playing soccer. Some were playing basketball. Some standing in the shade of the tents. Clearly not as many there as photos of the past had shown. #WherearetheChildren? Where did all the children go? At the height of this camp there were over 3,000 kids here. When I was there, mid-July, there were around 600. As I held up my heart sign and yelled “we love you” and “you are not alone” in both English and Spanish, I wondered, “Where did all the children go?” My stomach told me it was not to their families as those in charge would like us to believe. Let’s stop and think about that for a minute. As a retired school teacher I have quite a bit of experience witnessing children in lies. Not often, but enough to recognize it and it usually starts with the observation of patterns and behaviors. I instinctively pulled on those years of experiences to quickly come to the conclusion that it isn’t adding up.

We were standing outside a facility that is in such a remote place that it is incredibly difficult to get to unless you have a car. We were standing on ladders on a designated spot because if we were to cross the street we would get in deep trouble from Homeland Security. We were standing on ladders because when witnesses first started to witness the kids, those in charge built a fence so witnesses couldn’t see in. When witnesses brought and stood on step stools, those in charge made the fences higher. I’m assuming when witnesses arrived with even taller ladders, the operators gave up in futility. One small success for the determination of the witnesses. When press and congressional representatives first tried to tour this facility they were denied. They were denied entrance!!! Our tax money goes to this place yet our representatives in Congress were denied entry! It’s on federal property. Some say that is why they get away with this. Yet in my mind I’m thinking, “They are on federal property that our tax dollars supports yet our federal representatives can’t see inside?” They, those who make millions of dollars a day off of this place, claim they do all this for the safety of the kids. Hogwash. Then why are they holding the children for so long violating agreements such as the Flores Agreement which doesn’t allow this length of time of detention? Why do they feed the children unfamiliar Mexican food when they are from Central America? Why did it take witnesses yelling and screaming for weeks about guards having hats to protect them from this sun but the kids didn’t have hats, to finally get kids some hats? If you look back at early photos you will see guards with sun caps and kids with their sweatshirts over their heads. Why can’t they touch each other? Imagine no touch? We know the consequences of that. It is clearly documented the harmful effects of such policy. Why are shredders there each week? What are they hiding? Why are ultra sound machines there each week? Why don’t they let the Miami Dade public schools help with education when they have offered numerous times? Why did it take months to release a hurricane plan when they were asked numerous times? Where are the children?

While walking back to camp, a very loud siren rang. It scared the heck out of me. Tina explained this happens when lighting is in the area. Kids go inside. The siren and voice over a loud speaker telling everyone to go inside, continued. If I was scared I can only imagine how scary that was for the kids, especially those who don’t know English. With that large tour buses started arriving and Charlie, Marty (first witness of Homestead), and Tina grabbed signs and headed over to where the workers cross the street during shift changes. In the drenching rain with sirens blasting, we stood with our signs defying those working there to look away. Most did. The sirens continued, we got soaked, and we stood. Signs defiantly held high. I just followed what Charlie did. She’s very good at this.

After about 1 1/2 hours of shift change Tina and I walked the perimeter. Not all witnesses do this, nor is it recommended that witness do this, but Charlie and Tina do. It didn’t take me long to realize that this was not the safest thing in the book to do. The back part of camp is remote, unguarded, unprotected. I voiced my wish that these two fearless women never do this alone. I of course was brushed off. Aka, fearless. As we were walking, Tina was explaining what I was seeing. We came upon two things that were very unsettling, a bunch of full, black 50 gallon tanks that we did not know what was inside of them and a discarded pile of young children’s clothing. We documented both. But as Tina was pushing through the water that the clothing sat in there was a deep silence between us. It reminded me of when you come upon something sacred. Something deserving your full attention emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually. We did not know exactly what we were witnessing but without even speaking words we both agreed it was the result of evil. Overcome with deep sadness we quietly walked back to camp together.

When it came time to take camp down I learned first hand how difficult this task is. We were exhausted, both emotionally and physically. The sun came out and the heat was overwhelming. At the end of the day the sun blasts down on camp making it ungodly hot and this task incredibly difficult. Help is needed with this daily task.

Since I was spending the night with my daughter, who lives a bit of a ways away, Marty drove me the 20 minutes or so to the train station. As I sat on the train, looking quite the mess I might add, I was once again overcome with such deep sadness. It persisted well into the night and made going again the next day difficult.

“I want to say, as clearly as I know how, that the humanity and the dignity of any person or people cannot in any way diminish the humanity and dignity of another person or another people.” Reverend Dr. William Barber II

Reflection on Friday’s events will follow shortly. I need a break.

With immense gratitude to Charlie, Tina, Marty, Dona, and all the witnesses who have come before me, I am humbled and bow to your beauty, strength, and courage. You inspire so so many of us to keep going.

Much love,

Mary(ellen)

Trying to find the words to start this blog post isn’t easy, as you can see from this sentence. After spending 3 days at Homestead I struggle to make sense of what I saw, experienced, and what my body wouldn’t allow me to experience. Upon arrival and for the entire time I was honored to be there my body took total control and did not allow me to be present and help the way I knew I was needed. Each day my body revolted more than the day before. The heat and humidity won and I am struggling with this defeat. But one thing is for sure, these two women and a few other dedicated, daily witnesses deserve our utmost support and respect. I, unfortunately wasn’t able to give what was so desperately needed.

I arrived in Homestead late Thursday morning. Upon seeing the camp I was taken by surprise by the overwhelming emotions I felt. After emotional hugs with women I have worked with remotely for months, I got to work helping with the remaining set up tasks of the witness camp. Setting up and taking down of camp is a huge task.

As the afternoon rolled around it began to rain and the relief from the intense heat was welcome. The word, rainy, is an understatement. Sirens and loud speakers told everyone to take shelter because of lightning strikes in the area. All I could think about was how scary this must sound to the children especially to those who don’t know English or Spanish. Little time for thoughts were allowed when the sky opened up. While I assumed that we’d hunker down under the canopies I quickly realized how wrong I was. Charlie, Tina, and Marty grabbed signs and took to the sidewalk because it was shift change. Many, many workers were leaving and arriving, mostly on huge buses. And there we stood, signs held high, silently demanding everyone who passed to look. Do not look away, children should not be taken from their families, and children do not belong in this prison, were a few of our messages. Addressing the workers is not as clear cut as one may think. They are often marginalized folks struggling to pay the bills and these are high paying jobs. How clever of the company that runs this hell hole. Put it somewhere really difficult to get to, somewhere ungodly hot in the summer, and in a community that desperately needs jobs.

After shift change Tina and I took a walk around the perimeter of this place. We passed where the 17 years olds live (if they are still there?), where those children are put into a 3 point handcuff shackle on their 18th birthdays and then transferred to ICE custody (please imagine that happening to your 18 year old on his or her birthday); through parking lot after parking lot, past where they young teens live, eat, play soccer, a visit to the ladders, and back to the witness camp. Why I bother to tell of this mundane routine is because of something Tina and I came across in the remote back area of the camp and what I struggle to deal with emotionally.

I have no words to describe coming upon children’s clothing so haphazardly disposed of in an empty lot. So I summon up a poem that helps me and I hope you are able to remember: “No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark.” Please hold onto those words and do not look away. Do what you can from where you are to respond appropriately to the humanitarian crisis our government is inflicting on the people seeking asylum on our southern borders. And remember, seeking asylum is legal.

Mary(ellen)

“No child should have to go to bed without their parents to tuck them in.” Alex Kohn

Sitting arm in arm we survived the hot afternoon sun while raising our voices for those who cannot raise theirs. What brought us together on this uncomfortable afternoon was our determination to lift our voices against our country’s separation of children from their families along our southern border. Due to the heat, quite a few of us felt sick but we stayed. We stood and sang and then we sat and chanted, and we stayed. We stayed because we believe strongly that taking children away from their families and putting them in cages and camps is wrong. It is wrong no matter what spin our legislators give it. Or in the case of Maine legislators, their silence over it. And so we rise.

In the days leading up to our protest we had training in non-violent civil disobedience. It was helpful. But the fear I experienced continued. We were told we could be arrested. I guess attempting admission onto federal property it not encouraged, so I paused. I hesitated. Then in my mind I brought forward the photos of the children and I agreed to move forward. If not now, when? We all know that it is never ok to take children from their families yet we are doing it and many are looking away while it is being done. This is something I truly do not understand. What causes so many of us to look away?

Never Again is something many shout as we witness what our country is doing along our southern border and throughout our country. It is a chant that refers to the Nazi concentration camps of WWII as well as the rounding up of a group of people. The similarities are too hard not to notice, so we chant. Never Again is Now.

“What was accomplished?” a friend asked. I admit that I wondered about that too. How could I not? Since today was another hot day and I was recovering from a bit of heat stroke I got from yesterday, I reflected on that question. I have come to several conclusions. None of it was about us. None of it. And every person there yesterday knew that. It was about the kids. The kids who were taken away from their families. Kids who are still in these horrid places scattered around our country. It was for the kids who we have “lost” because we didn’t bother to maintain a data base on them. It’s about the kids who go to sleep night after night alone, away from their families and loved ones. It’s about the kids who have died because we didn’t care enough to take care of them. We risked arrest so that our voices could carry their silence to others to hear. Did they listen? We shall see. Will more join us next time? We shall see. If not now, when?

Did we change anything? I believe we did. I find myself thinking of that butterfly analogy. When a butterfly flaps it’s wings we feel ripples from the effects of its flapping at just the right moment even though we are very far away. Did we cause the release of kids? Not immediately but hopefully as more and more people around the country rise up, more and more of our voices will be heard and harder to ignore. That’s one reason why it’s important. We can’t sit idly by and watch evil taking place. We need to go on record as standing up against this. But another reason is that there is strength in solidarity, standing with others who share your belief. And we need that strength right now because evil is being committed during our watch. How do we want to be remembered? By being silent and complacent? Or doing everything in our power to stop it. This evil is much bigger than we are but together we become a force to stop it. I believe it is happening. And in this belief and need, we rise.

For the children. May we all find the courage and the moral compass to rise together. Never again is now.

Mary

“Freedom for all.” Many folks are posting this on this 4th of July. I can’t. And in all honest consciousness, I haven’t been able to for a while. Years ago when I, a science teacher, was told I would be teaching Social Studies, had to read up on the time period I was teaching. Yes, in the United States we have teachers who have no business teaching Social Studies teaching this important subject. And we wonder why citizens have no idea what freedoms they are willingly turning over to a corrupt government? I don’t wonder at all. I found myself doing some research and found that this sentiment, freedom for all, is not true in our country. It has never been true. Our country was built on the theft of land and the genocide of many tribes of Indigenous peoples. That really tells our story. Except it doesn’t completely. There is more. Because we also must add slavery, Japanese internment camps, separating children from mothers at our southern border, bombing civilians around the world, taking over governments so our industries can flourish in their countries. This is our story as a country and like all stories we can only mature when we know them. So today, “Freedom for all” brings much deserved reflection.

When I was in high school I was quite the jock. I ran track and was good at it. I played basketball and wasn’t so good at it. But I was the captain of both teams for both my junior and senior years. I remember my coach in my sophomore year saying that as a team we were only as good as our weakest player. That we couldn’t seek the limelight while others struggled. We had to lift them up. We had to support them and help them. That was how we would be “great”. When I taught that year of Social Studies, I found myself thinking about her and her words, a lot. And I find myself thinking about them today as well.

As a white person I did experience a lot of the freedoms our constitution maintained. Not all mind you. I am a woman after all. I was sexually harassed on jobs while in high school and college. I thought it was just the way it was, because it was the way it was and continues to this day. We have a president who is accused of raping and/or sexually harassing over 20 women. We don’t seem to care. But I digress.

I pass people on the street and see photos of them while they wear their Make America Great Again hats. Men and women alike. Vast majority of them white. And I think, this is great? While we may feel we’ve been great, we’ve only been great for some of us. For those of us who are white, privileged to own a home, live where the schools are good, have access to health care, have the ability to go to college, and get interviews for jobs. But not everyone has this. Our “weakest”, most vulnerable do not have this. So are we really the land of the free if some of us do not have this access or these rights? “We are only as strong (great) as our weakest link.” We cannot claim, freedom for all when it’s not. Our “founding fathers” (or should we call them, our thieving fathers?) were white, privileged, educated, wealthy, land owners after all. And they wrote our constitution.

The other day a friend was telling me about her son being stopped by police. They were doing nothing wrong, not speeding, car in good shape and he wondered why. Then he realized exactly why. The driver, his friend, was black. Driving while black is not the same as driving while white. He witnessed it first hand that day and he was deeply ashamed.

So, while we all celebrate our great country please take some time to reflect on our “weakest links”, those who are not free or granted the freedoms our country is supposedly built on. Because we will only be great when the weakest of us are lifted up and treated as the constitution guarantees.

May the 4th be great…again.

In love, peace, and solidarity,

Mary

PS – Work to make this country great. Work to shut the camps and reunite the families.

Photo removed out of respect. I apologize for harm it may have caused.

The thought of showing a photo of a dead father and daughter is not something I thought I would ever show on my blog. But we live in times that are not normal. So to respond as we normally would isn’t working.

This is what the photo is about:

For months I have been writing, calling, and even visiting my representatives here in Maine. Collins, King, and Golden. For months I have been extremely respectful and polite. Then we had a candlelight vigil and when I asked why they are so silent a man said, “Wouldn’t you be if you were responsible for killing kids?” He was absolutely right and he jettisoned me to the next level. Our representatives are responsible for the deaths of children and adults seeking asylum. And if we’re being honest, we are too if we remain silent. When I saw the photo above I called my representatives again. Same ‘ole same ‘ole. A voice recording to leave a message at Collins. I NEVER get a person at her office. But she represents me? I don’t think so. Then I called King. They would give the message. Same ‘ole same ‘ole. Then I called Golden and they said they did not know if he’d released a statement yet. I thought of the photo above. I thought of the children in the hot sun at Homestead. I thought of the reports coming from international human rights groups and immigration lawyers and doctors. And I said, “Well when does he think he will decide to make a statement on the fact that children are dying on his watch?” Well that shift in questioning took the guy by surprise and he stuttered to beat the band. So I continued about what was going on and told him this would be a very good time for Congressman Golden to decide to make a statement. A loud, bold, statement against what is happening. He promised me he would. I do not believe him for a minute. And speaking of him…what about the leaders in the Democratic Party? Where are they? Why are they so silent? And when Pelosi decides to speak up she sounds as wishy washy as the little kids book I use to read to my own kids.

So I beg you again to call your representatives. But this time change the dialogue a bit. Ask them when they plan to speak out against the killing of children and adults occurring along our border during their watch. When do they plan to take responsibility for this because they are responsible. I read a comment that they were not responsible, that our president was responsible. Really? Being silent is complicity. Being silent allows it to continue. Same responsibility in my book.

I wish this post was different. I wish it was a photo of my doggie playing with her toy cow that she just gutted and got the squeaky out of. That would be way more pleasurable to share. But this is our USA. And this is not normal. So please, stop thinking normal actions will work in these abnormal times.

In solidarity with Oscar and Valeria. In solidarity with the children fleeing violence and climate change induced starvation. In solidarity with the children held in detention. In solidarity with the families missing their children. Rise up and be heard.

Mary

What do you do when something so terrible is happening around you and you don’t know how to stop it? I’ve decided to stand on a corner and hold a sign. Our country has anywhere between 20,000 and 60,000 migrant children that have been taken from their families and put into detention camps. The largest one is on the edge of a hot swamp in Homestead, Florida. It is run for profit and many people make a lot of money off of warehousing these kids. it is not licensed to follow child protection laws. What stands out to me with those numbers is the vast difference. Basically, our country doesn’t know. It doesn’t know how many children were taken from their families, it doesn’t know where many of them are, it doesn’t know how to reunite them all. It doesn’t know and it really doesn’t care. That’s why Liz and I stand on a corner. Because it’s wrong, so darn wrong.

A little over a year ago our country began taking children away from their families and putting them into detention centers. This is how our country welcomed their families, fleeing violence and poverty induced by climate change in their Central American countries. A year later and we are still separating children from their families and putting them into detention centers. Some even call them concentration camps. Whatever we decide to call these places we know they are horrific. Inspectors have gone in and proved this to be true. And now our country is opening several more. At least one in Texas and one in Fort Sill, Oklahoma, the place of the Japanese internment of the 1940’s and where Geronimo was imprisoned.

I can go on and on about this topic and the inhumanity of it all. But you can find this out by doing a simple search on the internet. Do it. Google “child detention camps”. Learn what we are doing and then don’t look away. Follow that action with your next. Make a sign, find a corner near you, and stand on it. It’s not glamorous standing with a sign. Some days it’s hot, sometimes it rains a lot, and sometimes it’s cold. But there is a power and a rightness upon each and every standing time. Most people ignore you, pretend you aren’t there. They don’t want their day disrupted with such uncomfortable thoughts. Some people even say some pretty mean things. And many don’t know what you are doing there or what your sign means and you have to explain it. Often they look at you with unknowing eyes. But there is always at least one who finds your eyes and thanks you with such deep meaning that it makes it worth while.

Don’t let our country do this without knowing that many of us are watching, witnessing, and we find it reprehensible. Make them uncomfortable. Then call each and every representative you have and demand their action to stop this. Remind them that this horror is on their watch. Ask them if this is how they want to go down in history, for separating kids and putting them in dangerous tents, because that will be their legacy if they continue to do nothing about it. Then prepare for the following week and do it all over again.

If you are in central Maine, please join us. Every Friday rain or shine, on the corner of Main and Temple, in front of Key Bank. Waterville, Maine. 4:00 – 5:00.

Please, join us and many others around the country by standing on a corner near you,

Mary

PS – It’s the end of July and it’s been 5 months now of standing on our corner every Friday. We have grown from 1 to 2 and now to over 30. This is important. I hope you too find a corner and stand there with a sign. More will join you. I promise.

“no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well”

The first thing I noticed when I arrived at the Expo center was that a side doorway was open and it was loud with the sound of kids, lots of kids. As I walked to the locked front entrance a city police officer opened the door and asked who I was and why I was there. When I informed him I was a volunteer he directed me to a large table with a woman working on a computer. There was a variety of sign in materials ready for volunteers. As I signed in, another woman was signing out. She had just finished her breakfast shift. I got there about an hour early. I wanted to be sure I understood what I was suppose to do. My name didn’t show up on the computer. “Are you sure you’re approved to be here?” the woman asked. I took out my phone and showed her an email saying my background check had been approved. She apologized profusely saying how overwhelming it all has been. I can only imagine. After signing up and putting on a name tag I hesitantly walked into the huge room filled with noise, florescent lights, kids running around, cots, tables, and adults working with other adults or on cellphones. The noise was dizzying. The kids were wild. I mean really wild. A group of very young boys were engaged in a play that you or I would probably not allow our children to participate in. It was very physical. “They are bored,” I told the woman volunteer standing next to me with the same,”What do we do?” look on her face. It was clear we needed to do something. I spotted a stack of paper and took out my phone and looked up how to make a paper airplane. I couldn’t believe I forgot the folds. I quickly made one and flew it right into the group of boys going at each other. That thankfully got their attention. Within seconds I had a bunch of little boys grabbing at me and the paper, directing my hands to make them one. Most couldn’t follow along but one boy, maybe about 10 years old, followed my every fold as he built his own. After making a bunch of these I wondered where they all went. I didn’t see them flying around. A woman who had been volunteering pretty steady said they take them and hide them in their belongings. In other words, they horde them because they don’t want to lose them or have them taken away. Within minutes of our arrival we were witnessing massive trauma induced play and behavior. My heart broke so wide open. These poor kids was all I could think of.

“your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.”

Finally, it was time to prepare and serve lunch. A van pulled up and we all took turns bringing in the hot trays of chicken, a spinach dish that smelled amazing, bread, and rice. We put on our gloves, organized the food on the long tables, and got ready to serve. That’s when something rather astounding happened. We looked up and men were in line but they were not next to the table. I wondered what was up with that. Then I found out. The women and children filled in the open space. The women and children were served first. To be honest I nearly lost it at this small and genuine act of compassion and respect. I found myself thinking how our society demonizes black men. And here they were teaching us how it’s done.

“no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilet
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.“

Another woman and I were in charge of dishing out the spinach, onion, and tomato dish. After those who were waiting patiently in line took their paper plates and were served generous helping of rice and a chicken leg they came to us for the spinach dish. I don’t know what spices were in it but it smelled unbelievably delicious! The women took a generous helping. The kids…no! The kids did not want the spinach! Just like American kids. So I did what we did for taste testings in our school. I pantomimed eating it and rubbing my belly saying, “Yum.” The kids laughed which was rather wonderful. Most still shock their heads no. But a few, when I showed my fingers symbolizing “a little bit” said yes. I applauded each child who bravely tried a little, which they seemed to like.

“you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied“

There was one man who stood out to me. He looked dignified and when I accidentally spilled some spinach on his finger he looked like he had just had enough. He was very upset. Not angry. Just deflated. I tried to imagine what it must be like to be independent in my life and then having it all taken away as I fled possibly the only home I knew, with my family, and traveled 1/2 way across the world, through jungles, dangerous lands, and then to an unfamiliar stadium. I felt sorry for him. As I gave him a napkin to clean up the drips of spinach he was not appreciative. He still looked deflated and upset. It was heart breaking. I noticed that the majority of women who came through the line didn’t give a lot of eye contact or say much. The trauma written all over their faces. Like I said, it was incredibly sad.

“no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough“

One man had 4 kids with him. He was trying to juggle 5 plates. I offered to help and he accepted my offer. He and his family didn’t sit with the rest at the tables. He guided us back to what appeared to be his cot area. I noticed toys and food all hidden under the cots. If you wonder how many times a human heart can break open. Let me tell you, a lot because that’s what happened all over again. He looked at me with a frightened look on his face, like he thought I’d report him or take it all. I just smiled and put the plates on the floor next to his children and walked away.

“the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off“

We then cleaned up tables, which a few girls liked helping with . They liked spraying the bottle of soapy water and wiping the table with me. And then we served yogurt and fresh berries. People loved that especially with a ton of sugar on it. We had to moderate the sugar carefully. Children and adults alike wanted a lot of sugar, just like many Americans do.

“or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child’s body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important“

After all was done, cleared away, and cleaned up, I left. I signed out and walked into Portland’s rain. And then I cried. I cried because of the kindness I witnessed inside. I cried because of the silent traumas these people will carry with them forever. I cried because I knew not everyone outside cared about them and actually felt deep anger and resentment for them and their presence in this fabulous little city. I already look forward to returning next week with donated jump ropes in hand.

“no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying — 
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here”

Poem, Home, written by Warsan Shire (a British-Somali poet)

Think of this poem, that has been interwoven though my text, when you think of all those seeking asylum in our country. Remember no one would choose to leave home “unless home was the mouth of a shark”. Please, remember that. And also, dig deep and find the empathy and compassion I know we are all capable of to greet and welcome these folks as they come to our towns seeking safety and our help.

Much love and wishes of a continued safe journey to those who have found their way to our state.

Mary

They arrived in Portland on Greyhound buses hungry, exhausted, and disheveled after months fleeing violence from their home countries. As the story unfolded and Mainers read details, a city began to put up cots preparing for the arrival of the asylum seekers. Sign ups for monetary donations and volunteers were posted online. $65,000 was raised in less than a week. If you speak French and Portuguese, all the better. You are needed to help translate. The 150+ people who arrived in Portland are from the African countries of Angola and The Republic of the Congo. Many came up through South and Central America to Texas then onto buses that brought them to Maine, their final destination.

A friend asked, “How is putting them on cots in a large Expo center any different than the detention camps on the southern border?” Mainers watched as cots filled the Expo center and I realized it was a good question and one that was worth a thoughtful answer. It really comes down to one important word that we can use to guide us as we untangle the answer, intent.

Seeking asylum is legal. As a country we need to think about intent as we watch how our country and now our state responds to asylum seekers. Along our southern border, and in states around the country, there are places where asylum seekers are sent and kept. Some are for children who were taken from their families. Many of these places also have only one word we can use to describe them, inhumane. But in Portland we quietly watch and celebrate how the opening of a large arena for our new neighbors is being carried out. Why the contradiction? We denounce the centers in Florida, Texas, and soon to be Oklahoma but cheer this new one in Maine? How can this be? It’s big and cavernous and certainly not a small family home. Remember, it’s all about intent. The intention of Mainers has been clear. On street corners, in cafe shops, on social media we hear, “How can we welcome them? How can we house them and take care of them until they settle into more permanent housing? How can we keep them safe and make them feel welcome?” As we wondered and planned, as buses rolled in, money and donations poured in as well. Neighbors organized with neighbors to collect necessary items for the babies and children. Hundreds of volunteers signed up. The best interests of those arriving always being a top priority. Maybe we got our ideas from the many small organizations along the southern border doing the exact same thing. Watching as volunteers in bus stations in the dead of night share food and clothes as they greet those seeking asylum from Central America.

As we have watched and worked to help those in dire need we also watch as large camps are set up down south, or old military bases are used to house children and families. The children arrive in secret. No one is allowed to see them or go inside these camps. There is no celebration upon their arrival. Even the hundreds of letters made by local school children are not allowed to be delivered to the children inside. These are not in any way similar to what is happening in Portland or the small facilities along the border. These camps, set up by our government, are set up to warehouse people who are looked upon as animals, less than human. They are a pathway to making money, a lot of money. It is clear that the best interests of the people who are housed there are not cared about. There are reports of major over crowding, lack of trained persons to care for them, lack of proper medical care, freezing rooms, exposure to elements, lack of bathrooms, mold, filth, abuse, death. Some are for profit. Some are on military bases meaning they do not need to follow state child care licensing rules. In one notorious camp in Homestead, Florida kids are kept longer than law allows and in prison like conditions. The children tell of the nights they cry, their friends who hurt themselves, the intense loneliness they feel, the missing of their families that they experience. They are in a place that makes a lot of money off of them and the longer they stay, the more money that is made. There are so many details that can be shared here about what is so very, very wrong with this system we have in place. But I’ve cried enough over the past few months already. This is not what is happening in Portland.

Portland, Maine is doing it right. The community leaders of this small city are coming together with the sole intention of helping traumatized people feel at home. It doesn’t matter that they are on cots in the Expo or in a dorm of a local college. They will know that they are wanted and cared about as dozens of volunteers, new to this kind of work, alter their lives to set up cots with blankets and stuffed animals, cook meals for them that they may be familiar with, provide their babies with formula and diapers, walk with them around the city to help them navigate their new home town. This is how it’s done. With love in our hearts and the intention to help ease pain rather than inflict more.

Thank you Portland. You are showing the country that you really are the best little city in the United States.

In peace, love, and solidarity as you work to ease the pain of those arriving on our doorstep,

Mary

PS – To donate to Portland – https://www.portlandmaine.gov/1554/Support-Asylum-Seekers

Friday, May 31st – I sat with Mark Winter, State Office Representative for Susan Collins. This is what I experienced.

Unlike multiple phone calls I’ve made I actually spoke with someone. And unlike many videos I’ve seen of constituents receiving poor treatment from staffers at differing offices of Senator Collins, I was treated with what appeared to be utmost respect.

Mark and I sat together talking openly and candidly for over 30 minutes. He read through my letter to Susan Collins. We discussed Homestead child detention facility in Florida and the deteriorating condition along our southern border. He assured me that Senator Collins was against family separations and child detentions. “It goes against everything she believes in,” he told me. I thanked him for that and then asked him what she has done or is doing to end it. He looked totally stumped. He was totally stumped. Because she has done nothing.

So we discussed something she could do if she felt so inclined to actually put her actions where her mouth is. I told him about two bills I was asking her to cosponsor, S397 the Shut Child Prison Camps Act and S388 Families Not Facilities Act. I also asked her to please visit Homestead child detention camp in Homestead, Florida. He looked the two bills up on his computer and we both noticed how one, Families Not Facilities Act, sponsored by Senator Kamila Harris, had a half dozen or so cosponsors, all Democrats and Independents. We discussed how that lack of bipartisanship needs to end. He agreed. He promised me he would include information on this bill to Senator Collins and that I, a constituent, was asking her to be the strong voice she is, reach across the aisle, and raise this bill up by cosponsoring it. He didn’t see why she couldn’t do that. I seriously doubt she will. Why? Because for years she has ignored the people of Maine and voted against our interests over and over again.

Mark told me that Senator Collins does not support a lot of what Trump does. Yet her voting record would reveal the exact opposite. So if what he said is true, why does she vote the way she does and why is she so silent on such important issues such as fascism taking over our country? I wonder.

He took notes the whole time I was there. He gave me kind eye contact. He shook my hand and assured me something would be done. I wanted to believe him. More than anything, I wanted to believe him. But I don’t.

Reach across all aisles. Call your legislators. Tell their office staff how you feel about the events occurring in our country today. Then they can’t say they don’t know how their constituents feel about issues.

In solidarity,

Mary

It’s about kids. Just writing that tiny sentence brings me to tears. It’s about kids who were taken from their families. Kids who fled violence and/or poverty. Kids who find themselves in a foreign land far far away from their home. Kids who can’t speak the language of the land they now find themselves in. Kids who are deeply afraid. Afraid they will never see their families again. It’s about kids.

The news the past few days has been all over this issue. But yet as I stood on a street corner in a small town in Maine with a sign that says, “Keep Families Together” someone drove by and yelled, “Illegals”. While most of the interactions were positive, “God bless you.” “Thank you for caring.” Cars honking with drivers giving us a thumbs up. I found myself thinking about that comment. That notion of “illegal”. What is illegal anyway? Can people be illegal? Can children escaping unimaginable violence be illegal? Of course we know the answer is no, of course not. This notion that people can be illegal is propaganda rhetoric used to divide us. Used to cause fear. Used to create a division between the people of our country. Because we know that a divided people are so much easier to dominate and nothing is as successful as fear for causing division.

When I think of the children I selfishly think of my children and I weep again. I weep at the thought that someone would be evil enough to use them as political pawns. That someone would use them as a means to make millions of dollars everyday. That someone would take them away from me and bus them to a tent camp on the edge of a hot humid swamp many miles away. I weep at that thought because it petrifies me and truly hurts my heart. I feel it in my gut. So strong and so horrible. And I know I am not the only one.

So what is a person who feels so powerless and such sadness for these kids to do? I’m not sure I have the answer but for me I feel the need to raise my voice and encourage others to do so as well. To me, that’s what we do. One beautiful way to do this is to light candles. Candles shine such a gentle light and god knows we need some light these days. Candles are soothing and we need some soothing as well. We will light candles so we can feel that we are somehow in solidarity with those children who are spending so many of their youthful days in that concentration camp. Yes, that’s what I’m calling it. Others are too. As details about the conditions slowly leak out via human rights groups and whistle blowers we see it is not an exaggerated label.

Candles. Lighting candles at dusk and praying, sharing, and singing is what many of our souls need. So we will come together to light candles at the same time folks in Homestead will be protesting what is happening behind the green fencing used to house children who desperately do not want to be there. We will light candles hoping our light and love will reach them.

In the early hours of today I decided to set up a fundraiser to get candles and a sound system because we’ll need them. Within 12 hours we surpassed our fundraising goal. I was beyond surprised. And then I realized I shouldn’t have been surprised because there are beautiful, caring, compassionate people in our world. I know that. And today I was reminded of that. My tears were for joy. What a lovely change.

Thank you to those from near and far who were able to, and generous and caring enough to donate what they could so folks in Central Maine can stand under trees on a summer evening and light candles for kids. Love and light will win because so many of us care.

In peace and love and light; thank you.

Mary