My heart is racing.
My legs feel leaden.
My chest is hollowed out but feels on fire.
I am on the bus crying because immigrant children—as young as 4 months old—are being detained by the government. Penned in like animals behind cages. Regimented like in a correctional facility.
And I don’t know what to do.
My thoughts are centered on the trauma these children must be feeling. On the indescribable pain their parents must be experiencing.
My soul aches at the inhumanity it must take to hear children in cages weeping for their mothers, and to crack a joke in response.
My mind is a attempting to reconcile a day for celebrating fathers when one has recently killed himself in response to having his child stolen from him.
I pass babies in strollers and in their mother’s arms and my usual smile falters. When I remember.
I don’t know what to do.
I feel scared even writing this, because I am an immigrant.
But it’s the very least I can do.