Where is My Papa? The Question for The Country During ICY weather.

Dónde está mi papá? Quiero a mi papá

Dear friends: It's been a long time since I felt compelled to share something on here. Like everyone you know, I started a Substack so if you'd like to subscribe I'd love that...but I'll continue to post here.

This was my Saturday...

¿Dónde está mi papá? Quiero a mi papá a little voice squeaked in between sobs.

Traipsing through the fast falling flakes of snow weighted down by double layers of clothing, a heavy jacket and a tuke that looked like it was knitted by my color blind neighbor in 1975, I leaned into the bitter wind with bare hands clumsily juggling trash and recycling while straining to determine the direction of the shrieking.

Scanning the street, I finally honed in on the source. A barefoot, curly-headed boy of five in a tattered t-shirt standing on what was supposed to serve as a front porch, chanting in Spanish. As if railing at the gods, with open fists he wailed for his father.

With eyelashes weighted down by snow, he was oblivious to the weather which drove most of Nashville to Krogers to clean out the dairy case and the baked good section. Unconcerned by milk or bread, he wanted only his papa.

When he spotted me looking at him, he instantly stopped crying, ran inside and slammed the door which was immediately followed by a loud clicking sound.

My elementary Spanish allowed me to wonder where indeed was his papa? Had he been abducted? Had ICE taken him from his job? Or was it simply a child missing his father who had gone out for diapers? The latter seemed unlikely.

I had met these new neighbors in passing over the summer. They spent warm afternoons on a deck that looked as though its' luck ran out during the first Bush administration and we both quickly discovered that my Spanish was woefully inadequate matched only by their English. None the less, we settled into a pleasant routine of practicing our limited language skills while smiling, waving and communicating with exaggerated hand gestures that sometimes resulted in one or all of us being embarrassed.

But today I couldn't just pass by. Today, something nagged at me. What if his papa wasn't out just doing an errand? What if they didn't know where he was and they were afraid to call for help or didn't know who to call?

I was about to knock on the door when I noticed all the windows were covered up completely. Not with curtains but with what appeared to be wall paper so that no one could see in or out. Granted it was 22 degrees outside but it was this realization that made the hair on my arm stand on end. While I was hesitant to be intrusive or perceived a 'busy body' I decided I was being nudged to act beyond my comfort zone. And I knew I didn't quite have enough language skills to convey what I wanted to on my own.

Trudging home I crafted a note under my breath. And although I managed to remember the Spanish word for Immigration lawyer, after my fingers thawed, I googled 'English to Spanish' translation and typed out a note in Spanish that said I hoped everything was ok and offered the numbers to Music City MigraWatch explaining they might be able to help locate anyone missing along with a number for free immigration lawyers. I also included my phone number.

This time I knocked. And although it took what felt like a year in the Yukon for them to open the door, when she finally did, I read the worry and exhaustion on her face. She'd been crying and there were three children in the living room--all in varying degrees of upset. I blurted out something in Spanish that I hoped conveyed that if she needed help I was close by and then pointed to the envelope that held the note.

As she opened it, the crease in her brow softened as she scanned the words written by an AI tool. A slow smile formed on her face as she gestured to her heart and said softly and deliberately in practiced English, 'thank you'.

And that was it. There was no intimate conversation, no hugging, no soundtrack playing underneath to queue a happy ending. It seemed my desire to help had been driven in part by a need to quell and counter a feeling of hopelessness and immobilization--which given what this young woman seemed to be facing is an embarrassing admission.

I went back home and allowed myself to feel the emptiness of the gesture for a moment. How one act of offering someone phone numbers felt shallow and meaningless. But then I remembered the hundreds of thousands of people in the streets of Minneapolis yesterday. How a crowd of over 100,000 humans consisted of one person at a time leaving their home to join 999,999 others who left their homes because they care about strangers they've never met and sometimes, barely understand. And all asking the same question, 'where is his papa gone'?

To report Ice activity or to seek help finding a missing family member or friend: Music City MigraWatch 615-933-8409 Immigration attorney assistance (Abogado) 615-933-8409