Stolen Land M. C. C

Sweaty palms grip the steering wheel as the blue and red lights flash through the rear window. The fear, raising in their chest. The fear of being separated from family. The fear of being sent to spend days in a cage like an animal. In cages with dirty ripped clothes and little food. People sleep on concrete floors and benches with foil Blankets desperately seeking warmth, Trying to fuel some strength to make it through. But the only thing that seems to be fueled in those detention Camps is the lack of compassion. “They steal jobs!” They exclaim but still don’t seem to be Bothered by the fact they stole THIS land. The land of the freedom they call it, But what happened to the freedom of being able to pass by a cop and not be scared that they’ll take you back to the place you worked so hard to escape. The wall just keeps building higher and wider And the American dream strays further and further away. All those people and children, wondering if they’ll ever make it home, Those children wondering if they’ll be misplaced just like those before them, Like the 1,500 children who have gone missing in hands of immigration, Who simply vanished, Leaving their families waiting for the rest of their days in hopes that their babies will finally make it home safe. Just like the family of Adam Toledo, The young 13-year-old boy who was murdered for “being out too late” even after he was compliant. “Stay still!” he stood.

“Hands up!” his hands were up, But even then the sounds of a gun were heard that night. Why is it that they want to get rid of us so badly? The immigrants who, oh so beautifully shaped this country. Why is it that kicking us out isn’t enough? Why do they have to resort to killing us? Why do they have to resort to violence against street vendors who stand tirelessly in the hot sun day after day? Why do they have to attack the weak who aren’t able to fend for themselves? I pray for the day I no longer have to ask these questions to myself, But until that day comes, I’ll stick to this phrase No one is illegal, on stolen land.

M. C. C., Grade 8 Northeast Middle School, Minneapolis Teaching Artist, Frank Sentwali