Writing for a friend by Sue Robin

We have had the same housekeeper for the last ten years. Y has cleaned for us, but more importantly, she has shared her struggles and joys. We have met her son, who is an American citizen and is the same age as our grandson. We helped her through the pandemic. Her daughter has been here, too, when Y was in the hospital. We get a running narrative on her eighteen-month-old grandson, also an American citizen. She is warm, kind, and good-hearted. She has proved to be a Godsend to us as we age.

One month ago, amidst all the other immoral things going on in this country, our beloved housekeeper was told she had one month to leave the country. (I am using an initial, as I do not know who is watching, listening, or reading what I do or say.)

Y’s deportation has been ordered despite her having been here for twenty years and going through the intense vetting process to stay. She has attended every court date and followed all the rules. She pays her taxes and contributes to the economy.

She has an attorney, and he has helped get her an appeal date in October, but between now and then, she must appear twice a week to show she is being compliant.

Y went to court for her first check-ins last Tuesday and Wednesday. On both days, they looked at her documents and took her fingerprints. She arrived at court at 8 a.m. and was not finished until 4:30 p.m. There were over two hundred people there, also signing documents and getting fingerprinted. It is inhumane, abusive, and a waste of federal employees’ time and taxpayers’ money. It also means that Y and the other two hundred plus people lose two days’ wages each week. I am livid.

This is happening while the increasingly corrupt president makes a deal with his Justice Department to bilk the taxpayers of the US of over a billion dollars. He accuses anyone who disagrees with him of having “Trump Derangement Syndrome,” but I think the only one who is afflicted with that disease is Trump.

My anger ramps up with every new piece of news. I am anguished by everything he does to tear the values of this country to shreds. Yes, I protest and, yes, I write letters and make phone calls, but it feels as though I am spitting on another California wildfire in hopes it will put it out.

It is hard to believe the bile that swirls around my gut. When a Democrat wins a race or a judge rules against this government, I am buoyed, though I worry that it is not enough. Are there too many broken pieces that cannot be glued back together?

I hope there are not. Rather, I hope that we will bind ourselves back together as the Japanese do with Kintsugi or golden joinery, the ancient art of repairing broken pottery. They use gold to repair and glue together the broken pieces, making it both stronger and more beautiful than the original, with threads of gold surrounding the once broken piece—but I fear the gold might be too much of a reminder of the dreck that Trump has put in the White House.

Or perhaps the glint off the gold can shine a light towards justice for Y and all our families from around the world. I pray that it may be so.