"Get out"

they said to my mother. My mother who 

was a facialist. My mother who 

was a waitress. My mother who

was a student. My mother who

went to church. My  mother who 

liked to donate blood because she couldn't

afford to donate money. My mother who

gained barely enough to care for us both. My 

mother who they told to get out of this country. 

My mother who worked day and night and all hours 

in between was who they gave the boot. 

My mother who one night told me she didn't want

to live anymore. My mother who cried and 

yelled and cursed and the one I had to 

watch wilt away more and more each day.

And I. "Get out" they said to the both of us.

Because wherever my mother went is 

where I would go. I who was 8 and had no idea 

what was going on. I who was pushed to

strive in school. I who was scared to lose

her mommy. 

Now we both look 9 years into the past for no

more than 30 seconds.

With a heavy sigh of relief and mumbled 

words. Today we look back with tight

throats as we sit on our couch in Florida.

Still, my mother is ashamed and embarassed 

for being told to leave, like a child

who was not invited to a birthday party.

But the story of my mother is one I tell with

pride and courage. I tell them of my mother who

loved me. Of my mother who loved this country. 

Of my mother who stayed.