In February 2025, JIE alumnus Nascimento Blair was one of the first people in the US to be detained and deported on account of their previous incarceration. Blair had already been released from Community Supervision, had a regular job, was on the Advisory Board of the non-profit organization Rising Hope, and had completed not only a BA but also a Master’s degree while in prison. He was also a published poet and essayist. In 2021, his piece “Sociabilities, Socialities, Violences” was published in a special issue of the online journal Synapsis. A Journal of Medical Humanities. Here we are publishing two pieces that he wrote that bookend his post-incarceration experience, from the day that he was decarcerated in April 2020 to the day that he was deported in February 2025. The first one, “Healing,” a reflective piece about his experience in prison, was written in March 2023; the second one, “When is a Crime Atoned?” written in May 2025, is a detailed account of his detainment by ICE February 4 – February 21, 2025 based on his contemporaneous diary notes during his detention. — JIE Academic Advisor Neni Panourgiá

Article by Nascimento Blair 

The Call to report.

On January 27, 2025, I received a phone call from a “No caller ID” giving me specific instructions to “report.” The call startled me somewhat and I was completely taken off guard. The caller on the other line was as vague as possible to have me report to ICE for my supervised yearly check-in. However, it was not my scheduled date to check-in yet.

In November 2006 I was convicted, as a Jamaican man, of an A-1 felony after five days of jury deliberations.  The trial would have ended in a mistrial, because the jury was deadlocked, had the Judge not administered the Allen Charge which sent the Jury back to deliberations. The Allen Charge is added instructions a Trial Judge gives to a Jury when they want a clear decision made. It favors the prosecution case and is often administered when the Jury is deadlocked on a verdict which is an impasse.  The life-changing verdict was rendered, and I would forever join the community of the incarcerated, bearing the Scarlet Letter of criminality. The conviction resulted in my spending 15 birthdays in incarceration. Strangely, when I was paroled in April 2020 after completing my mandated sentence, I was not deported to Jamaica as it had been ordered, but I was released to State and immigration parole at home in New York. This entailed regular ICE check-ins, initially on a monthly, then quarterly, and eventual at yearly intervals. I  had been given a scheduled routine and an initial understanding by the Government being  told to “keep a job and not join any gang and I will not have to worry about “deportation” despite the fact that in 2008, I was given a “final order of deportation” to be enforced by Immigration Customs Enforcement-ICE. Yearly I submitted an application along with a $470 fee and was granted a work permit. My orders became simple. I reported once a year as requested. Each time I saw a different Officer and the rotation seemed to be part of a perfunctory dance. However, not knowing who you are going to see each time does create a sense of insecurity and plays with one’s mind.

On January 27, 2025, ICE officer D. Aniyikaiye told me to report to 26 Federal Plaza, the usual check-in place on February 3rd, 2025, at 11AM. Despite the fact the phone call was very curt, I managed to ask the officer briefly if everything was “all-right.?” The Officer said, ‘just report”, when I tried to question further why it was being done 90 days early. My instinct told me to try and get more information. After all, I had spent the last four years and ten months picking up the pieces of my life and taking back ownership of my name and my damaged identity. During that time I started an LLC, I published some articles, got a paralegal certification, and secured a job with a 403(b) at a non-profit organization in Manhattan.

I eventually contacted the law offices of Harlem Public Defenders to get a better understanding of what sort of a scenario might unfold. Their officers had been instrumental in assisting me with my yearly work permit each time it was needed. I went on a conference call and spoke to some associates who informed me that “detainment” was inevitable and perhaps deportation as well. I was beside myself with doubt as it appeared that doing the right thing was not working out. Running away crossed my mind, but I had a pension job and a trucking company to tend to. Plus, living on my knees and at the commands of strangers for 14.5 years had exhausted me to the point of cynicism. My heart could not live like that anymore.  

I then linked up with a good friend of mine, Cynthia, who worked at Rikers Island, and I knew that if anyone could maneuver to the right people, it would be her. Cynthia and I had met at the Coming Home Program at Central Synagogue so now that I needed help with immigration services and reached out to her. She immediately dropped everything she was doing and told me to meet her “Tomorrow” in front of building “290,” the building next to Federal Plaza. Cynthia was one of the Mentors at the program from when I participated in 2022. Coming Home had always been a welcoming community to me and I felt at home whenever I visited and I had continued to speak to my mentor, Jill, on a weekly basis over the years to catch up on life and things we were both doing. 

I called-in sick to work the next morning so that we could meet up. My train ride to Manhattan was haunting, it felt dreaded as my worries became heightened because I realized that the days I had to gather any resources were limited. I watched as Cynthia walked across the street to meet me with a smile which helped reduce the worries. We entered the building before 8:30AM to seek some legal assistance. At the same time, we were contacting various people in our networks scrambling to get ahead of ICE that was moving like a speeding locomotive. The new administration was seemingly moving at full speed ahead causing panic in many agencies. We had managed to contact Rabbi Hilly, and Dr. Dawn (the “little giant” as she is called). Both of them contacted some immigration lawyers on our behalf once word started spreading of my situation.  We went upstairs as early as possible, only to witness people sitting in the hallways in front locked doors. The staff whom we asked about the lawyers were kind enough to point us in the direction of a door which remained closed as we stood outside and called as many people as we knew.  A group of Latino men and women waiting outside the doors kept looking curiously at us when we appeared and followed us inside when we got tired of standing outside and knocking to no response. We made several calls to various Immigration attorneys who all agreed on the gloom and doom outcome.  Again, I began to question “doing the right thing” or go into “survival mode.” The room felt smaller. We watched as the other people there, whose need for assistance was hindered by the language barrier, kept watching and copying our every move.  I realized that I would just have to face the way my fate  was unfolding in real time and that the life I had built and cultivated was slowly crumbling under the laws of the “Lincoln-Riley Act” the law passed by George W. Bush Administration dictating that any non U.S. citizen with a felony conviction would be subject to mandatory deportation upon the completion of their sentence. 

The day to check-in

The morning of the ordered check-in, February 3, came quickly. I had barely got any sleep over the weekend and mostly drank liquid food, as nothing could stay in my stomach because of the anxiety caused by the uncertainties of what I was going to face. It certainly did not provide any comfort to hear all the immigration attorneys’ voices echoing the sad reality of going to Federal Plaza. I could see the loom on my fiancée’s face; how sad she had become as I tried my best to cheer her up. I tried to convince her that all the good I did would not go in vain and that we might still prevail victorious. At some point I received a phone call from my lawyer who asked if I was on my way to the check-in. I expressed to him my fears and uncertainties. Another phone call came in from my mother’s pastor, who prayed with us as we were about to step out in the unknown. I stepped out on the front porch dressed in a suit waiting for my friend, Kevin, to pick us up. He had been one of my colleagues for years, and he too has tasted the other side of the United States, from U.S. marshals to the large grey garbage bins ubiquitous in American Prisons While he, unlike me, is a US citizen, he shared my concerns and decided to be by my side so as to show how he felt about the possible detainment and to protest it.  I stood and watched as his car pulled up to the porch and I walked into the street. I sat in the car, with my fiancée and my empty stomach, far removed from my morning cup of stabilizing Bustello. 

We drove off and headed to Manhattan. The conversation in the car was light, as there was more worry about the uncertainty which I faced. At one point, I even thought about telling my friend to turn the car around. I sent an email to HR at work requesting two vacation days in case I was detained for some hours and eventually released, maybe through some successful negotiations by my lawyer. We arrived outside of 26 Federal Plaza in the brisk, cold weather. I walked slowly to the front of the building and watched as the crowd gathered outside the front of it. My friend Kevin went to park the car and said he would meet up with me in a little bit. The ICE officer’s vagueness played over in my mind. With my folder in hand that showed that my check-in papers were dated for a May 2025 check-in, I stood outside the building on February 3rd. The emotional reality of the day started slowly setting in as I witnessed a massive crowd of people in front of the building with placards and signs; led by Rabbi Hilly, from Central Synagogue, Cynthia, Jill, Alex, Dr. Dawn and Louisa, from the Coming Home Community, were there along with many more community members. There were also people from Union Theological Seminary, students and faculty which merged with New York Theological Seminary, my graduate school alma mater; members from Exodus Transitional Community, where I had worked; Mercy University Alumni, Columbia University faculty and students, and staff from the Center for Justice. My friends Laron and Sean from the Vera Institute of Justice were all present to provide a much-needed hug and emotional strength. 

The gathering of warrior women and men was emotional.  As I was witnessing all these people who had welcomed me into their individual communities and who now had decided to lend their bodies and voices to my support, brought tears to my eyes. I glanced at some of the signs which had my name on them and became worried that the authorities might get angry at them and move in against them, with the known violence we have witnessed applied to protesters. I hugged and took pictures of all the presents and thanked them as best as I could. [[I was told that my lawyer who specializes in human rights and capital cases Bernard Harcourt] was on the opposite side of the building. At that point the two of us had only spoken over the phone, never having met before, even though he is a professor at Columbia Law School where I received my Paralegal training. I was dressed in my gray suit and heavy peacoat, and the phone calls kept coming in. I remember the lawyer’s strategic plans and hoped they would work as all that I have done since 2020, was now on the line. I stood for a minute to take in what was going on around me. My friend Warner asked if I had a lawyer. Warner, and Dr. Panourgia, from the Justice-in-Education Initiative at the Heyman Center for Humanities at Columbia University had been the wind in my sails. I told her that the lawyer was there and that I was waiting for my professor as well. While we stood there and conversed about the possibilities, I watched as Bernard Harcourt got closer and closer to us. His signature glasses and confident demeanor told me it was him, and I was impressed by the aura of his seriousness as we planned to take on the ICE behemoth. He introduced himself and his Paralegal Assistant, Ben Wasserburg. Ben was there with Bernard Harcourt to provide more of the necessary hands needed to potentially prevent the cruel and unusual punishment of a possible detention. 

Getting in the building was another ordeal, as the security guards outside said that the supporters could not enter the building and that only I and my lawyer were allowed inside. It was quite unfortunate that my community members were disallowed to be present as if they had no merit. Bernard, Ben and I, like the “Three Musketeers,” entered the building and stated our purpose there to the guards. We saw many people with children present there, who were motioned to move to one side downstairs to enter the check points. We listened closely as the guard spelled out the procedures to be followed inside the building and directions as to how to separate our property in order to pass through the magnetometer. We removed our shoes, belts, and watches as we emptied our pockets and placed the contents into the large gray bins. We then went through the mag as instructed. The process took three to five minutes and as soon as we were cleared, we quickly headed to the elevator as we put on our belts and shoes and watches and placed our pocket items back where they belonged. We witnessed the seemingly never-ending queues in the building, and we saw how busy the first floor was with the day’s events. The ninth floor was our destination. 

The elevator ride was mundane as usual, while nervousness started to set in as my stomach started to turn into knots from not having any breakfast. My ability to stay positive was waning as the elevator door dinged, and we walked out to a guard in the hallway. Another guard was sitting watching television inside the waiting room, which was mostly empty. Fox News was trained on former President Obama as we walked past it and sat down. Bernard went up to the service window to speak to someone about our arrival and was told by the female guard on the other side of the window that “someone” would be out soon. He sat down beside me and told me that the ICE officer who asked for the check-in would soon be out to see us. We should just sit. We sat down and quietly discussed our strategy. For a second, my mind took a lap around the block and started exercising. I looked up and saw my friend Ricky “the cut creator” Burton standing in front of me. His 6’ 2” frame accompanied by his fur coat and dashing sense of style was commanding and could not be missed. He, too, had come to lend his body and voice to my plight. He looked chiseled and smiled as I stood up and hugged him and thanked him for being with me at that moment. I wondered how he had managed to get all the way to the ninth floor. Since no one else could enter the building, he must have been a remarkable negotiator to have accomplished that feat. Bernard asked me who he was, and I explained. I quickly excused myself and went into the hallway to speak with him on what was going on. To my surprise, my friend Kevin, who had driven me there, was also standing in the hallway. The guard seemed sympathetic and allowed us to congregate and talk a little. It must have been five minutes when Bernard came to get me and asked that I return to the room, sit down and wait with him. I hugged and thanked my friends once more and returned to my seat and made some light conversation with the other two Musketeers. Bernard became noticeably annoyed, and we noticed his attention was turned to the television. Fox News had a story about former President Obama and the Solyndra Solar issue. They even had the former president giving a speech and picking apart the argument. I somehow wondered if the Fox audience knew that Barack Obama had not been the President in more than nine years. Trying to figure out their angle seemed annoying to Bernard, who rose up in full determination and went to the window where he asked the same guard if the channel could be changed. The guard said no. Seemingly annoyed he then asked if when “former President Biden was in power, this was what both television channels were on.” She answered “yes” and Bernard sat back down beside the two other Musketeers.  

The door to the office opened and an ICE officer stepped out. The officer identified himself as the one who called me over the phone, D. Aniyikaiye. All three of us rose and walked into the office as he had motioned. When we went inside, we noticed two more officers there, who were sitting silently and looking rather indifferent. There was one desk inside the room, one locker and two chairs. Bernard introduced himself as my lawyer. I found it interesting that of the three ICE officers, one was Black, one was Brown, and the other one was White. The White officer was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a dark blue polo shirt with a small ICE logo on the left breast side of his shirt. The other officers were wearing black polo shirts with ICE ERO on the back and beige cargo pants. Bernard started asking questions about the early check-in and the guard said to Bernard that he needed to fill out a “G-62” form in order to proceed. Bernard motioned to Ben, his Paralegal Assistant, to get the forms done and Ben left the room.  Bernard told the ICE officer who he was and what I was told about checking-in. He went further and asked about the procedure, and then the fateful answer came: “He will be detained,” said the white agent, and I sat down as I heard these words. Bernard was persistent and asked to speak to a supervisor when the same officer told him he “was the supervisor” and that Bernard needed a “G-68” form filled out to continue to speak to him. The brown officer started licking his lips and anxiety started to set in. It was now Bernard’s turn to leave the room to retrieve a form in order to comply with the ICE supervisor’s order. 

The two officers stood over me and as soon as Bernard left the room told me to stand up. I did as I was told, and they pushed me chest first to the wall and placed handcuffs on me. I asked them to pass my work phone to my lawyer and D. Aniyikaiye told me he would, just another lie, of the many he had told thus far and one of the many to come. Their intent was now evident. Telling Ben and Bernard respectively, to leave the room to get forms was just another ploy to get me by myself so they could detain me. Then, something quite peculiar occurred; both officers turned me around and their supervisor held a phone up to his face motioning to take a picture. The officers, wearing jackets over their polo shirts, turned facing the wall, with their hoodies pulled over their heads, their backs displaying the ICE ERO logo. The supervisor took the picture, and I was told to sit back down. They emptied my pockets which had my work permit and driver’s license, and asked that I take off my belt, my watch, and my bracelet, which I did. The picture was weird with both officers flanking me on each side, holding me by the arm, in a gesture as if to accost me. The deed was done, and I knew I would not be going to work today. It was a good thing I sent in two vacation days request. The tenth floor was my next destination.  

They walked me through different doors with my hands cuffed from behind, with my suit jacket and winter coat still on. As I ascended the steps the thought of  having adhered to the system was now going through my mind and I thought to myself; I should have fled and made them work to find me since they were acting as if they had caught me on the streets, instead of the truth which was that I had complied with the government’s request to  “Check-in.” The tenth floor was a different animal from what anyone could have ever imagined. There were two large holding pens across from each other with the officers’ station in the middle facing three smaller holding (bull) pens. There were a few people occupying the pens, looking anxious and seemingly awaiting their fates to be determined. The officers’ station comprised three officers, who worked as transporters (Paragon Transportation), while another one functioned as the doorman to the pen when instructed. Behind the officers’ station were all the crowd of ICE ERO officers who were running around like bees, busy as if ordered by the queen. There were three continuous tables away from the windows with desktops and laptops adorning them. The windows had bars from west to east on them, in case anyone needed to be reminded that they were in captivity. Each table had metal seats in front of them to have the detainee sit while being processed. The tables ended at the right corner outside the holding pen; where it met a room with the nurses’ station which itself had a computer, two desks and two nurses occupying it. They were there to evaluate all the detainees for any medical conditions. The detainees were let out of the holding pens one at a time to be processed and then see the nurse to ensure all was well and there were no surprises. 

I was told to sit inside the holding pen for the time being until the officer was ready. I watched as one-by-one different Latino men entered the holding pen as if a purge was in full effect. I sat in a corner blaming myself for being such a fool for complying when resistance was more [palatable] More men were entering, and I said a few words to some in Spanish that I know because of my education and my working background in social services. The men I spoke with were from The Dominican Republic, Guatemala, Peru and many of them were Venezuelans. It was a horrible sight, as one had to wonder if all these people had committed crimes since they were all legal migrants. I began to wonder what title anyone had to deem people “illegal” and take actions to expel them from a country.  None were picked up from the street. They, as I was, were a part of the check-in protocol with nuanced stipulations. They had all been told to report at an earlier time as they had one thing in common; they were all wearing ankle monitors. I spoke with a young man from Guatemala, who told me he had lived in these United States for 25 years and had a felony when he was young. He, like myself, was not a citizen. He added that he was told by the ICE officer over the phone to “report so his ankle monitor could be adjusted to change his type of reporting.” I thought that was strange as I too was told that I “was going back to the old type of reporting,” by the ICE officer who had called me. At that stage, doubting anything law enforcement said was now the norm, and I saw the face of many perplexed men who refused to smile and mumbled curses at the officers for being tricked and lied to. 

The door opened and an officer pointed to one of the men to “step out.” Since the holding pens were made of glass, the men were taken to the bench and told to place their feet on the seat. I watched as the monitor was removed, and the detainee was told to return to the holding pen where the process was repeated with others. As more men started to be placed in the pen that now held over fifty of them, many of the Latino men started to talk to each other trying to find out who each one was. I felt somewhat out of place as I was now the darkest person inside the holding pen. I motioned to the Guatemalan dude and called him “Chopin” as indigenous Guatemalans are known and asked what his next move would be if he was going to fight his decision. His English was immaculate and his pair of blue jeans, polo shirt and Jordans would have anyone pass him off for a regular American citizen. “Chopin” admitted to me that he felt relieved “on some real shit,” to have the ankle monitor removed. I guess the men were weighing their advantage of having a tag removed from them which they all have been wearing for some time now. 

A female officer, with a completely shaven head, also dressed in the gray cargo pants and black polo shirt uniform, opened the pen doors. Her posture was relaxed, and she seemed friendly as she asked who was hungry, “tengo hambre?”. Not having your watch can sometimes make you forget time a little. It was now noon or something. The constant flow of people in and out of the holding pens was distracting and I just realized that I had been detained almost three hours already. The officer did a head count and then called the men over one at a time for bottled water. A male officer stepped in to assist her, dressed in the same fatigue and gave out what appeared to be food. I was still not hungry and had started to worry about letting my fiancée know where I was and how I was doing. I was determined to get a phone call or reach out to Bernard to understand my situation. No one had told me at that point where I was going or what was the process for someone living, working, paying taxes and having a 403(b) to be detained so long and unable to speak to an official or his lawyer. It’s not that the government lied to me; it’s that the trust was gone. And now they were giving us food. Food was the last thing on my mind.  The men, one by one, walked up to the door and took the food and water. I took the water and gave the food to someone. What if it was poisoned, I thought. Would they ever admit to it? The bottle, at least, said Poland Spring and I doubted it would be bottled at 26 Federal Plaza. I sat back down in my little corner and could not help but feel deflated and defeated after having done exactly as I had been told to do, and now I was finding myself in a jail setting after having completed five years of State Parole Restrictions in just 3.5 years.  It felt like jail all over again. 

And then it happened. The pen door opened, and another man walked in. He was obviously white. He spoke loudly, but strangely with an accent. He was upset like everyone else but felt like everyone should know it. He was friendly and tried speaking to everyone to see how they got “caught.” He made eye contact when he spoke to someone. The doors kept opening and closing and more men continued to pour in. It now looked like at least sixty men were inside the holding pen. I was bored and furious, just sitting there, not trying to speak to anyone. A few of the men got rowdy and loud at times but nothing really happened while the men were mostly eating. 

The door opened and the officer pushed a large garbage bin inside to collect all the garbage “basura.” Everyone threw away their garbage, but a few water bottles remained with the men. The officer closed the door as everyone stared at it and talked amongst themselves once more. The door opened again, and one person was called out, “hey” they said and they motioned, and he exited. He walked with them across to the smaller pens. A light flashed and he was done. They let him back inside the holding pen. Another one was called out, and I realized what was going on. The men were being called out of the pen one by one to be photographed. They were taken out and brought to stand in front of the smaller pen; as it had happened with me earlier, two ICE ERO officers turned opposite to him side by side, both facing in the same direction with their jackets displaying the logo, while the man had his face to the cameras. Other officers were standing around taking pictures of everyone. It took some time for everyone to realize this, since there were so many people sharing that space. More ankle bracelets monitors were taken off as the doors became the center of attention.   

The door opened and there he was standing and signaling me to come to him. It was the ICE officer who detained me. I walked to him with great reluctance. He motioned me to stand by the door once I exited the pen. I remembered Bernard had told me no matter what to ask for a phone call. I did. Bernard wanted to know where I was and what was going on. I expressed how disappointed I was with him for what he did and how unnecessary that was since I would have to report in May. I was also worried about having my work telephone and any possible sanctions it might incur. I was also still overwhelmed with all the voices of disappointment inside my head. The officer told me I would get the phone call soon. He told me to follow him and walked towards an office that had a “Nurse” sign on the door. He motioned me in.  I went in and sat down. I tried my best to be cooperative with the nurse who was in civilian clothing. The nurse did a quick assessment of my health and   asked me basic questions pertaining to blood pressure, diabetes and my prescription medication. I had already been told by my doctor during my last visit in August 2024 that I had high blood pressure, so I told the nurse and the assessment went smoothly. She was evidently pregnant, and her baby bump made me look past my own pain and anguish and I was mindful not to cause her any added stress. I looked outside the office and quickly realized that the areas surrounding the benches and computers were littered with ICE ERO shirts that almost made it resemble the trading floor at Wall Street. Or at least what I knew from the movies. 

Having been one of the first to get there in the morning, I watched the place go from four to more than sixty people.  The officer returned to fetch me and I asked again about being allowed to make a phone call. He told me to sit down on the bench in front of him while he worked at his computer and retrieved paperwork from a file jacket. There it was, among the numerous documents he took out. My passport! I had not seen my passport in almost five years, since ICE had asked for it in 2020. I looked at him and could not contain my disdain for his lies. “Why did you lie, man?” I asked him. He tried his best to look away. I explained to him that in 2020 when I was released, I was told by ICE that as long as I did not violate the conditions of my immigration parole I wouldn’t be subjected to deportation, and I would have been notified in advance if anything changed. “What changed man?” I pressed him again.  I was already off state parole for more than a year, “what happened?’ I kept asking until he looked at me. The officer put the files down and looked at me. He said, “You were not a priority before, now it’s a new administration and that has changed.”

“So why couldn’t you tell me that over the phone so I could prepare and then turn myself over to you in May?” He looked away and started shifting through papers once more. He took a bunch of papers and went through them. He showed me different areas and told me to sign. I refused. I thought, since you people wanted to lie, why should I comply?  He insisted that the paper I had to sign said that he told me what was happening. I scribbled something on the paper. He showed me another piece of paper that said that I would be banned from the United States for 20 years and that I could not return. Wow, I thought to myself. I was living here and working for five years and had also completed state parole before the required time. I could see that this was not a policy request but at the officer’s discretion. It was open season on non-citizens and we were the prey. Realizing that I would not be cooperating, he told me to follow him. I asked again about my phone call. He stopped at the other side of the main desk where the officers tending to the detainees were sitting. I noticed the other officers were all smiling and high-fiving each other. It was a succulent fest, and we were beef. They were all salivated at the idea of how quickly the place had filled up. He told me to try the phone at the desk and said to just dial my lawyer’s phone number. I did; it did not work. I repeated the process at least thrice and nothing happened. The officer himself tried and realized I was telling the truth.  A short female white officer came up to him and asked, “how many did you get?” to which he smiled and said three thus far. She smiled, whispered her number, and walked away. They were celebrating their wins. He finally opened his cellphone and gave it to me to use. I dialed Bernard’s number, and he told me to put it on speakerphone. I listened to the advice of Bernard who also said that the Supervisor sending him out of the room to get the forms was a tactic just to get him out of the room. I saw multiple text messages coming over his phone saying that another one had been caught. Then two more. It was as if the world was just focused on chasing down non-citizens and ICE was giving a play-by-play on things as they transpired. 

I hung up with Bernard and contacted my fiancée to let her know what was happening. When she answered the phone, I knew immediately from her voice that she was crying. I tried my best to calm her down, so I would not worry either. I told her we would be victorious, even if I did not believe that myself. The officer told me it’s time to get back in the pen. As I gave him his phone back, he asked me to hold on a bit and dialed a number. Someone answered and he gave me the phone. It was too loud in the room, what with the cheering and the rising noise, so he walked around the corner to another office where it was quieter. He gave me the phone to speak to the person on the line. A female voice engaged me who identified herself as the “Security Attaché” from the Jamaican Embassy. She asked me a series of questions, from when I arrived in the U.S. to my level of education. She explained to me that “By law if nothing changes from now until February 27, you will be flown to Louisiana on February 24 and will land in Jamaica on February 27.” It was all set and after that I was told to walk back to the holding pen. It was rowdy as ever, filled with angry and betrayed non-citizens. One by one the process continued, and detainees exited and entered to go through the formal process that I went through. 

It was feeding time again. Dinner, actually, and I realized that I had been in that place since 8:00 am and it was 4:00 pm now. I was still upset but knew I had to eat something since I had not eaten all day. I went up to the door as we were called for the food and sifted through it to see what the rush was. The food was some meatless concoction, in a pouch served warm along with a nutrition bar and a cookie with the usual bottle of water. I took one taste and could not stand how insipid it was. I tried the nutrition protein bar. That too was awful. I tried the cookie that looked like a large chocolate chip cookie. I drank the water to quiet the aching sounds my gut was giving out. I allowed my pain to fill me up to avoid thinking about food. Everybody around sat there eating and making the best of a terrible situation. The holding pen continued to fill up and at 8:00 pm we realized that we had been there for hours and no lawyer or anyone else attached to the system would come to save us. We were now cattle herded into a pen, watched by those who were smacking their lips at this reality and high-fiving each other. At 10:00 pm the female officer came and sorted us into two pens. Chopin and I managed to end up in the same pen again. We were both told to exit the first pen and walk to the pen across which was separated by the officers’ area. I asked one officer what the reason was, and she told me the pen I was heading to was going to “Orange County.” I asked a few of the men in Spanish if anyone “conoces” Orange County, and one elderly gentleman from the Dominican Republic told me it was a County Jail in upstate New York close to Middletown. I simply could not believe it. I was going to be in jail. How did this happen to me after doing all that was right in the eyes of the government? How is it that I would be sitting in a jail cell once more? The cruelty and the inhumane strip frisks started to run through my mind once more. I have been away from such settings for five years now and had not looked back; but here it was that I was slated to be thrown back in jail. 

The time was just going by slowly and I watched as the once-busy trading room on the tenth floor of 26 Federal Plaza became quiet and down to about four officers including the transport team of grey pants and black shirts. It was now 10:00 pm and the few officers were standing in front of holding pen 1 which had half of the men inside. The door swung open, and we watched as the officer called the men out one by one, shackled them and took them through the same door we had entered. My heart raced again as failure was staring me in the face. I had failed once more, and the shackles would prove it. The men, once shackled and handcuffed, waved and shouted to their amigos in Spanish and exited the door. The place then became quiet and desolate, and depression saturated the holding pen. Some of the men started sleeping on the benches. The door opened and the female officer started giving each one of us a white sheet; some of the men took them, covered their faces right away, and started sleeping. The feeling of desperation and desolation was now heavy in the air and some of the Venezuelans had started to tell stories to pass the time. Two of them swore they were “coyotes” and we listened to their adventures of walking the terrains to the U.S. borders. We listened for another half hour squeezing a look at the clock to see what day and time it was. Looking through the windows across the halls we saw that it was pitch black outside. The nurse left and we started to ask if we were going to sleep on the floor, too. At 11:30 pm the door opened again and one officer walked towards our jackets and other coats hanging on the railing in front of the officer’s booth. They called us out one by one and gave us our previously confiscated jackets and coats and as we put them on, so did the handcuffs and shackles. We stood up one by one and did as instructed to exit the room heading for the elevators. Truth be told, we were so happy to leave that memory behind. Or so we thought. 

We exited the doors and descended the steps walking as carefully as possible with the shackles on our feet. It was a careful dance with our legs and the stairs. We arrived in front of the elevator to see another officer standing there. The elevator ride was quick, and we soon came to the loading dock and saw the few vehicles that had clearance to be in that security area. One by one we got on that bus with the hope it would at least overturn and we could be set free. The bus drove out from underground at Federal Plaza as we watched the building disappear in the distance. We all watched as Manhattan also disappeared, knowing we would never see it again. The bus turned towards New Jersey, and I asked the “bierho” once more if he was “seguro” he “sabes donde” Orange County Jail was. “Si” he responded loudly. The drive was rugged and arduous. I never imagined myself ever again being in the back of a police paddy wagon, let alone as now, shackled through my hands and feet. I was stressed out, it was late at night, and I fell asleep. I was awakened throughout the journey for sudden stops and looked out the windows to see if I knew anywhere that looked familiar, since I lived outside the five boroughs. We continued to drive until we came to a long road where the van entered and had to wait for some time. “Nosotros aqui” the old man shouted. I looked up as my ears latched onto what he said. I started to run the familiar jail scenarios in my head, from Correction Officers to inmates. I would have to do it all over again and this time, my only charge was a “change of administration” as the ICE officer told me.  We had arrived at Orange County Jail. 

Orange County

It was cold and we were told to exit the vehicle one by one and walk to the entrance for processing. I was the fourth person and Chopin was behind me. My obnoxious Hungarian immigrant compatriot was in front me and so was the old man. They seemed eager to just exit the van, and at 1:30 in the morning who could really blame them. I now realized that one day ago at this time I was in bed in my own apartment. Now, look at things. What if I never had anyone to go to my apartment to retrieve my property? How would things go from here?  What a waste of time it is going to be to have me just sitting in a jail cell away from my job and family as if I had not paid my dues to society for the crime that I had been. But this was something else. This was another county jail that I was now entering   where I had never lived before. Things were different and I would find out. 

The line filed to the right and I followed the next person in front of me like jail had taught me to do so many moons ago. I watched as the shackles came off one by one and the three people in front of me were relieved of them and even managed to crack a smile. There were three White officers at the reception. The layout was similar to that at 26 Federal Plaza. The only noticeable difference was that a Sergeant was present at the intake this time. I started to wonder why I was never presented with the choice to deport voluntarily, since I worked and lived in accordance with the law? The Officer spoke English to us and even opened the holding (bull) pen door for us to enter as soon as we were unshackled. I glanced at the clock and it was telling me it was 1:30 am. That seemed about right from the time when I left the Plaza. A clear order was given: we were to be called one at a time, surrender our property, suffer the all-familiar strip, and change into jail garb. We all complied, and Chopin and I struck up some conversations here and there about going through this ‘rite of passage.’ I met another gentleman, an Indian from the Punjab and started to talk about politics to bide the time. He was adamant that the West stay out of the Kashmir conflict. We were soon called to see the doctor to get a brief physical exam. Just my luck, he was Jamaican and we struck up a conversation as to why I was at the jail. I explained to him what happened and he was surprised. He told me I should have a lawyer look into my case and I explained that I had one working with me as best as he could. I exited the room and went back to the bullpen to sit. 

I was exhausted and saddened by what had transpired. Truly, I was thinking how my partner in life would be able to pay the rent, and car insurance, and ConEd bills, and how she would be able to do her grocery shopping. It was bad enough that now, with me gone, she will have to navigate the trains at night when her shift at work is over. I felt weary and defeated as reality sunk in. I was right here again as I was in 2005. I thought I had done enough, everything that had been asked of me, to put this dark chapter of my life away from me. The constant bombardment of the cold air, the stainless-steel toilet, and the glass cage made me realize I had failed at something in my life once more. At least this time I would feel worthless wearing a more resplendent color, as we were put in yellow jumpsuits, the only clothing I had managed to note thus far, and it seemed to be the color for people detained by ICE. 

It was my turn. The glass door opened and was called to the chair by the intake officer. He was doing his best with the influx of people who came in as it seemed at the last minute. Time was rushing along, more than an hour had passed, and sleep was taking hold of my nerves. I stepped out to a strange surprise. One of the intake officers was speaking in Spanish. He was a tall, bald, White male who seemed mild-mannered, but spoke Spanish fluently. He was speaking to one of the detained men before me, conducting his intake, keeping the order flowing. I wondered to myself if he would be kicked out of any clubs, since he seemed the only one among his colleagues who had that type of dexterity. For me, though, my dampened spirit and the same banal setting, with strip frisks, grey walls and ordering on people as if they were incompetent or incapable of conducting themselves in a civilized manner, in an uncivilized place. I sat down and started answering the officer’s questions. This time around, unlike the last time I was in this setting, I had some real achievements to report. The officer marveled when I said a “graduate degree.”  I believe he was expecting the usual GED response or someone who worked on a farm. 

“What happened?” he asked.

“I reported,” was my response. 

He seemed taken aback but continued his work. There was more to come, as I would learn once inside, as to why he posed that question and had such an expression when I answered. We completed the intake and he had me stand aside to check my personal belongings as they were being placed in a clear bag. I went to speak to a different officer about this process and watched as he put inside a bag my two cell phones, along with my watch, my chains, my bracelet, and my belt. The officer sealed the bag, and I asked about giving my work phone to my lawyer. “You could turn it over to him once he comes on the visit,” the officer responded. I remembered the “property turnover forms.” It was my trauma all over again. This time I would not wallow in ignorance as to whether the jail was following proper procedure.  This time I would speak to the right people and get things done in an expeditious manner. Or so I thought. I completed the property counter and moved over next to the phones. I asked the officer if I could get a phone call to contact my fiancée, so she knew where I was. He said yes and gave me some numbers on a piece of paper. He explained to me that one number was my Departmental ID number and the other was a PIN # for me to be able to use the phones. He added that without it, I would never be able to call out. ‘202500239’ was my ID number and I would have to use the pin to activate the phones and change them to one of my choosing in order to continue to use the phones. I did as I was told and put my fiancée’s number on the phone. It rang three times and she picked up. When she heard me speak she began to cry. I was upset as this was not what I wanted for her. I spoke softly to calm her down and told her that I was in Goshen, New York at the County Jail. She started crying more. She was horrified for me being in such a reality once more after all I had done once I came home. I explained to her that it was a courtesy call and what would happen. She told me that Bernard had called her and told her where I was taken and she spoke to Cynthia and Neni. I did my best to stay strong for both of us and thanked her for answering the phone. She told me that finally, after speaking with me, she could get some sleep. She was worried and so was I. 

Uncertainty was staring me in the face. I told her I loved her before hanging up and walked back over to the officer at the desk. He presented me with a mug, a small bar of soap and a toothbrush small as one’s thumb with travel size toothpaste. It was depressing all over again. It moved so quickly from me talking to my beloved and now to dealing with the realities of strip frisks, misbehavior reports, locking in for standing counts, and eating food which was not really designed to keep anyone healthy. Wtf, I thought. Again! The officer also told me to take up one of the “Bundles” of sheets which I knew contained a towel and a washcloth. But there were differences, too, this time. A female officer exited the back office in front of the intake desk and presented me with a tablet. Yes, it seems that modern technology has made its way to the prison industrial complex, because profit is profit and profit is to be made even in the prison. The officer showed me how to turn on the device and add my pin # and explained that almost everything including the phones would function through this device. Does this mean I could call my family “anytime?” I quizzed her. Not “after lights out” she explained. It seemed that the tablets would also be regulated from a main server which would allow the authorities to track and check all data coming in and going out over the devices. I quickly realized that the tablet was another Trojan Horse to distract from the real purpose, which was to be able to gather information on any and all possible known associates once the device was checked. I told myself I would use it for what I can and not too much. The device would perhaps open up the oppressed to more ways to pass the time; but at the same time it would jeopardize any and all family members, recording and storing their voice patterns and other personal information. It was a necessary Trojan Horse, and the new jail system was intertwined with it. The tablet contained the Commissary, the Law Library, and had capability for both video and text messages. It also housed games such as chess, along with radio, music, and movie channels. Of course, most of it was not free. The detained would need money to access most of these services and programs in order to fully enjoy the feeling of being home with loved ones, which was just another facade for the incarcerated. 

The newly detained persons who were finished with the intake process were now looking weary and ready to go. So many others had also been processed, and the banality from a previous experience of being in a jail jumpsuit had made me lose track of the time. I was exhausted and managed to get a glimpse of the clock on the wall behind the Sergeant’s desk. It was 5:45 AM in the morning and I realized how sleep-depriving the whole process had been. I knew the master count would be at 6:00 am, and the officer told us that those were “standing counts,” so we had to be standing in order for the officer to see us. “Okay, who is done, come with me” the officer said, and we hurried out of the area as fast as we could. Most of us had just forgotten about being inside a lock-up and just wanted to close our eyes, even for a few hours. 

We followed the officer and one by one we walked behind him on the other side of the hallway as we were instructed. Many of these actions were automatic to me and I soon realized I was in motion as if my mind had not left that place. Yet it had. Walking down the hallways and looking at the various sections where the hallways branched off made me miss being at work. It had become my routine and now I was forced unprepared into another reality. The smell was the same, and the flat sneakers they gave us after surrendering all our possessions hurt my feet. I watched as carts with trays sat in the hallways looking ready for the breakfast chow to enter the blocks. “Stop here” we were told, and we did as the officer got on his radio and asked for a door to another wing to be opened. We all made the same right turn and passed another area labeled as “sergeant’s office.” The door made a loud click, the officer pulled it open, and we did as we were told and entered before him. It was the same thing all over again, even though this particular place was new to me, still, nothing about the place had changed, except the location. The Block boasted 56 cells in an upstairs-downstairs format. There were eight phones, four on each side of the lower walkway. The officer called out to each of us in Spanish and told us the cell we were individually assigned to. Good thing I knew how to speak Spanish. I kept thinking how my Colombian friend, Martin, would laugh if I told him that the officer was only speaking Spanish. I could not get his laughter out of my head, as I imagined it.  He would have a laugh at my expense. The officer opened all the empty cells, and we all walked in. I rolled out the two sheets and used one of the washcloths to wipe down the metal base where the cot was placed. I did not stop to rinse out the cloth; I took off those awful sneakers and went to bed. I rolled over, whispered a prayer, and closed my eyes. 

A buzz came and I was awakened. I looked as some of the men were walking past my cell, in the direction of the officer. It was breakfast time, and it seemed to me that I was perhaps asleep for a good 20 minutes. The men ran to the large box where the meal cart was, and the officer passed out trays. I could not believe I was eating this jail food again. For some reason these men had found ways to smile and just live with the situation as if nothing really changed for them. I walked slowly to the officer to retrieve my breakfast, and I saw “Chopin’ again. I asked him what was going on. He told me that he was waiting to get his tablet up and working so he could use the phone. I thought to myself that I went from my iPhone 14 to now using some oversized tablet clad in a black shell to prevent any breakage. I felt more alone now. It was day two and I had not contacted anyone yet, waiting for everything to get up and running. I noticed someone motioning to me, signaling that he was trying to talk to me. He stood about 5’ 10” and had noticeable tall dreadlocks wrapped around his waist a few times and a white handkerchief tied around his head that made his forehead invisible. He was an older person and his beard was white. I walked over to his direction and realized quickly he was another Jamaican. I had not seen him the previous night, so I was a bit confused. I told him that I needed to get some sleep so as to rendezvous at lunch. He gave me a fist bump, and I went about my way towards the cell. The officer’s instructions were to “grab your tray and lock in.” This same thing again that I went through more than 20 years ago. I returned to the cell and put the tray on the table. I had no appetite and was not interested in eating any jail food. 

I rolled over and the door opened once more. We had to return the trays. People were running to the officer to return them, so I just asked one of the guys to take the tray. He asked me if he could get the food. Yes, I said, and depressed I went to sleep on a hard cot made with sheets in a really bad color, covered with a stringy blanket on a worn-out mattress as flat as the piece of iron it rested on tried to pass as a bed. By the time I could get some much-needed sleep it was lunchtime, and I heard foot traffic once more running down the stairs towards the officer standing in the front of the gallery. The fifty-eight cells in the gallery were not all filled up, and all the guys who had arrived with me were housed upstairs, one after another. There were others on the lower tiers who, judging just by their movements, seemed to have adapted already. I asked the officer when I reached him what the process was. He looked at me first and could sense my impatience. He assured me that this was just the reception block, and we could be here for up to a week; after that we would get placed in the other blocks. We were now in A-3 and it seems that A-2 and A-1 were the other two blocks to house the ICE detainees, depending on the classification. He asked me if I could assist the other Jamaican dude with setting up his tablet so that he could make phone calls. I realized quickly that his shoulders were not up, and that he was not trying to exercise authority in the room. Something seemed to have changed as this officer was not ego-trippin’. This was different. I am used to Correction Officers either wanting to kill you, hide from you, or simply not wanting to converse with you. I took a step back but did not let down my guard. Having previously been incarcerated had made me distrustful of most correctional staff. 

The day went by and I tried my best to put a positive spin on my situation. I was beside myself again thinking how much of a failure I must have been, to land in wearing a prison jumpsuit. I had started to assist the older Jamaican man in getting familiar with how tablets work, so that he could call his family. I, on the other hand, had managed to contact a few people. I spoke to Neni, Bernard, and Verron, among others. I had also managed to speak about the situation to a long-time friend at the Marshall Project who offered me constant reassurance that I was not a failure. He is of Colombian descent and encouraged me to document as best as I could what I told him was a Latino purge. In the public sphere had been cultivated the lie that these men were being apprehended at the border instead of the truth that people were being taken from their homes and others were detained when they followed the law and reported to ICE when told. 

It took some time to get my older Jamaican friend familiarized with the tablets. The tablets required biometrics to operate: voice recognition, Department Identification number (DIN#), and, in some cases, your face even opens.  This was mandatory, and the detainee could not communicate with family members on the outside without this process completed. My friend was soft-spoken, and it took many tries until he was able to contact his family members and tell them what had happened to him. We were already on day three and he still was not able to speak to anyone about his process which was slower than usual. We got through and he was thrilled. 

I was now able to see Bernard and Ben on lawyer’s visits and discuss the best options available in moving forward on my deportation case. It was February, my birthday month, I had spent 15 birthdays inside the penitentiary and was now facing a 16th. The ICE agents who took me off the street never once gave me the option to self-deport, and I was now staring at this horrible reality of forcible deportation, in the face. By now one week had passed and we were sent to the ID room to pick up our classifications. I was classified as “Medium/high” and therefore placed in a different unit according to the facility guidelines. On my way to Booking I saw someone walking in the hallway in the distance dressed in a white jumpsuit, a detained woman, and I realized there was more to the rainbow than we were told. Two other people roamed the hallway, one in a blue jumpsuit and another one in red, each color indicating a different classification of detention:  blue for the general   population, red for parole violators, white for women, yellow for those detained by ICE. The only one missing, I thought, was purple to round off a cool bag of skittles.

As soon as I returned to the Unit, I was told to pack up. It was like the march was on again. About 20 men would be on the move and we hurried to ensure we would be able to use the amenities inside the blocks, such as the microwave, phones and shower.  A-2 was a different reality. As soon as we entered the block we could see how the various Latino identities and nationalities had been divided and separated. The MS-13 were on one side; Peruvians at their own table; there was a scattering of Dominicans, and, yes, a sea of Venezuelans. I also saw two of the brothers who were with me at 26 Federal Plaza had claimed they were “coyotes.” We all said “hi to each other. We approached the officer sitting at the center of the block who told us the rules and described the situation to us. A glass room to the right of the front door housed computer monitors and some phones and looking at the line snaking out of the door I realized that this was how these men could speak to their lawyers. It was business as usual, and I just took some soap and a mop to clean the cell. A brown-skinned gentleman started shouting and signaling towards me and when I responded he asked if I was “Jamaican?” I said yes, and he said he was Jamaican too. He seemed excited because now it looked like there would be three Jamaicans in the block and he would not be alone in a sea of Latinos.  He started clapping and two Latinos shouted “Jamaica!” We quickly settled in and learned how to navigate the block. We were told that ICE had a representative inside the facility and the court was by the Sergeant’s office outside the hallway. There were also four boxes at the officer’s station, one for sick calls, one for ICE, one was the law library, and one was the chapel. The block had the usual accoutrements: a microwave, one huge vending machine to allow people to buy food, and a charging station for the tablets. The rest of the gallery had showers and phones. 

On the second day of moving to that block I was called for a visit. I went to the officer who just directed me to the hallway where I would see another officer for directions. I had to wear my ID card in full display for any officer to see. The visit was completely different. When I arrived at the visit, I simply gave the officer my ID card and was told where the visit was. It was a booth visit, and Ben and Bernard had brought the necessary papers so that I could designate Neni to have my power of Attorney. The White female officer seemed cordial, but I just ignored her for the most part. Ben and Bernard were committed to helping me and armed with information. We completed the paperwork, and it was time for the visit to end. I had suspected the usual strip frisk and humiliating gestures, but this was not so. At the conclusion of the visit, the female officer just took me to the desk and gave me my ID card. She had also offered to take a copy of the paperwork from Ben and Bernard which she brought to me. This was different, different from anywhere else where I had been detained. As I walked back through the hallway my mind was still foggy with what had become my new reality, except that this time there were no antisocial white officers threatening me with death. These officers seemed different. I was still guarded as, even though I had been home close to five years, you don’t just forget 14.5 years of incarceration. I kept thinking that it was a cruel joke, a test, to see if I could stand to lose everything I had spent the last five years to gain in just a few weeks being in ICE custody.  The visits continued, most importantly visits from Warner, Dawn, and Sally from Central Synagogue. My friend Kevin, who drove me that morning to the check-in, also came to see me and seemingly the officers were all cordial to us. I had no idea whether jail had changed in general, but this was certainly different from the last time I was in one. 

February 20 was here but there was no reprieve in sight for me. Speaking to Khalil, Bernard, and Ben about any possibility for a stay of deportation, I was told that any such move would be a waste of time because of my particular past conviction of aggravated felony. I was staring at the inevitable in the face and it was rapidly approaching. I sat with friends and played chess to ease my mind of the pain I felt inside as a failure. My fiancée, for her part, did the best she could to comfort me, even with the distance between us. Neni was always moving the pieces as best as she could and managing life on what seemed to be a deteriorating Columbia University campus. I felt like the past four years had just slipped through my fingertips and I wanted to be facing a little better birthday- present.  From the countless conversations we’ve had, the brethren knew how I felt and what was running through my mind. There were men I met there, at Orange County Facility, who had been fighting their individual cases for 13 months and more. Still, they smiled and went about hiding the pain of family separation like another day at the water fountain. I met one man from the Dominican Republic, called “Domingo,” who was also the jail porter, who had been there for 18 months and was fighting his deportation case. He was friendly, humble and hung out with the one Jamaican who was there before the three of us arrived. He was also the one who kept church for the Latino men who wanted to be close with Jesus during their own turmoil. Domingo always smiled and with the backing of his Jamaican friend, was the referee when the other Latinos had a vehement disagreement. 

The morning of the 21st I was awakened by the overnight officer at 3 am who told me to get dressed, as ICE was coming to get me.  I quickly realized “this is it,” as Louisiana was my next stop. I gathered my property and flooded the bed sheets. I took my remaining commissary and asked the officer if I could leave it with my Jamaican friend, as is customary in jail. He allowed it, and I tapped on my friend’s door and let him know I was gonna be in the sky. Or so I thought, because the Security Attaché at the Jamaican consulate had already told me that I would be on a plane to Louisiana on February 24, so three days early did not alarm me. I had long ago accepted the inevitable of not getting any reprieves to fight my deportation, even after living in the U.S. for almost five years since my release. The walk through the hallway was quiet and cold.  There was snow outside covering the ground and that memory is etched in my mind. It would be another cold day of transfer staring at me in the face. I arrived at Booking to see the officer waiting for me. He had a heavy Irish accent, which I thought was strange. He brought me my clothes and told me to get dressed. We made small talk about the Irish/Jamaican connection and laughed a little around football and how the world saw people. For the most part, Orange County was different from what I had known as the jail situation. I got done getting dressed and went to the holding pen to watch the clock on the wall and wait for ICE to come get me again. 

Nassau County as birthday present

The ride in the little van was not thrilling and had sadly become the norm for transportation. I watched as Orange County disappeared in the cold winter morning and was anxious about what faced me. The shackles on my feet made it uncomfortable to feel comfortable. The handcuffs on my hands had also made it an ordeal to scratch my nose and hunger was starting to set in. It felt like my body had gained all this iron weight again from previous working out; and the uncomfortability was just part of the process. The security team drove as fast as they could in their pursuit of purpose. A part of me wishes the vehicle could just turn over and end my life just to take away all this unbearable process that the system was throwing at me. The longer we drove, the more daylight seemed to chase us. We did not go to Federal Plaza but rather to Varrick Street.  A peculiar thing happened which made me furious. I was in front of another detention center as if to remind me of the reality of my situation. I was on this long journey and had no clue what was happening, all I knew was that I was supposed to be going to Louisiana. 

The bus came to a stop in front of a detention center and two people wearing grey cargo pants and black polo shirts took over. The officers who picked me up from Orange County exited the vehicle and now two Black officers, one man and one woman, were operating the vehicle. The driving started again, and questions swirled through my mind. I was hoping that I would finally see Federal Plaza again, but I didn’t. The van arrived about two hours later at what the signs were telling me was Nassau County jail. I was wondering what I would be doing in this county since I neither lived there nor had any legal issues with them. I watched as the officer exited. A little while later he came to the van and told me to step out and helped me down as I couldn’t move on my own because of the leg shackles. He brought me inside the facility where I was taken to a desk with two Nassau County Deputies who asked my name and took other preliminary information. I was already home for almost five years so what was the use of this, I thought to myself. Obviously throughout my previous incarceration there were fingerprints or warrants to have me anywhere else so what was I doing in Nassau County. I left the front desk after being given a piece of paper about my property and then taken to another room where I was fingerprinted and photographed. I was visibly pissed off because, as I mentioned, I have never lived in Nassau County and none of the prison stories that I had heard over the years about it were ever any good. Previous friends called Suffolk County “Suffering County” and Nassau County was seemingly one of those “sundown” places in New York. The process kept going on and I soon realized that more people were being brought to that facility, all of them Latino men, most of them looking straight from work. Some of the men had on construction clothing and one of them even had a construction vest over his shirt. 

I went to a changing room where my property was taken and where I was given an orange jumpsuit to wear. I watched as the porter went to the back and found me a pair of shoes size 10. My clothes were placed in a clothing bag, and I was sent upstairs. The jail had no windows anywhere and it looked more like a box of SHU (Special Housing Unit, i.e. solitary confinement unit) than an actual jail. I could feel my blood getting hotter in my veins. The escorting officer was Black officer with a French name.  He asked me if I was Haitian.  I said no, but assumed that he was. His demeanor was Caribbean. “I am a Jamaican,” I told him. He was standing outside the changing area when I came in and I could only conclude he must have surmised that due to the situation. “Step here” he motioned to me. We went through a part of the jail that had three revolving doors where an officer was sitting inside a huge glass bubble controlling the doors with cameras. I did as I was told and then he told me I had to go to the nurse. It was obvious that they were just figuring things as they were going along as it was obvious that the officers did not know how to process the ICE detainees, let alone how to address us. One thing they knew for sure was not to let us go, and none of them acted like that was possible. I watched as the officer stopped me at a red line and went inside to call another officer. An older White woman stepped out and they cracked a few jokes at each other. The Haitian officer left and yet another Black officer, a woman, took over. 

Finally, the nurse came out, greeted me, and motioned me inside a room with minimal medical equipment, a bed, and what appeared to be a desk with paperwork on it. We started with l chatter, and she asked me where I was from, as if I had just arrived. I told her I was from Mt. Vernon. “Okay, you have an accent” she replied, and I stared at her as if I had never heard that before. I was born in Jamaica, I responded, and she lit up and even showed me her teeth. She had a nice smile and a diamond wedding ring on her ring finger. “I have been to Jamaica on the beach,” she said, “and you know what? they offered me weed” she added. “Wow, what a coincidence they offered me weed in the Bronx too,” I replied. We both laughed and she took my blood pressure. “Wow” she said, looking at me. “Your blood pressure is in the 200s. Are you okay? you are at stroke levels.” I nodded as best as I could, and she started asking me preliminary questions about medications and more health questions in general. It was part of the assessment process to ascertain which approach was best to take if treatment was needed. 

” What is your date of birth?” 

“02/21/1981” 

“Oh, my,” the officer in the room looked at me and said, “Happy birthday.” 

You could feel the mood shift in the room as they all realized that I was having a shitty birthday. The chatter went on about my blood pressure results and the fact that I might have a stroke and die. At that point I did not really care too much and was just willing to do whatever. I could not get over the fact that I was at Nassau County jail and not in Louisiana. I refused medication and everything, being the stubborn and spiteful person that I am! Plus, this was one of those times when I was willing to cut my nose off to spite my face. The officer told me that she had to take me to the unit. We got up and left and I could feel the headache pounding my headtop as I walked. 

Arriving at the block was not any fun either. The gallery was dark, and the officer sat at a desk facing all the cells. I noticed the phone was in a corner and asked about using it. Neni had planned on coming to see me for my birthday and should be notified that I had left the facility. The officer told me I would have to wait, and the phone would be brought to me. The gallery was small, and the TV was at the center and loud. The cell they put me in had no “setups.” “Set ups” as they were referred to in jail/prison consisted of a bundle with toothpaste, tissue, wash rag, two pairs of bed sheets, a toothbrush, and shower slippers. There was no window. It felt like I was in a hell hole for my 44th. I was angry and felt I did not deserve this. I sat at the edge of the bed seething, staring directly at the officer. His position was strategic, and he could see me looking at him. I did not care if he found my stare hostile and intimidating. The lion was caged, and he was about to roar. I was ready. The electric door opened slowly, and I watched two men walk into the room yelling that it was “feed up time.” They were the gallery porters, and they were in the block to feed the caged. They still had not given me my phone call yet. The two men came around and the younger one noticed me sitting on the bed with no “set ups.” He asked if I was okay and I asked if he had some coffee. I was starving and had not eaten all morning. He asked me if I had a cup and when I said no, he gave me a cup and poured some coffee on me. The other one, who was much older and loud, came around and was just talking and talking and not even listening. I did not pay him no mind. He gave me a brown paper bag and said it was breakfast. “They did not add you guys to the count yet, so this has to do” he told me. I looked in the bag and saw a butter roll. That was it. I sat down with the coffee and sipped it gladly. There was no sugar or creamer, just black raw coffee, real cowboy style. Fortunately for me, I liked it that way. 

The time was passing, and I still was not allowed to use the phone. About 10:00 in the morning I watched as the officer wheeled the phone to me in front of the cell and opened the feel latch. I had to use the phone from a hole in the door. This awkward and horrible dance was part of my ordeal as a birthday present. I dialed the numbers they told me to, then my DIN #, then the phone number. I called Neni. When she answered, it was a great sigh of relief. We chatted about many things and how the treatment was getting worse now. She told me Bernard was going to come see me “tomorrow” (Saturday) morning, and that she was not allowed to visit me today, even though she had received a visit permit. I expressed my deepest gratitude to her and told her to pass the message to Bernard as well. We chatted some more until I told her I had to call Verron to let her know what was going on. 

I spoke to Verron, and she was still crying about what had happened and all that had transpired thus far. I told her to be strong for both of us and that I loved her dearly. Just hearing my lady’s voice strengthened me and perhaps helped bring my blood pressure down some. I deliberately kept the issue of my blood pressure from her. I got off the phone and thanked the officer. The set up had finally arrived. I dragged the sheets over the bed and started sifting through the rubble for soap and the rest of the cosmetics. Only a small tube of toothpaste and what appeared to be a thimble with bristles trying to be passed as a toothbrush. I did my best with what I had and lied down to get some very, very much needed rest. After all, I had been up since 3:00 in the morning. But it didn’t last long enough. By the time I noticed it, it was lunchtime. The noise woke me up and the older porter started shouting once more. I wanted to slap him for being so obnoxious. While the younger porter was so militant, this one was just loud and kept on shouting. He had a large shiny jug in his hand and was yelling at the men in the cages as if we were animals. For one moment I almost splashed him in the face with the red Kool-Aid drink he was serving because he came around yelling again while the younger one was speaking to me. I did not even drink what was inside the cup, and I suspected he was doing this because he knew the men in the cages were Spanish speakers, and he felt empowered to treat them as if they were less than human. The thought ran through my head to splash him with some hot coffee in the morning, if he did the same obnoxious thing while feeding grown men. I could not reconcile the fact that even as a porter, he, too, was wearing an orange jumpsuit, and he seemed to forget, or ignore, that he was dealing with men, with human beings, regardless of what the government might have fooled him into believing. He was offensive and disrespectful, and I was not going to take it from him. He looked like a dope fiend anyway and perhaps needed a good kick in the ass. I was disgusted and left the lunch tray on the feed up slot. I told the officer I didn’t want anything to eat. That idiotic racist had made me lose my appetite. It’s a good thing I kept all these thoughts in my head.

The night could not come any sooner, and I still had not taken a shower all day. No one said anything to us and the officer for his part only walked, counted, and went back to his desk. It felt like we were in the SHU, and not being able to see outside was torturous. At least in Orange County I was able to see out of the windows. I was planning to tell Bernard about all this tomorrow anyway. The night officer was much steadier. He was a black officer, really like night and day from his White coworker. I asked him about the phone, and in turn he asked me what time. I had to choose because the phone usage was another delicate dance. I sat back down on the bed and waited. The clock was ticking, and I needed to speak to my lady once more. 

I dialed, doing the same careful sequence once more. Her voice on the other line was so needed and soothing. I was not interested in watching the loud television or even listening to the light talk going on between the men at the gate downstairs. I wanted to know if my lady fiancée was doing okay. It was almost three weeks since we had been separated, and I wanted to know if her situation was improving. She had been diagnosed with Stage Two breast cancer, and I was the one who took her to Dr. Lieberman in Manhattan for her radio treatment. She was terrified and felt lonely living in the house by herself. I had to talk her through every moment of me being missing and encourage her to fight to get the cancer out of her body. I still could not even bring myself to tell her I almost had a stroke. Well, I guess this was the reward this world had for the good. I tried not to feel bitter, but I was extremely disappointed. Something had changed in my world, and I was not happy about it. I explained how proud of her I was and that she should remember to get home safe and close the door behind her. We said our usual “I love you” before hanging up. I brushed my teeth and laid down on the cot and two sheets. “Listen up, the following people are leaving today,” was the announcement that dragged me out of my sleep. I rolled over to hear that everyone in the cell I was in was leaving. I was happy and confused at the same time. I theorized that someone must have got married to the Superintendent in Nassau County and some money needed to be shared between everyone as ICE inmates passed through their SHU for one night was enough to spread the love. This would be good for the next gathering and perhaps a bigger marriage of minds and opportunities, and we were simply the pawn. Another plantation awaited and the shackling would be there to remind us of who we represented whether we disagreed or not. 

Newark and the holding tour

The little van was not packed with at least nine of us, all of us shackled and well on the way to 26 Federal Plaza once again. I met up with some people I had met at Orange County jail who had been moved over a week ago. They told me about their horrible ordeal at Nassau County and asked when I arrived. One of them was an old Dominican friend of mine, and another was one of the Jamaicans who were at Orange County jail with me. We chatted up a storm to drown out the twists and turns of the van ride and even made friends with some of the men whom we picked up along the way. One who stood out was Gonzalo, a Mexican man who had his name imprinted on his shirt. I asked him why he had that shirt on, and he said that he was at work when ICE detained him. He was a concrete mixer and was devoted to his family and work. The bumps and twists of New York State streets gave us time to get to know each other, as we had one constant: we were all scheduled to be expelled from these United States. We arrived at Federal Plaza and the doors opened. “Why?” we asked the drivers. They said that they had to get some paperwork done. One officer who looked like a man but clearly sounded like a woman showed up again. He came to the side of the bus to provide us with information and to update us as to what was happening. The officers even took time to give us some bagels with cream cheese and a bottle of water. We were all appreciative as some of us, like me, had been up since 4:00 in the morning and shackled since 5:00 am. The handcuffs had started to take their toll on me as well, and I had to do a little trick in order to be able to eat and drink some water without drowning. 

I watched as the officer called each person’s name in the van and gave us the cash, or whatever else, that was in our pockets when we arrived at Orange County. As for Gonzalo, he was told that the government had cashed his pay cheque, and he was given the cash. He quickly put all that money in his top pocket not knowing what the next stop would be like. We were sure, however, that we could have a case wherever that would be. The bus started again and off to Newark we rolled. I was going in and out of sleep. and the tiredness of my ordeal had taken a toll on me mentally. The old Dominican dude was asking the guards to slow down as he felt sick and wanted to vomit. The curves and turns were not sitting well with him, and he needed a breather. And not a moment too soon, as he threw up at the door. We pulled into the airport right after that where the van stopped. We waited a bit, and the van was allowed to go towards the side of the building. One by one we were whisked out, beginning with the old man first. The officers were kind enough to take us to the bathroom, where we were dexterous enough to maneuver and relieve ourselves. We could hear the planes on the tarmac, where. The van took us. We all excited, and this time for good, and we all witnessed the huge blue and white “Global x” emblem on the side of the plane that was waiting for us as one by one we all walked up the steps and boarded. We also noticed how more buses had arrived on the tarmac full of detained non-US-citizens. We were greeted by the plane staff who had thick country accents. As I went to the back of the empty plane to sit down, I thought to myself, Yup, Louisiana was definitely in the cards on this one. The shackles were on, and my hand was starting to hurt. After everyone had sat down, I sensed that everyone where we were sitting were Jamaicans. We had some laughs and started different conversations. Two of the men were living in New Jersey and worked at a hospital. One had tried running away when he was approached by ICE at his sister’s house while he was visiting her. He had been home for one year as per his ICE parole and now they went and got him and put him back into custody. I asked a lovely White lady what the procedure was, and she said that we were going to Louisiana, but first we were going to stop at Boston, Buffalo, and Pennsylvania. The plane door closed, and we were up in the skies. 

The plane went in the air with just fifteen of us. We were told that we would land in Boston next. I got myself a window seat since this was going to be the scenic route and we would not land in Louisiana till around 9:00 pm. We had a long way to go. It was about 9:00 am and the cuffs were eating my flesh. We watched Newark and New York disappear in the cold morning, while most of the East Coast was covered in snow. Chattering with the men helped with the situation as we got to know each other. There were many bathroom runs and the officers on the plane allowed us to move about when the seatbelt lights were off. The southern accents were novel to us and something we were interested in, and we wasted no time speaking to the plane staff who were hesitant at first to talk with us. We kept on and found new topics to talk about and while we shared loudly amongst ourselves about work and living in the U.S., it made the staff more willing to engage us as they quickly realized that we had not jumped the fence across the border.

We landed in Boston and the views were still nice to watch, as the plane was angling down. The conversations with the men got deeper, and we learned about each other’s family. We watched as the ICE officers, seated in the front of the plane, with the rest of the security team, went out and got the men. We also saw that the vans that dropped off the men were parked very close to the runway. The men were from Peru and Brazil. We took off again, this time to Buffalo, and then somewhere in Pennsylvania to get more people.  At every stop we made, I could not fathom how the plane could hold so many people. There were so many people on the plane, mostly men, although there were some women, too. My friends and I in the back noticed that there were some very different-looking people on the plane and wondered what they could have done to be sharing this ride with us. The plane left the National Air Guard of Pennsylvania airstrip where five C-130s were parked and we were told that Louisiana was the next stop. Finally, I thought– because the pain I was feeling in my hands from the cuffs was by now severe. We were served a meal of baloney and cheese with bread and water after everyone on the plane got rowdy. They gave us water like we were fish. It’s the most water I have ever been offered. The flight to Louisiana took approximately four hours and just as the staff had told us, 9:00 pm was the estimated arrival time. Every time that we took off and landed was a blessing, as there were many dampened spirits on that plane. 

We were told by the captain to sit and fasten our seatbelts. We watched as the signs came on and people found the time to ask to use the bathroom as they did throughout the entire plane flight since we took off from Boston. We watched with anxiety as the plane dropped lower. While there were a bunch of plane rides, it was saddened by all the shackles of inevitable family separation and economic uncertainties served with stigma, which would follow many to their born lands. When the plane landed, we were told to remain seated and listen for our names. The names were called apparently in the order of those first seated on the plane, so I must have been the fifth one to be called. I stood up and walked to the front of the plane and realized that it was raining. I surveyed the place really quickly and saw that we were still at an airport. The person next behind me said “this is the Alexandria staging facility.” There were guards waving to get our attention as we walked and which building to enter. “Do not walk under any of the planes” they shouted, as the noise of the other planes almost deafened us to this, our new reality until the 24th of February. This was nothing like I had ever seen in my life, and nothing I would wish on anyone. 

Louisiana

We entered the premises, and the guards gathered around to process us. There was a huge glass building to our right as we walked in, and we could look and see people inside what appeared to be dorms. These dorms were triple bunked and many of the men came to the window to wave and see if they knew anyone. It was a horrible thing to witness, but there it was, humanity’s hatred for each other on full display, men kept and displayed as if their lives had no value. We were told to listen for our names to be called, so we had to be quiet and become attentive. I, and all the men with whom I had become acquainted on the plane, were called, so we got up and moved to one side. We walked past another unit where other men were outside in the day room looking at this new horde to see if any familiar faces existed. How could this be? I thought to myself. How could places like these exist? It was right on the airport and out of society’s way and gaze. Maybe this was how society lived with itself by removing scenes like these so it could propagate itself to be more aesthetic? Who knows? Who really cared? This was it, and nothing short of a government intervention could save anyone from this place. We were all placed against the wall and unshackled. I felt relieved as I had finally been rid of those irons after having been on them for more than 12 hours,  not unlike what Harrison Bergeron must have felt like with all those weights on his person. That Kurt Vonnegut was on to something with that story.  The guards must have been feeling safer now that civil law was enacted by the current government as most people are unaware that immigration is not criminal law. Juxtaposing the treatment, Vonnegut’s story was applicable especially viewing the treatment firsthand. 

We walked into a dorm which seemed to have been staged for us. We were given setups without shower slippers. There were no assigned rooms as these were double bunked and detainees could choose any room they liked, as long as they agreed to double bunk with someone. There were female officers on the galleries and one nurse who told the men she needed their information to provide them with an ID picture to put on their glass door for the count. I had not taken a shower in a few days and not getting any shower slippers was making me agitated. I went to the officer to ask what was up with that and he said they called the laundry to send some over since they were not anticipating “so many” to some. I was wondering if he was lying since we had left literally three quarters of the plane on board. I spoke to another older Jamaican and we decided that we would share rooms since we had a cultural understanding of each other. There were so many nationalities present there and the bravest were the Mexicans except for my guy Gonzalo. I asked him if he was upset and he said no because he would be returning in May. I smiled and walked away. When I told the rest of the Jamaicans what he said they introduced me to another Mexican who was deported seven times and was up to leave soon. The officer told us the order of ceremonies would be this: “Monday Mexicans, Tuesday Guatemalans and Hondurans, Wednesday Colombians and Peruvians. Thursday there were Jamaicans, Haitians and Peruvians again and Friday it was more Guatemalans.” Those were the orders, and we just needed to prepare. 

It was Saturday night. Usually nothing gets done in that facility as people would not stay there that long. Hearing this, I went to use the phone to contact my fiancée. She told me Bernard went to Nassau County to see me and was told that I was gone. I told her America didn’t want me in their country anymore, and I would not act like I did not notice. “Tricks” I told her, this was what they were using to discourage me from fighting even though I was living here for five years already. I asked her to contact Neni and let her know, as well as Warner and Cynthia and the whole Central Synagogue family. She said she would, and I looked at my swollen hands. I was exhausted and told myself I was going to take myself to bed. 

The next morning the lights came on, as we were awakened by the officer shouting “breakfast.” We all got up and secured a table for ourselves, and I saw one of my Colombian friends who was with me in Orange County. I waved to him, and he waved as well. I took the things I needed from the trays and went back to bed. It was 6:00 am. Later on in the day I got up and went to ask for the shower slippers. None were available. I took a garbage can lid and brought it to the shower and put it where I could stand. I showed a few of the guys this and they all showered using this technique. It was a good thing I wore my thermals that day and as there were no laundry services I had to throw away my boxers that I had not been allowed to change for five days. 

The days seemed slow and were spent mostly on gathering resources and speaking to my fiancée and Neni who were coordinating with organizations on the ground to assist me with somewhere to live when I would get to Jamaica. I had not been to Jamaica in twenty-one years, and I only have my sister and grandmother living there. Everyone had their own place, and I would just be a burden now. I spend my days thinking that I would have to do the past five years all over again. We sat and watched the daily routine when one nationality left and within an hour the place was filled again with more bodies. It was a depressing sight to see, that there was an endless supply of men to throw into the machine which the cog spits out to keep the immigration wheel turning. 

It was Thursday and it was our turn to get on the plane. We were awakened at 5:00 am. The plane was slated to take fifty-five men and two women. How would this process go? We were all shackled once more and sat in the reception area waiting to go outside. Surprisingly though, our flight was delayed due to too much fog on the runway that was not letting up. The boarding was delayed by at least two hours. When some of the fog started to subside, we were called outside in alphabetical order and were shackled. I walked to the plane as before and was told it was the same crew who took us to Louisiana on Saturday. When the plane got on the air, I was somewhat relieved to be away from such a cruel sight. I whispered a prayer to myself to never witness a place like that ever again. I fell asleep on the plane to the voices of my fellow Jamaicans complaining about being shackled during the entire flight. I really didn’t care anymore. 

Arrival

When the plane landed at Kingston the men became irate that they had flown shackled and were still shackled. The officers called our names and said we would be unshackled once the Jamaican agent came on the plane to call our names. The officer eventually came on the plane and when I heard my name I came from all the way to the back of the plane to be unshackled and walked off the plane to the designated area.

The reception in Jamaica was terrible. Except for Marlene Brown and FURI (Family Unification and Resettlement Initiative) there was no real intention of helping. The people who were there were curious as to why we were sent back and asked questions around convictions, time spent behind bars, and where I was going to live now that I had returned to Jamaica. I was mugshot, fingerprinted and fed a chicken patty with coco bread and an orange juice. It got so disparaging at one point that the person sitting across from me, a bald Brown man with shaved eyebrows, told me I was “arrogant, and he could make life for me in Jamaica very bad. This was the Jamaica I had returned to and I waited anxiously for the processing to be completed and my sister to come pick me up.

When the processing was completed and I walked out of the airport I had never felt so neglected in my entire life. I asked my sister to get me some coconut water and some KFC. 

You can find Blair’s previous publications here
https://minutesbeforesix.com/wp/poetry-by-nascimento-blair/
https://nasblair221.medium.com/its-the-wait-that-gets-you-part-ii-759589ad6b49
https://medicalhealthhumanities.com/2021/01/22/sociabilities-socialities-violences/