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Paper Planes and Other Things We Lost

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Mindy Michele

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“He supposed there were worse things than marriage, although right now he couldn't seem to think of any. 'Cade looks happy enough,' Jack reasoned, as his attention returned to the ceremony. 'Why wouldn't he though, when he is marrying an angel?' His brother's bride, Meg, certainly looked the part, dressed all in white, with her blond hair swept upward in soft waves beneath her lace veil, her lake blue eyes aglow with unconcealed joy. Her love for Cade was clear, as was her gentle sweetness and caring ways. 'Cade is a fortunate man,' he thought. 'I should be half so lucky.”

“We walked around the other side of the whitewashed barn structure, where the massive antique doors had been opened and adorned with large wreaths made entirely of baby's breath. Inside, every wooden beam in the ceiling was wrapped in lush greenery and dripping in white wisteria blooms. The floor of the barn was covered in faux moss, and benches carved to look like bent tree branches served as seating for the guests. The benches flanked an aisle covered in white rose petals, and at the end of the aisle was an arch made entirely of white dogwood blooms. It was breathtaking and looked exactly like the wedding scene from the Twilight series.”

“But it’s not just those early years without my parents that branded me. It’s the life I’ve led in America as a migrant, watching my parents pursue their dream in this country and then having to deal with its carcass, witnessing the crimes against migrants carried out by the U.S. government with my hands bound. As an undocumented person, I felt like a hologram. Nothing felt secure. I never felt safe. I didn’t allow myself to feel joy because I was scared to attach myself to anything I’d have to let go of. Being deportable means you have to be ready to go at any moment, ready to go with nothing but the clothes on your body. I've learned to develop no relationship to anything, not to photos, not to people, not to jewelry or clothing or ticket stubs or stuffed animals from childhood.”

“Getting bodies,” in Border Patrol lingo, didn’t necessarily mean collecting corpses. Bodies were living people. “Bodies” was one of the many names for them. Illegal aliens, dying of thirst more often than not, are called “wets” by agents. “Five wets” might have slipped out. “Wets” are also called “tonks,” but the Border Patrol tries hard to keep that bon mot from civilians. It’s a nasty habit in the ranks. Only a fellow border cop could appreciate the humor of calling people a name based on the stark sound of a flashlight breaking over a human head.”

“I thought I could write something better, something that rang true. And I thought that I was the best person to do it. I was just crazy enough. Because if you're going to write a book about undocumented immigrants in America, the story, the full story, you have to be a little bit crazy. And you certainly can't be enamored by America, not still. That disqualifies you.”

“The first hour of the prayer session consists of the group of faithful men and women on their knees beating their chests and crying out to god for forgiveness. I look at them intently. Some of them seem for real but overall it's super performative. I do not pray to god for forgiveness, because I believe I have nothing to apologize for and he might have to explain a couple of things to me, so I just sit there, moping, angry, but still trying to radiate positive vibes because I'm not going to be the person who is ruining faithful migrants' experience of community. I respect the role of god in the lives of people who suffer but basically only in the lives of people who suffer.”