Untitled

Too young to understand borders,

documents,

or the difference between being welcomed

and merely allowed to stay.

All I knew

was that this place raised me.

America taught me how to read,

how to dream,

how to shake someone’s hand,

how to fall in love.

I learned life here

one memory at a time.

The smell of school hallways in the morning.

Running home before the streetlights came on.

Laughing until my stomach hurt

with friends who felt like brothers.

My first heartbreak happened here.

My first kiss.

My first job.

My first real fear.

Because eventually,

you grow old enough to understand

that your life sits on paper

you did not create.

And that’s a different kind of pain.

It’s waking up every day

loving a country

that reminds you

you might not fully belong to it.

It’s standing for the national anthem in school,

hand over heart,

while secretly wondering

if the same country would ever place its hand over yours.

People hear “DACA”

and think politics.

They don’t see the human part.

They don’t see the little boy

who grew into a man

afraid to plan too far ahead.

Afraid to travel.

Afraid to lose everything.

Afraid that one phone call,

one law,

one decision made by strangers

could tear apart an entire life.

A life built here.

Do you know what it feels like

to love a country

while fearing it at the same time?

To feel grateful and unwanted

all in one breath?

It feels like being trapped behind invisible bars.

Not enough bars for people to notice.

Not enough chains for people to care.

But enough to stop you from truly feeling free.

I see the world through screens now.

Paris through TikTok.

Jamaica through Instagram reels.

Mountains, oceans, cities, cultures —

all watched from the same bedroom

in the only country I know.

And sometimes I wonder

if freedom feels different

when you’ve never had to fight for it.

Then my son was born.

And suddenly,

my fears had a face.

Because now it’s not just my life.

It’s his childhood.

His memories.

His future.

Sometimes at night

I watch him sleep

and wonder how a country can allow a man

to build a family here,

pay taxes here,

grow roots here,

love here…

yet still leave him terrified

that one day

he could lose it all.

There are nights

I can’t sleep.

Nights where I sit alone

thinking about separation.

Thinking about my son asking where his father went.

Thinking about my mother crying.

Thinking about how a place can feel like home

and a cage at the same time.

And the hardest part is this:

I still love this country.

Even after the fear.

Even after the stress.

Even after feeling invisible.

Because my life is here.

My laughter is here.

My pain is here.

Every version of myself

exists here.

I don’t want another home.

I just want to stop feeling like a guest

in my own.

Maybe one day

people like me won’t have to beg

to stay in the place that raised us.

Maybe one day

children won’t grow up carrying fear

inside their parents’ silence.

Maybe one day

I’ll board a plane,

see the world,

come home,

and not feel my chest tighten

at the word “return.”

Maybe one day

this country will stop looking at us

like paperwork

and finally see us as people.

Until then,

I wake up every morning

in the only home I have ever known…

feeling like a prisoner

who loves his prison

I learned America

through cafeteria lunches,

school bus windows,

and the sound of my name

being called during attendance.

I grew roots here

before I even understood

what roots were.

My childhood lives in these streets.

In scraped knees on playgrounds,

late-night talks with friends,

first heartbreaks,

first dreams,

first moments that made me feel human.

Every important memory

wears the colors of this country.

Yet somehow,

I grew up with the feeling

that the ground beneath me

could disappear.

People talk about freedom

like it’s something simple.

Like breathing.

Like sunlight.

But some of us learn

that freedom can come with conditions.

With paperwork.

With fear.

With the quiet panic

of not knowing what tomorrow could take away.

I watch airplanes cross the sky

and wonder what it feels like

to move without fear.

To buy a ticket

without thinking about borders,

questions,

or whether you’ll be allowed back home.

Because this is home.

Not in theory.

Not on paper.

But in my heart.

My mother’s voice is here.

My child’s laughter is here.

My memories are buried here

like time capsules beneath the soil.

And now that I have a son,

fear feels heavier than ever.

I’m no longer scared only for myself.

I’m scared of absence.

Of separation.

Of becoming a story he has to explain

instead of a father he gets to hold onto.

So sometimes I travel through a screen instead —

watching oceans, cities, mountains,

living through strangers

with passports and freedom in their pockets.

And I wonder

what it must feel like

to belong somewhere completely.

Still, despite everything,

I love this place.

I love the people who raised me here.

The life I built here.

The version of myself

that only exists because of here.

That’s the hardest part about it all:

loving a place deeply

while feeling like it may never

fully love you back.

But hope is stubborn.

Maybe one day

fear won’t follow people like me

through every stage of life.

Maybe one day

home won’t feel temporary.

Maybe one day

I’ll stand in another country,

look at the sky,

and know I can return freely