Today is January 3rd. The last day available to appeal the judge's last decision to remove Carlos from the great USofA. And, of course, we won't, that was already decided, but now that it's here, they are free to come pick up Carlos and put him on a very long bus ride "home."
"Home" seems a strange word to relate to a place I barely am even acquainted with, but I'm sure I will come to love it. I do love Mexico already. I always wanted to live 100 years ago, and well, in some ways, this grants that request. Of course Mexico isn't all antiquated, they have cars and cell phones, internet and TV, but the style of living from 100 years ago continues, only it coexists with modern technology. It's a strange relationship to me, but one that I will come to know well. I look forward to learning my new environment, new customs, new "norms" although I usually go against them anyway.
I am a little frustrated (to say the least) with the way this whole thing has gone, though. And to think that "justice was served" is quite maddening. How is it just? What defines justice? A hard-working man, taken away from his family indefinitely, sent back to his "country of origin" without the least regard toward his wife and children, who by the way are US Citizens, is thrown away, and we call this justice because he was never supposed to have been here in the first place. So what then? Is it better to throw away one man who didn't belong, and sacrifice three of it's own citizens? Is it just for my own country to have betrayed me and my children? This "Land of Opportunity"?
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free;
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless,
Tempest-tossed to me
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame is the imprisoned lightning,
And her name, Mother of Exiles.
From her beacon-hand glows world-wide welcome;
Her mild eyes command the air-bridged harbor
That twin cities frame.
"Keep, Ancient Lands, your storied pomp!"
Cries she with silent lips.
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free;
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless,
Tempest-tossed to me
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
"Home" seems a strange word to relate to a place I barely am even acquainted with, but I'm sure I will come to love it. I do love Mexico already. I always wanted to live 100 years ago, and well, in some ways, this grants that request. Of course Mexico isn't all antiquated, they have cars and cell phones, internet and TV, but the style of living from 100 years ago continues, only it coexists with modern technology. It's a strange relationship to me, but one that I will come to know well. I look forward to learning my new environment, new customs, new "norms" although I usually go against them anyway.
I am a little frustrated (to say the least) with the way this whole thing has gone, though. And to think that "justice was served" is quite maddening. How is it just? What defines justice? A hard-working man, taken away from his family indefinitely, sent back to his "country of origin" without the least regard toward his wife and children, who by the way are US Citizens, is thrown away, and we call this justice because he was never supposed to have been here in the first place. So what then? Is it better to throw away one man who didn't belong, and sacrifice three of it's own citizens? Is it just for my own country to have betrayed me and my children? This "Land of Opportunity"?
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free;
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless,
Tempest-tossed to me
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame is the imprisoned lightning,
And her name, Mother of Exiles.
From her beacon-hand glows world-wide welcome;
Her mild eyes command the air-bridged harbor
That twin cities frame.
"Keep, Ancient Lands, your storied pomp!"
Cries she with silent lips.
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free;
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless,
Tempest-tossed to me
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
