Chapter 58 2014
I didn’t intend to make a statement or start a movement. I simply didn’t know what else to do, and something was deeply wrong with me. Since learning of Profe’s arrest, my brain had short-circuited, all reason gone except the single pulsing thought of freeing him.
At first, only the neighbors noticed me walking. An older lady, Mandy, who lived in the house beside the governor’s mansion, came out midmorning and asked what I was doing. I told her I was waiting for the governor.
She brought me a glass of iced tea because it was hot and she thought I might be thirsty.
I thanked her and continued to walk.
In the early afternoon, a middle-aged man named Fred, walking with two dachshunds, Simon and Garfunkel, joined me for a loop.
I told him about Profe and that the governor was my only hope for saving him.
He teared up and said that he’d seen my 60 Minutes interview and couldn’t believe it had led to such a tragedy.
Around three, a silver SUV drove through the gate of the governor’s mansion followed by a black SUV. I watched as a pretty woman and two small children, a boy and a girl, climbed out of the first car, and then as two men in suits climbed from the second car.
The woman glanced at me, and the little girl turned.
I watched as recognition crossed their faces.
The little girl’s face lit up, and she took a step toward me, but the woman caught hold of her arm, and I knew, by the flash of panic on the woman’s face, that she knew why I was there.
Which meant the governor also knew, and my heart clenched tight, making it difficult to breathe.
“Mom, it’s Patch, the ice-skater—” the girl started.
“I know,” the woman said and pulled the girl toward the house.
The little girl tossed a smile back over her shoulder, and I lifted my hand in a wave.
Three hours later, the governor’s car arrived. I hurried to the front gate and watched as he got out along with the two men protecting him. I waved frantically to get his attention, and like his wife, recognition crossed his face a second before he turned away and walked briskly to the door.
One of the security men walked toward me.
“This is private property,” he said and nodded to the brick walk I stood on.
I took a step back so I was on the sidewalk.
The man planted himself in front of the gate, which was where he stayed for several hours until another man replaced him.
I went back to walking.
Later that evening, I saw the woman pull back a curtain in the living room and sneak a peek at me. When I met her gaze, she dropped the curtain and disappeared.
Sometime later, the little girl looked out from an upstairs window and waved, and I waved back.
Mandy brought me a cup of coffee and a sandwich. I didn’t think I was hungry, but I scarfed it down so quickly I nearly choked. When I needed to relieve myself, I knocked on her door and asked if I could use her bathroom.
As I left, she handed me a jacket.
When I grew too tired to keep my eyes open, I lay down on a bus bench halfway down the block and slept. Dark thoughts of Mother and Profe wove in and out of my dreams.
I woke as the world was lightening to gold and resumed my loop.
Mandy let me use her bathroom again. Thoughtfully, she had set out a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and a brush. Numbly, I went through my morning routine, being careful not to look in the mirror, certain I couldn’t take the sight.
The governor’s wife left first with the children. She wore workout clothes. The kids were dressed in school uniforms and carried backpacks.
The governor came out half an hour later, eyes fixed determinedly on the car he was walking toward.
Fred appeared as the car was backing out. “So much for representing the people,” he said with a headshake.
Simon and Garfunkel circled, and I knelt and petted each.
He had brought me a croissant and a bottle of water. We walked together until Garfunkel was too pooped to patter another step and lay down on the sidewalk in protest. Fred gathered him in his arms, and they left.
I don’t know who called the press, but a little after ten, a news van arrived. The reporter who came to greet me had frosted blond hair and shocking red lipstick.
“Good morning,” she said brightly.
I nodded in acknowledgment and continued to walk.
“I understand you’re marching in front of the governor’s mansion on behalf of dreamers and immigrants.” She stuck a microphone in my face.
I ignored it. I was walking in front of the governor’s house for no reason other than I was desperate to convince the governor to make an exception for Profe. I was walking because I was lost and confused and hurting and didn’t know what else to do.
She continued to prod, and I continued to ignore her, wishing she would go away.
By midafternoon, word of my “protest” had spread, and dozens of immigrant and criminal reform activists had joined me. Another news van arrived. And then another.
The following day, a counterprotest sprang up on the opposite sidewalk, and suddenly hundreds of people were walking up and down Summit Avenue, carrying signs either in favor or against immigrants.
On the third day, a few hours into my routine, I was greeted by a surprise.
“Hello, Dhoola.”
I looked up to see a stunning young Black woman around my age with a mane of black curls to her shoulders and large expressive eyes. It wasn’t until she smiled that I recognized her.
“Astur?”
She looked so different from the child I’d known eleven years before, yet her eyes and smile were exactly as I remembered.
“This is quite a block party you’re throwing,” she said with another wide grin and a head flick toward the protest.
At one time, that sort of comment would have made me smile, especially coming from her after not seeing her for so long, but life in that moment had no room for grins.
Then she did something extraordinary. Without another word, she took my hand, her fingers twining through mine.
“Let’s do this,” she said.
Her touch nearly destroyed me, and I fought to keep the tears in my eyes as she started down the street with me in tow. She did not let go for hours. Mandy came out and asked if I needed a break. I did, but I didn’t want to let go of Astur’s hand.
“We’ll go together,” Astur said, still knowing me.
She waited in the hall while I did my business, and when I came out, she said, “Would you like me to braid your hair?”
She said it nonchalantly, like it was no big deal, but I imagined I looked a fright.
I sat on Mandy’s couch, and patiently Astur brushed out my curls and wove them into box braids, the same way Boodo used to do. When she was done, we returned outside, and the protesters applauded.
Fred appeared with Simon and Garfunkel around lunchtime.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Astur said and gave my hand an encouraging squeeze.
Fred handed me a cold slice of pizza and a lemonade. I ate it as we walked together.
It was an exceptionally hot day, and Garfunkel pooped out early, so I lifted him in my arms and carried him for a while. His rapid heartbeat pulsed against my chest, and his wet nose nuzzled my arm, and for a few merciful minutes, I felt something beyond despair.
I found out much later, after it was all over, that my walk had become international news, the world watching as they mistakenly believed I was performing an act of resistance in the name of human rights, my name thrown around with the likes of Gandhi and Rosa Parks.
The martyr image was cemented when, on the sixth day, I was arrested for sleeping on the bus stop bench.
Jacob bailed me out, and when I walked from the jail, the same jail where Profe was being detained, we were greeted by hundreds of people, chanting and holding posters:
We are all Immigrants!
I Prefer Crushed Ice
No Human Being is Illegal
When the crowd saw me, they roared and cheered. Perhaps it should have moved me, but it didn’t. Being so close to Profe and spending even a few hours in jail destroyed me anew. I asked Jason to drive me back to Summit Avenue and the governor.
There were so many people marching that the National Guard had been called in. The road was barricaded for five blocks, and soldiers, along with the protesters, filled the street.
The governor made a statement that day. I didn’t hear it since I was walking and not paying attention to the news or anything other than my mission of convincing him to talk to me.
Fred told me about it. “Political double talk,” he said.
“The guy did everything he could not to piss off either side, and to dance around the matter. Your friend and thousands of other hard-working immigrants are being held like criminals, and he was like, ‘The issue is complicated . . . Minnesota is a model state for legal immigration . . . Blah, blah blah.’ A whole lot of nothing.”
It was the worst possible news. The more the story blew up, the less likely it was that the governor would intervene. Which was why perhaps I should have stopped, my mission hopeless, but it was as if logic had completely abandoned me. While walking might not help, it was something I could do.
On the eleventh day, a man showed up with a poster with a photo of a very young Profe on it, his hair jet black and his eyes intense and thoughtful. Across the bottom, it read Free Andres!
I went dizzy when I saw it, and my knees went weak.
Someone led me to the shade of a tree, and a paramedic was called.
Mandy and Fred both sat worriedly beside me as I was examined.
“She’s dehydrated, possibly malnourished, and exhausted,” the man declared.
After that, people constantly handed me Gatorades, protein bars, and waters. Robotically, I did my best to remember to eat and drink.
Kai showed up on the second Saturday.
“Sorry it took so long,” he said. He held out his fist, and I managed to lift my arm for him to fist-bump. He was even bigger than the last time I’d seen him, massive in every way.
“I needed to get leave.”
He’d flown from the Canary Islands, where he’d been stationed.
He fell into step beside me, and we walked, rarely saying a word. For three days, he stayed by my side, only resting when I did on Mandy’s porch at night.
Photos of us appeared in all the papers, my six-foot-four, buzz-cut companion, obviously military despite not being in uniform, marching beside four-foot-eleven me.
When he needed to leave, he said, “No one like you in the world, Patch. You’re one of a kind and a hell of a friend. Profe’s lucky to have you in his corner.” He patted me on the head like a puppy and walked away.
His words destroyed me. Profe wasn’t lucky. It was because of me he was in the situation he was.