How Can I Be OK?: Living Under the Shadow of Fear
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I say, my voice quivering as I look at the reflection in the damaged mirror on the wall. The face peering back at me is tired, burdened by the weight of a life spent in constant fear, but steadfast, willing to live another day in a world that appears to work against me at every turn. The question stays in my mind, echoing through the empty hallways of my thoughts. How can I be okay when every step outside my house feels like a risk to my life?
The streets of Santo Domingo, once brimming with life and opportunity, have become a war for survival. Every corner I turn, every alley I pass, I am haunted by the constant worry of being stopped, questioned, and harassed by the same people I am supposed to protect. The uniformed officers, long a symbol of security, have evolved into predators, circling like vultures, ready to pounce on the slightest sign of weakness. Their hard, unfeeling eyes search for hints of weakness as if they can smell my fear.
The everyday dance with death has become something of a ritual. I awaken before morning, the oppressive heat of the Caribbean sun already seeping through the walls of my small apartment. My kid, Alexander, is still sleeping, his small chest rising and falling with each gentle breath. I stand over him for a moment, allowing the image of his innocence to wash over me, providing a small respite from the storm raging inside my head. I lean down, press my kisses to his forehead, and hug him firmly as if this is the last time I'll ever get to do so.
The world outside is harsh, and I know that every time I step out that door, I risk not returning. But what options do I have? The bills must be paid, and food must be placed on the table. So I clench my teeth, swallow my dread, and enter the lion's lair, hoping today isn't the day I run out of luck.
Public transportation is no longer an option for me. The overcrowded busses and busy streets provide no respite. Instead, they are a minefield of potential peril, where a careless word or an untimely glance might mean calamity. The humiliation and intolerance have become so commonplace that they practically disappear into the background noise of my life. Almost. But no matter how much I try to ignore it, the pain of being viewed as less than human never fades.
I walk rapidly, head down, avoiding eye contact with the passersby, who look at me with a mix of interest and disgust. My skin, as dark as the darkness, distinguishes me as unique, and exotic. In their view, I am more than just another person trying to make a living; I am an outsider, an intruder, unwelcome in a nation I have called home for years. But their prejudice erases my past, contributions, and compassion.
As I approach the market where I work, I notice them: immigration agents stationed at every corner, like sentinels of oppression. They are supposed to uphold the law, but what they actually enforce is fear. Just being in their presence causes my heart to accelerate and my palms to sweat. I reach into my pocket, feel the crumpled dollars inside, and silently pray that they will be enough. Fifteen thousand pesos is the cost of my freedom for the day. If I don't have it, and I can't pay them off, the implications will be catastrophic. They call it deportation, but in reality, it is a death sentence.
For them, I'm nothing more than an ATM. My worth is assessed in pesos, and as long as I can continue to pay, I can stay. But, for how long? How many more times will I have to sacrifice my dignity to survive? Every time I see them, I am reminded that my existence here is tenuous, and they can cut it at any time. How can I be okay when my mere existence is considered a crime?
I make it to the market and let out a sigh of relief. At the moment, I'm safe. However, the relief is temporary. The market, which was once a hub of society and trade, has become a shell of its former self. The features of those around me, fellow Haitians who have sought sanctuary in this country, are engraved with the same fatigue that I feel. We're all in the same boat, floating in an ocean of uncertainty, hoping the tide doesn't turn against us.
The hours pass slowly, each one dragging on while I labor, attempting to keep my attention on the task at hand. But it's hard. The thoughts keep seeping in, nibbling at my willpower. How did things come to this? How did I become a prisoner in my own life, a guy without a voice, rights, or future? How can it be okay that I am voiceless in a world where I must shout just to be heard?
The day progresses, and as the sun sets, I gather my belongings and prepare for the journey home. The streets are calmer now, but the tension is tangible, hanging in the air like a storm about to break. I go fast, wanting to get to the safety of my apartment and the love of my son. But when I turn the corner, my heart drops. There they are again, the officers, waiting and observing. I prepare myself for what is to come.
"Papers," one of them asks, his tone devoid of love or compassion.
I hand them over, my hands trembling. They analyze them, looking for any excuse to hold me and extract more money. I can feel sweat trickling down my back and fear gnawing at my insides. But I remain upright, refusing to show them how badly they have broken me.
"Where's the money?" Another asks, his tone indicating that he is making a demand rather than a request.
My gut churns as I hand over the bills, thinking about what this means for tomorrow. How should I feed my son? How will I pay my rent? But there is no choice. There is never an option.
They take the money and wave me away, treating me as if I were nothing. And perhaps in their eyes, I am. Another anonymous immigrant, another burden to get rid of. But as I walk away, my heart heavy with grief, I realize I'm more than that. I am a father, a worker, and a human being. And no matter how much they attempt to take away my dignity, I will not let them.
As I approach my apartment, I pause for a moment to take a big breath before opening the door. Inside, Alexander rushes to greet me, his smile a beacon of light in the gloom. I gather him up into my arms and hold him close, feeling the weight of the world lift, if only for a moment.
"You asked me if I was okay," I say to myself, the words hanging in my mouth. "How can I be okay when every day is a struggle just to survive? How can I be satisfied when my worth is measured in pesos and paper? How can I be okay when I am treated as if I am less than human?
But as I look at my son and see the optimism and love in his eyes, I know I have to find a solution. I must be strong for him, myself, and all those who share my suffering. Because if I give up and let the darkness engulf me, they will triumph. I refuse to let that happen.
So, no, I'm not okay. But I'm still here, battling, and believing that one day, things will change. One day, I'll be free. And until that day arrives, I'll keep marching with my head held high, knowing that I'm worth more than the world realizes.
The streets of Santo Domingo, once brimming with life and opportunity, have become a war for survival. Every corner I turn, every alley I pass, I am haunted by the constant worry of being stopped, questioned, and harassed by the same people I am supposed to protect. The uniformed officers, long a symbol of security, have evolved into predators, circling like vultures, ready to pounce on the slightest sign of weakness. Their hard, unfeeling eyes search for hints of weakness as if they can smell my fear.
The everyday dance with death has become something of a ritual. I awaken before morning, the oppressive heat of the Caribbean sun already seeping through the walls of my small apartment. My kid, Alexander, is still sleeping, his small chest rising and falling with each gentle breath. I stand over him for a moment, allowing the image of his innocence to wash over me, providing a small respite from the storm raging inside my head. I lean down, press my kisses to his forehead, and hug him firmly as if this is the last time I'll ever get to do so.
The world outside is harsh, and I know that every time I step out that door, I risk not returning. But what options do I have? The bills must be paid, and food must be placed on the table. So I clench my teeth, swallow my dread, and enter the lion's lair, hoping today isn't the day I run out of luck.
Public transportation is no longer an option for me. The overcrowded busses and busy streets provide no respite. Instead, they are a minefield of potential peril, where a careless word or an untimely glance might mean calamity. The humiliation and intolerance have become so commonplace that they practically disappear into the background noise of my life. Almost. But no matter how much I try to ignore it, the pain of being viewed as less than human never fades.
I walk rapidly, head down, avoiding eye contact with the passersby, who look at me with a mix of interest and disgust. My skin, as dark as the darkness, distinguishes me as unique, and exotic. In their view, I am more than just another person trying to make a living; I am an outsider, an intruder, unwelcome in a nation I have called home for years. But their prejudice erases my past, contributions, and compassion.
As I approach the market where I work, I notice them: immigration agents stationed at every corner, like sentinels of oppression. They are supposed to uphold the law, but what they actually enforce is fear. Just being in their presence causes my heart to accelerate and my palms to sweat. I reach into my pocket, feel the crumpled dollars inside, and silently pray that they will be enough. Fifteen thousand pesos is the cost of my freedom for the day. If I don't have it, and I can't pay them off, the implications will be catastrophic. They call it deportation, but in reality, it is a death sentence.
For them, I'm nothing more than an ATM. My worth is assessed in pesos, and as long as I can continue to pay, I can stay. But, for how long? How many more times will I have to sacrifice my dignity to survive? Every time I see them, I am reminded that my existence here is tenuous, and they can cut it at any time. How can I be okay when my mere existence is considered a crime?
I make it to the market and let out a sigh of relief. At the moment, I'm safe. However, the relief is temporary. The market, which was once a hub of society and trade, has become a shell of its former self. The features of those around me, fellow Haitians who have sought sanctuary in this country, are engraved with the same fatigue that I feel. We're all in the same boat, floating in an ocean of uncertainty, hoping the tide doesn't turn against us.
The hours pass slowly, each one dragging on while I labor, attempting to keep my attention on the task at hand. But it's hard. The thoughts keep seeping in, nibbling at my willpower. How did things come to this? How did I become a prisoner in my own life, a guy without a voice, rights, or future? How can it be okay that I am voiceless in a world where I must shout just to be heard?
The day progresses, and as the sun sets, I gather my belongings and prepare for the journey home. The streets are calmer now, but the tension is tangible, hanging in the air like a storm about to break. I go fast, wanting to get to the safety of my apartment and the love of my son. But when I turn the corner, my heart drops. There they are again, the officers, waiting and observing. I prepare myself for what is to come.
"Papers," one of them asks, his tone devoid of love or compassion.
I hand them over, my hands trembling. They analyze them, looking for any excuse to hold me and extract more money. I can feel sweat trickling down my back and fear gnawing at my insides. But I remain upright, refusing to show them how badly they have broken me.
"Where's the money?" Another asks, his tone indicating that he is making a demand rather than a request.
My gut churns as I hand over the bills, thinking about what this means for tomorrow. How should I feed my son? How will I pay my rent? But there is no choice. There is never an option.
They take the money and wave me away, treating me as if I were nothing. And perhaps in their eyes, I am. Another anonymous immigrant, another burden to get rid of. But as I walk away, my heart heavy with grief, I realize I'm more than that. I am a father, a worker, and a human being. And no matter how much they attempt to take away my dignity, I will not let them.
As I approach my apartment, I pause for a moment to take a big breath before opening the door. Inside, Alexander rushes to greet me, his smile a beacon of light in the gloom. I gather him up into my arms and hold him close, feeling the weight of the world lift, if only for a moment.
"You asked me if I was okay," I say to myself, the words hanging in my mouth. "How can I be okay when every day is a struggle just to survive? How can I be satisfied when my worth is measured in pesos and paper? How can I be okay when I am treated as if I am less than human?
But as I look at my son and see the optimism and love in his eyes, I know I have to find a solution. I must be strong for him, myself, and all those who share my suffering. Because if I give up and let the darkness engulf me, they will triumph. I refuse to let that happen.
So, no, I'm not okay. But I'm still here, battling, and believing that one day, things will change. One day, I'll be free. And until that day arrives, I'll keep marching with my head held high, knowing that I'm worth more than the world realizes.
Dedication:
To the resilient Haitian immigrants in the Dominican Republic, whose courage and perseverance in the face of adversity inspire us all. This is for you—the unsung heroes who continue to fight for dignity, justice, and a better tomorrow. May your strength never waver, and may the world one day recognize your invaluable contributions.
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