Last Wednesday, my dad (Pao Her) went in for his check-ups with Immigration Services. He was supposed to come home, and we were all supposed to eat and celebrate because we were so sure and hopeful that he would be ok. Around 10 or so, I got a call from my mom saying that they (ICE) took my dad. I was making pasta for the family at that time. I figured I had to be strong, but my whole world shattered. I dropped the ladle, threw the mittens onto the counter, and rushed to tell my sisters as I broke down. It wasn’t the way I wanted to start my break after graduating from college. It wasn't the way I wanted my sisters to end school. It wasn’t the outcome I wanted for my dad. As for my mom, it wasn’t the way I wanted her to see Dad that day. I often think to myself,” I should have hugged him more. I should have told him I loved him more.” The day before, he barbequed for us. It was something he hadn’t done in a while because he had gotten sick. That day, he sat at the counter and watched me cut the meat. Then he watched all of us grab our food. Then he watched us eat. He spoke not a single word, but his eyes told us,” I'm sorry, goodbye, I love you guys.” I often think about how my mom has to sleep in a bed by herself. I gave her one of my plushies to sleep with in hopes that it will resemble the warmth that my dad gave her. My dad knew that his visit with Immigration would not be in his favor. As of today, my dad is being held at the ICE/GEO center in McFarland. He resides with others who have been detained by ICE.

The house feels emptier now. It was always quiet, but now the silence is deafening. I wake up to no smell of coffee, to no sounds of the keyboard, to no yells at Helios for digging holes in the backyard. I don’t hear the keypad of our front door at 7 PM, and I don’t see Helios running to the door from the noise. I don’t hear the water kettle heating up anymore. Sometimes, I run up to the office area and think that you are there only to find that you aren’t. I am ten years old again. Ten years old and crying for my dad again. I'm calling him” daddy” again. Do you know how it feels to mourn someone who isn’t dead? I’m here to ask you all, aunties and uncles, anyone, to help me and my mom with the fees. Attorneys are not cheap. It’s not just up to me and my mom when it comes to my dad’s freedom. It’s up to US. It’s up to YOU. You as his sister, his brother, his cousin, his friend, as anyone who cares for him. I don’t want to beg because my dad taught me that strength and Independence are key points, but I will push all pride and teachings aside and ask for help. At the end of the day, we still have to try. Trying will be the only way to bring him home. Remember, this is an uncle, a cousin, a brother, a friend, but most of all…a father. Don’t stay idle. Fight back, too. I know he would have done the same for you and more.

As of now:

It has been a week since ICE took my dad. I sit in my room by myself as I usually do, but it feels even emptier. I think to myself," Maybe I'll go sit on our new couch. The one that mom and dad went to get two weeks ago." But as I sit on the couch, I don't see my dad snuggled into the corner, tucked in with a blanket as he turns on the TV for his weekend naps. There are times where I am doing my own thing, and the thought of how my dad is elsewhere slips my mind. In fact, the other day, I was playing a game with my boyfriend. My eyes darted to the corner of my PC monitor-6:49pm. I thought to myself," Oh, Dad is gonna come home from work soon!" only to stop myself when I realized that Dad isn't home. In fact, I'm not sure WHEN he will come home. I've seen pretentious comments from people in regard to those who have been detained. Comments that say that America is "safer" with them gone. Yet, I feel so unsafe with my dad gone. He is not an evil man. He is not vile. He is my dad. He is a father, a husband, an uncle, a brother, and a friend. He is everything good. My dad has worked so hard to get my sisters and me to where we are now. He works morning and night, just like every other person. He is just like YOU. If you needed a shirt, he would give you his, even if that meant he would get a giant sunburn. Say you were cold and shivering, my dad would give up his jacket and give it to you, despite him ALWAYS being cold.

So as he sits in what I would like to call the ICE "dormitory", I wonder to myself," Is it cold, Dad? Do you have a blanket, Dad?" I know he doesn't eat much, but still I ask him," Have you eaten, Dad? Was it enough to fill you up, Dad? Did they let you take your medicine, Dad?". These were all questions that he used to ask my sisters and me, but here I am asking him instead. Even behind metal gates littered with barbed wires on top, keypads to get in, my dad still asks us how we're doing instead. He tells us he loves us and that he's doing ok, but I have to pretend I don't notice despite hearing the pause and tremors of his voice because I told him that I will be strong. I cry myself to bed every night. These days, maybe not so much, but the tears still like to run out as I try to go to bed. As I close my eyes, I often think of all my regrets. "I should have told dad that I loved him more. I should have hugged him more. I shouldn't have been so bratty." I am a shaman as well, so often I say," Maybe I should have worked harder. I should have been more involved. I should have looked deeper into how to help my dad." I think to myself," Will my dad walk me down the aisle at my wedding when the time comes? Will he see his firstborn grandchild when the time comes? Will Dad be home for Christmas? Will he be home for my sister's graduation?"

Today, we live in a society where wealthy men and women sit in a chair too high for their own good, where the uneducated, the racists, rule. Where they laugh at those getting detained because these "immigrants" are disgusting, crime-committing monsters. We live in a world where healthcare and welfare have been completely diminished to smithereens, to remnants of hope we were clinging to. We the people live in a society where "Alligator Alcatraz" is being created with "incinerators" being placed as the people create "merchandise" as if this is a place for "sports" while resembling 1930s Germany and the concentration camps that arose.

I want my dad home. I am 22 years old, but I am 10 years old all over again, crying for my dad. I am 5 years old again, wanting my dad to read me books to sleep again. I am a baby, wanting to be held by my dad again. Right now, I have to stand a little bit taller because that is what I know he would want. I will stand taller and fight for him. As I fight for my dad, I fight for justice for everyone. Now, as I fight for my dad, I ask you to help us fight for him. Please share this post, spread this post around, and if you can, please help donate. I will list down below, links to my mom's accounts. A little can go a long way; a little can help my dad come home.

Update: I want to thank you all for your support. Unfortunately, my dad had been deported to Laos. I believe in ways for him to come home though. Donations will now be used for further Law fees, for his housing, care needs, travel expenses, and for food. Please continue on helping support us.