The Fabric Of America

She saw it briefly when they took her away; that beautiful Statue of Liberty, torch held high lighting the way for her kind. What had she done wrong? Exist? Why invite the huddled masses yearning to breathe free to the golden door if they don’t want to let them in? What a cruel joke.

Juanita rubbed the bump on the otherwise smooth metal chain link fence. The stitch in her finger itched, stroking it on the metal offered relief. She shivered, remembering how it got caught under the sewing needle of the factory machine. It could've been worse. She was lucky, except she was here with most of the other factory workers. Always the adventurer, she was ready for new experiences, but five days in a holding pen wasn’t what she had in mind.

Click, click, click, the sound of boots announced the guard's arrival. Her blue angular uniform and dark Hispanic hair pulled into a severe top knot exuded authority and control. In fluid Spanish, she yelled, “Everyone is returning to Mexico. I’ll escort you one at a time to get your things and get on a bus.”

Despair fell as tears from Juanita's eyes.

…

The processing completed, the guard handed over Juanita’s personal items. There on the guard’s cuff, Juanita noticed a small error in the stitching, like the seam that caught her finger at the factory. “Is your uniform new?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Just a guess.”

“Come on, let’s get you to the bus.”