Juan
Tíos, abuelos, primos y papa – I sought to fill their absences by making friends on the
playground, but I only received puzzled faces from classmates who could not understand my accent. I
failed to comprehend their affinity for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, much less grasp their love for a
“Philadelphia Eagle.” I felt quarantined through language and culture, all while beginning to lose the
connection to my heritage and my native tongue. I was a kid at recess, yet I felt utterly alone.
My earliest memories revolve around walks in the streets of Bello, Colombia to my abuelo’s
butchery and eating natilla, a Colombian Christmastime dessert, with my extended family. I remember
handling my dad’s racing pigeons at his coop and playing with my pet tortoise, Tola, in my abuela’s
garden. I also remember the bricks that shattered the windows in my family’s home, my mom clenching
my hand whenever a group of men walked past us, and the phone calls that gave me nightmares. My dad,
a journalist in Medellín, wrote articles defending the rule of law, lambasting corrupt politicians and
advocating for the end of narcotrafficking and civil war. His articles earned him notoriety in violent
circles, which eventually spilled over to the lives of his loved ones. As he kept writing, we received
threats with increasing frequency, until my mom decided a safe life in Colombia was untenable for her
child and applied for asylum to the United States.
Like any adventure for a young boy, my first months in the States proved dreamlike. I saw trees
perform nothing short of magic in their transformation from green to crimson. I experienced the sheer joy
of my first snow, and I even traded natilla for a thirty-pound bird on a strange holiday in November. Most
importantly, my mom and I no longer received calls from the men who threatened to harm us. However,
after bliss, came reality. Besides my mom and an estranged aunt, my family was home in Colombia.
Depressed from being unable to make friends or assimilate, I began seeing a counselor at the age of
seven; and thanks to a passionate advocate, I started to feel like a child again.
Jennifer Clerici, the program supervisor for Allentown’s Catholic Charities Immigration Division,
tirelessly led my mother and me through the labyrinth of federal immigration law, while at the same time
helping a traumatized child transition into a new world. She introduced me to the Boy Scouts of America,
taught me the rules of American football (accidentally condemning me to an unlucky life as a