The U.S. immigration system facilitates the exploitation of the poor, the traumatized and the displaced. I was recently reminded of this fact when a young migrant from South America walked into Compañeros: Four Corners Immigrant Resource Center.
The man, who I’ll refer to as Antonio, left home in February. He crossed the border with his father, who is a coroner. They fled following a wave of threats from cartel members and guerilla rebels.
“They wanted my dad to alter death certificates,” Antonio explained. “But he refused. And so, they threatened to kill our family.”
Together, they traveled to the U.S. with the hope of obtaining asylum, which international law allows for if one fears persecution in their home country. They spent several days in a detention center in El Paso, Texas, then they were sent to Lumpkin, Georgia. Antonio was released, while his dad was held in jail for three months before being deported.
If you’re a migrant in search of the American Dream, Lumpkin County, Georgia is where visions of white picket fences and happy families go to die. In fact, in the immigration world, Lumpkin’s hardnose reputation precedes itself. Per the University of Syracuse’s online tracking system, between 2017 and 2022, 89% of detainees at Stewart Detention Center were ultimately deported compared with just 55% at the national level. The facility, which holds 1,752 inmates, is run by Corecivic. At an estimated income of $200 per detainee per day, Lumpkin’s center generates nearly $127.8 million a year.
Following his release, Antonio traveled to Durango to reunite with a cousin. He immediately found a job at a local restaurant. But to my surprise, by the time we met, he had a master hearing scheduled back in Georgia. He had just six days to prepare. If things went awry, he would be deported.
I immediately called Lumpkin’s detention center. A woman with a deep Southern drawl answered. I explained my situation, and she politely informed me that I should enter a motion to represent Antonio virtually.
“But will my motion be granted?” I asked.
She said: “Ah, honey, you’ll just have to enter the motion and see. The council will decide that.”
I thanked her for her time.
“You too, sweetheart,” she said. “And God bless you.”
I’ve long marveled at the power of Southern accents to make the most trying moments feel lighthearted and innocent. Here was a woman, discussing matters of life and death, while wishing me a blessed day. Deep down, I sense that the wretchedness of genocide and slavery provoked Southerners to master the art of politeness as a means of coping with the sheer brutality of everyday life. But somewhere along the way, it seems the rest of us have become just as numb. Or maybe numbness is a tool of empire.
Antonio’s case reflects a nation complicit in the cruelty wrought by our broken immigration system. Ultimately, Antonio was among the lucky few. He got out of Georgia, and Compañeros was able to stave off his deportation long enough to file for asylum and change his venue to Colorado. He will still face an uphill battle, as Colorado judges approve asylum in just 30% of cases, but his chances of succeeding are markedly better here.
And yet, Antonio remains a prisoner of an inhumane immigration system that I often fear functions precisely as it was designed to. That is, it is exploitive by design, and year after year, we enable it by failing to hold our public representatives to higher standards, while benefiting from the labor of immigrants like Antonio who are caught in a complex legal limbo while serving plates to wealthy patrons on Main Avenue.
Ben Waddell is an associate professor of sociology at Fort Lewis College and serves on the board of Compañeros, a Durango-based immigration rights nonprofit.
