I breathed slowly, focusing on the soft hum of the truck's engine below me and willing myself to stay still. Peaches were all around me, their soft fuzz tickling my neck and stomach. I yearned to scratch, but the smallest movement would cause the round fruits to tumble down around me. Without their protection, the border guards would find me. And then what? I closed my eyes, blocking out what was already a moonless night. I didn't want to find out. I took a shaky breath, peering through the thin slats of the fruit crate at my friend Simon, illuminated only by the reflection of the truck's headlights against a wall of impenetrable fog. Past him were the distant pulsing lights of the border checkpoint. Gruff voices rang out ahead of us, but it sounded like they were a thousand miles away.

Simon calmly gripped the steering wheel, but I could see the dark imprints of sweat bleeding through his shirt. Our journey was far beyond what he'd signed up for as a volunteer, and I knew he was as nervous as I was. This was his first brush with the law, his first time smuggling anyone past the towering fences of the Jungle. I felt guilty – I had no money to offer him – but he assured me it would be alright. We'd make it out, but in what condition? I closed my eyes again.

Gravel crunched beneath our wheels as the truck pulled closer to the checkpoint. I could make it out clearly, now. The towering chain-link fence was right above us, looming over guards with badges and flashlights and guns. A shiver went through me as one of the guards turned away, revealing an assault rifle strapped to his back. I couldn't help but wonder who they needed such weapons for.

We rolled to a stop just outside the ring of light of the checkpoint. There was only one truck ahead of us now.

"Shana," Simon whispered to me. I realized that there was panic in his voice, his eyes wide in the rearview mirror. "They're checking the crates of fruit."

Petrified, I watched as a guard dug through the truck bed ahead of us. Juicy plums fell to the ground, smashing in the dust or rolling away into the night. My heart caught in my throat. They would find me. Satisfied, the guard overturned the basket, letting the rest of the plums tumble into the dirt before replacing it in the bed of the truck. I looked back at Simon.

"We have to go back," I said.

"We can't," I heard his breathing over the engine. It was erratic and unsteady, sticking out above the rhythmic sounds of the night. I knew that I couldn't risk his life.

"Then I'll run," I told him, "back to the Jungle before they see me. It's dark, and I'm fast. I can make it."

I watched in the mirror as Simon hesitated, then slowly nodded. There was no other choice.

"Be careful," he said.

"I will." Silently, I pushed myself upright, keeping an eye on the guards ahead. Simon watched me as I moved.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Next time I'll do better." I never saw him again.

I leapt from the bed of the truck, but my cramped legs collapsed beneath me and I smashed into the dirt. Blood flooded my mouth. I felt rocks in my hands and dirt under my fingernails, but quickly I was back on my feet and running into the open arms of darkness. The velvet wind ripped through my hair and clothes, and I breathed in the heavy scent of fog and impending rain, ignoring the burning in my lungs and mouth. There could have been shouts and footsteps behind me, I don't know. It wouldn't matter. I was already gone.

I ran until I reached the heart of the Jungle, tripping over abandoned tents and trash, cutting my bare feet on rocks and broken bottles. I didn't need to run so far, but I only felt safe once the tents and buildings surrounded me, their shabby colors blending in with my face and clothes. I had made it.

I barely had time to catch my breath when I felt a raindrop on my forehead, and another on my arm. Suddenly, the sky erupted, pouring out its wrath as everything I could see became shrouded in a wall of rain. I saw a glowing door ahead of me, and I didn't even think before sealing myself inside.

The building was unlike any I had seen in the Jungle before. The wooden frame extended far above my head, coming together in a towering dome far above me. The walls were covered in paint and paintings, protected by a thick tarp thrown over the entire structure. I stumbled into the center, breathing in the harsh scents of new paint and sawdust. I took a deep breath. At least Simon would be safe, I thought, even though I had abandoned him. I imagined the peaches in his truck tumbling from their crates onto the ground – could almost hear the gruff grunts of the guards as the soft fruits yielded no one underneath. I smiled, then shuddered. It felt like I was falling from the truck all over again, my mind finally catching up to my body. I shook my head, clouds of worry obscuring the satisfaction of my great escape.

It was only the cruel smell of drying paint that kept me grounded. That stench that could cut through anything.

The paintings really were everywhere – flowers, birds, and smiling faces peered at me from every angle. All vivid and colorful. Hopeful, happy paintings by unhappy people. I didn't understand it, just as I never have.

My mother used to love painting. One flick of her paintbrush could become a birds wing, or the center of a tulip, or a hair ribbon flying in the wind. I used to love watching her when I was younger, but as I grew older and aware of the misery that surrounded us, I looked at her whimsical landscapes with contempt. As Damascus fell around us, all she was doing was reminding us of the time when everything was flowers and hair ribbons, flaunting the things we could no longer reach. She was deluding herself, I thought, wrapping herself in the past like a blanket, hiding from the desolation of our present home.

What I wouldn't give to go back.

A door slammed behind me and I started. A woman entered the dome, her arms full of paper and clothesline. More paintings. More delusion. Her under eyes were dark, used to working far into nights like tonight. She smiled at me, then frowned, and I looked down to see blood covering my hands and feet. It must be on my face, too. I wiped my chin, and more blood came away on my shirt sleeve. My teeth ached.

"What happened?" She asked me in English, not in French like other workers do.

"I fell from the bed of a truck," I said. "And I ran back here without shoes."

"Were you trying to escape?" The woman asked. I hesitated, then nodded. There was no way to prove it by then. The woman shook her head. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

"It could be worse," I said. "They could've caught me. But I'd rather not have had to escape at all."

"You're right," she said. There was a long pause while she stood in front of me, holding her bundles of paper. I could hear the rain relentlessly drumming on the taught fabric that surrounded us. Finally, she set the pile down and started sorting through it, detangling yards of string.

"Would you like some paint?" The woman asked me while she worked. "There's plenty of supplies."

"No thank you. I don't like to draw."

"What are you doing here then?"

I shrugged. "To get out of the rain. I was never given a house or tent."

The woman furrowed her brow. "We should have some extras. We try to supply shelter for all the children."

"I'm eighteen."

"All of the women, then." She smiled at me. "I'll see what we can do."

The house was modest and felt like it could collapse around me at a moment's notice, but it was better than the outdoors. I wasn't sure how well it would hold up to rain, but days came and went and the weather was noticeably dryer than it was on the night of my great escape. I became used to the creaking and shifting of the rickety wood. The sound that used to worry me became something familiar that I fell asleep to every night. I began going to bed earlier and sleeping later, catching up on all the hours of rest that had been taken from me by war and hatred. I grew accustomed to the smells and sounds that danced around me every night.

This is why I was terrified when I woke up to the smell of smoke. I bolted from the small house, ripping the towel I'd hung above the doorframe to the ground. Fires raged in the distance, their crackling drowned out by the roar of trucks – dozens of them. Demolition vehicles equipped with buckets and grapples ravaged nearby tents, beeping shrilly as the fabric was ground under their wheels.

Through all the destruction, I saw the white dome, untouched by the chaos. I steeled myself, and again I ran to it, ducking around rubble and tents full of flame. This time, no air filled my lungs. I didn't find exhilaration in my pumping arms and pounding heart. The rain was far gone. I was no longer running with the night.

"You have to stop coming in here with bloody feet," said the woman when I arrived. I didn't say anything but collapsed in her arms, sobbing. She was quiet, but rubbed my back and arms while I cried into her shirt.

"Why are they doing this?" I asked, "no one told me."

She shook her head. "French officials have been talking about it for a while now, but I didn't think it would happen so soon. They're tired of the Jungle. They're trying to get people to leave, but nothing seemed to work, so they're turning to destruction."

They wanted us to leave. They didn't destroy the homes because they were unsafe, or to make room for something better. They destroyed them like you'd destroy a wasp's nest, or an anthill. Pests were all we were to them, and they thought destroying our homes would exterminate us.

They'd made it clear that they didn't want me there, but I didn't want to be there, either! This wasn't my idea of a holiday. I didn't relish relying on the resources of a strange and unfriendly place. It would've taken nothing, less than nothing, to convince me to leave the entire Jungle behind. It was all I'd been trying to do since I'd arrived, but the guards at the checkpoint wouldn't let me leave. I had nowhere to go. They'd made it so I had nowhere to stay. Now, all I had was nothing.

"You can draw, if you'd like," the woman said. "We have plenty of supplies."

I didn't have the energy to protest. This time, I only nodded, allowing her to spread out supplies in front of me and place a paintbrush in my hand.

A yellow bird's wing. The orange center of a tulip. A pink hair ribbon flying in the wind.

Slowly, I felt the chaos in my head start to quiet. Shockingly, my troubles seemed farther from me, if only for a moment. In that moment, I realized that my mother was far from a coward. She hadn't been hiding in the past. She had been imagining a future worth fighting for.

This time, it didn't feel like I was painting delusion. I was painting hope.

Who I am and my background is everything to me and how I became the person I am today. I may be born here in the United States but my blood is from El Salvador and I am not ashamed about being different and how my parents came here. Going on that airplane reminds me I have another home and how opened arm El Salvador is when I go there. I have had many chances to travel and learn about my background and I couldn’t of done it without seeing it and learning it myself. Being Hispanic has brought me to being able to expand cultures such as celebrating my 15th as known as my Quincenera. The first time being a women is the Spanish culture and it might be a one day event but I miss it because it’s about a huge milestone and celebrating that culture. It is an event but you only get to do it once.

Many people believe we are “Mexican’s” but there are more Spanish countries then that. After many stero types on immigration and crossing the border they don’t understand the background story to that, there is not much of a life where we come from but we are not ashamed we just want the “American Dream” until you live there you can not understand. Why can’t we wait? Not everyone has the chance to wait to be called off this process until it happens unfortunately my granddad is still in that process. We don’t “steal job’s” or just do “cleaning”, we are humans and judging someone when you haven’t read the story is uncalled for. I learned I wouldn’t be where I am without all the Sacrifices my family has taken for me Ambient who they are is what makes me being who I am. Nothing changes background or challenges no matter how hard it gets.

Our identities are shaped by our lives, the people around us, our experiences and so much more. In a broad view, I would say our identities are molded everyday we are alive. We are the products of our experiences; this is what shapes our identities. As a kid from Goma, a small city in Democratic Republic of Congo living in the United States a lot of my identity comes from the fact that my first early life was never settled at all. Before coming to the U.S., my family had first migrated from Goma to Kampala, the capital city of Uganda, where we lived for 5 years from 2011-2016, then from 2016 - today we have lived in the US. This is what has shaped me.

So what’s my identity, maybe I am a Broken Native, yes, a Broken Native. Broken of a term as that may seem, I believe it is much closer to something that can describe me. A Broken Native to me is someone who can’t fit anywhere; one who has got no culture or language to truly call their own or they feel they belong to fully; one who’s had to live in various countries not for pleasure or luxury but because due to some circumstances they had to flee to another country, leave everything behind for a better life. This is me, I am a Broken Native for the fact that throughout my life, although I am only 16, I have had to adapt to new countries, new cultures, new languages even at the expense of my very own languages and culture. In Uganda, my family and I had to learn the Ugandan language and culture, in order to blend in with the people. This was a new chapter in our lives and we knew we had to cope with it. With in my first few years, I had made many friends and slowly bits of my mother language and culture were dying. However, I never really felt fully Ugandan too, so soon I was in no-man’s land as I neither felt like a Ugandan nor did I feel Congolese as I felt before simply because I never felt the same connection as the Congolese culture as I was very young around 9 years old then. This was only the beginning as in just a couple years, 5 years to be exact I was to come to the U.S, great as it was for my future and that of my whole family, it also meant I had to drop the Ugandan culture and language that I was starting to form a bond with for the sake of another. Upon arriving in the U.S, everything seemed strange, starting from the language, culture, the way people conducted themselves. Due to this way of life, nothing has ever really seemed permanent in my life, I have lost connection with many of my friends who are still back in Africa, I have lost ties to my ancestors’ culture and language just so I could fit in somewhere else.

My past is what has shaped my feelings toward my ideal identity. Personally, I feel as though I don’t belong anywhere, I’m just the guy trying to fit in. I may not have a distinctive identity, but I tend to put on fake identities just as a robber would put on a mask to hide his actual face just so as not seem too different from the people I meet. Take for instance when I am with my family I tend to identify as African; at home I speak a mixture Swahili, French with my siblings, eat African foods, listen to African music. Do I feel African? I would say no, this is because I didn’t spend much time in Africa to understand everything about the continent, the people, the culture and so much more; I was just too young to understand anything. However, come school day, I find myself trying to blend in with American kids, twisting my accent so I can bridge the difference gap.

Life has taught me nothing lasts forever, nothing lasts forever, you may feel settled and happy then in just snap of the finger everything changes. I try to remind myself not to get too attached to anything for at any moment, it may be gone forever. Its my past that has taught me this lesson. Whenever I started to form a bond with a country, we tended to move to another country so as time went by, I always reminded myself not to attach myself to anything. I never wanted to make long term friends anymore for I knew at any moment we would have to flee to another country. However, now that we are in the United States, I would say its less likely that we would ever have to move again. Who knows? I was forced to leave my homeland as a refugee so what about the United States? Its certainly not my country of origin. So, maybe it could happen again. That’s just the pessimist me thinking loud. As long as you are alive, try to cherish as many moments as you can, but with caution not to get too attached for nothing in life is permanent. As far as my identity is concerned, I have chosen to identify to nothing I am just the other guy. Nothing more or less. It’s a decision and I have chosen to live by it. We free to be whatever we want. In a world where you can be anything be free but above all be kind.

Home of the brave and land of the free my homeland is known as The United States of America and we fly our flag proudly and respectfully we don’t allow anyone to disrespect our flag. The images above represent my Homeland as I know it, with it all beginning in my childhood home. A place I miss very much, I recall so many wonderful family gatherings that I wish still happened to this day but unfortunately people pass away or go their own way. Another place from my homeland is Patterson Park it was a place of comfort for me. I used to walk the park everyday with my mother and playing on the playground and as I got older, I would sit under a tree and just enjoy the peacefulness of nature. Unfortunately, as years have passed people have gotten more violent which resulted in other people placing no shoot zones down on the ground around Baltimore City. Violence has been my reasoning when it comes to the decision to move, I have children and I want them to be proud of their Homeland and not afraid of their elements. Residents of Baltimore City should remember the reason why we are known as the land of the free and stop the violence.

Let them be as cold as ice,

Always solid, cold, slippery, and has no feelings but always tough

to the core

I’d rather be hot, red lava, moving quickly but in a steady pace,

Like a Pompeii worm,

Gently maneuvering its way under the dark sea, hydrothermal vents.

Haven’t been broken, but going out as a broken person, to die

not knowing where life drift, nor washes

you up at, the chthonian sea.

Not to be judged like the ancient sea

swaying back And forth like a fall leaf, smooth like

The coral reef

carrying my heart on a plate,

through the unforgiven sea

This can’t breakfast, lunch or dinner,

a thirst

I guess not, already ate.

Don’t want to be seen through, I want to be seen, empire state,

Cool as a cucumber but agog like a newborn,

Yes cry but don’t out, cry within.

Imagine having to leave your country because it was no longer safe, or you no longer have a place for your family to call home. So, you leave to another country, but you don’t receive any assistance to get here or anything to help you stay here comfortably. Refugees are people that must leave their country, and some try to come to America for a fresh start. Being pushed out their countries for reasons that aren’t even their fault or even America may has caused. Everyone should be able to have a safe place called home. Even refugees as they come to America, as we should be able to help them if needed.

Refugees are being pushed out of their homes daily for reasons that aren’t their faults. Even as they seek asylum. they still feel unsafe. According to the graphic novel Threads by Kate Evans a cartoonist and activist shares her personal experience as she went to Calais. Evans uses her graphic novel to showcase how the refugee crisis is not as and is a serious problem. Calais is French town within a city another city known as the “Jungle” came about which is where thousands of refugees reside. “Three quarters of residents of the Calais Jungle “do not feel safe”! These people are humans and they have no place they can go to feel safe. Refugees leave to seek a safe place and don’t even find it more than half of the time.

Speaking of asylums, the conditions of some of them have very difficult living conditions. According to Friends That Last A Lifetime written by Mark Doidge a fellow researcher of refugees/migration, anti-discrimination and more. Doidge sharing this helps us see specifically what type of treatment volunteers and refugees are treated. “This has been accompanied by a violent response from police, as both refugees and volunteers have detailed repression that ranges from systematic harassment, pepper spraying belongings to make them unusable, to physical violence “(Doidge). Volunteers share their stories in this article they share how they make friends and but most of them suffer from emotional labor. “They(volunteers) don't expect to see that stuff and that level of suffering, they don't expect to see people having to go through that experience” (Doidge).

The treatment these humans must face being treated inhumanly and as if they don’t matter like they are animals. They gave us one caravan. But there are no toilets. We don’t have anything, no washing machine for washing the clothes, and everything is dirty, there are lots of bacteria (Godin, 120). Being treated like an animal and harassed by the police.” More than fifty serious unprovoked attacked on refugees have been documented in the past year assault by member of the public and the police “(Evans, 31). People are dealing with this in the conditions they are stuck in.

America is a leading country so if we are lowering our acceptance of refugee’s others will follow. So, these refugees are just going to be stuck trying to find a home or bouncing in between asylums. According to Amanda Holpuch a reporter for The Guardian, who specialize in immigration, health, drug policy, international relations and culture. In her article she explains how our actions are causing others to act a different way because our government is. One of the prevailing concerns about the US curtailing its refugee programs is the negative impact it has had on resettlement across the globe (Holpuch). In this article it states that until Trump took office, the US was the world leader in refugee resettlement. His actions are causing refugees to stay in asylums which is no better than having no home. In 2016, Kenya’s interior cabinet secretary, Joseph Nikaissery, linked a plan to close Kenya’s Dadaab refugee camp to decisions by wealthy countries to limit refugee resettlement (Holpunch).

On the other hand, our current government and some people seem to think that it isn’t an American problem so we shouldn’t help or care. They think because we have an increasing national debt, we shouldn’t help refugees if we would need to use a lot of money. Or that since America has its own increasing poverty rate and homelessness is increasing. Helping people just seem impossible because they are so concerned about our own problems. Not even realizing that refugees can help with some of the problems. Only thinking about themselves and not how refugees, their families or anyone in that situation because they currently aren’t in it.” We need to purge this scum with fire theres no other choice.” (Evans, 152) That’s the way people feel about refugees and that’s sad and bizarre. They did nothing wrong and now they are just trying to deal with the cards they were dealt with. Even if this help is fleeing their country to help them get to where they want to be.

This must change this isn’t what America stands for this. We showcase this American dream but won’t let allow people to build their own because they aren’t from America. We the people should continue or start to help them feel comfortable when they do come over here. Even if our government doesn’t want to make any efforts for them. We can start more organizations/groups to help them be comfortable. Also, start to educate more people about refugees. They don’t represent the majority of this nation (Holpuch). Since national dept is such a big thing we can start raising money with our own companies and businesses small or big.

In conclusion, if America has the resources to help refugees get out of the place, they were to become better we should be able to. Especially if America cause some of the refugees to leave their countries. Having a safe place to call home is a human right and a very important one at that. You are a product if your environment and who wants to be a product of that environment. Refugees are people and they deserve to be treated as such.

Works Cited

Doidge, Mark, and Elisa Sandri. “‘Friends That Last a Lifetime’: The Importance of Emotions amongst Volunteers Working with Refugees in Calais.” British Journal of Sociology, vol. 70, no. 2, Mar. 2019, pp. 463–480. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1111/1468-4446.12484.

Evans, Kate. Threads from the Refugee Crisis. Verso. 2017.

Godin, Marie, et al. Voices From the ’Jungle’: Stories from the Calais Refugee Camp Pluto, Press, 2017. EBSCOhost, http://eds.a.ebscohost.com.ccbcmd.idm.oclc.org/eds/ebookviewer/ebook/ bmxlYmtfXzE1MDYxNThfX0FO0?sid=7b5009cd-0a01-46eb-8654- 555e325c10f2@sessionmgr4008&vid=6&format=EB&rid=1

Holpuch, Amanda, “Trump’s war on refugees is tearing down US’s life changing resettlement program” The Guardian, 26 June 2019

Puerto Rico, the island of enchantment, beauty, and Love. When I'm home, I never stop smiling. I'm greeted with hugs, kisses, and food (very good food). The first picture on the left is the view of the street where I grew up in Cieba, PR. To the right, you can see my sister and my nephew. They complete me. The bottom left is probably my favorite picture of all. That’s my beautiful daughter hiding behind her father's hand and smiling. They’re my two favorite people in the entire world. The bottom right is the last picture I took of my beautiful island. This was taken in San Juan. This is home to me.