Living in America as an Undocumented Immigrant

Coming to America When I think of my early life and the man that I am today, it is very clear how lucky my brother (Yus) I were to have been born and raised in a family who loved us. In the Gambia, families are members of different clans called “Kabiloos”. In the spirit of “It takes a village to raise a child” in Africa. When I was growing up I have learnt firsthand, if you see a neighbor’s child doing something wrong around the street corner, you can take it upon yourself to stop that child from committing a wrong or wayward act in society. Usually this can be done before a parent is consulted about what his/her child was doing. I remember a day when one of our village elders also happened to be in my clan and also a close neighbor sent me to run an errand and I refused because the place was way too far and I had to go by foot. Instead of him saying anything to me for refusing to do what I was asked to do, he went straight to my uncle (Ansu, deceased) at the village market (bantabaa), bustling environment where people sell and buy different food items including mangos, coos-coos, rice, vegetables, seafood etc. Not knowing what was lying ahead of me that evening, I was playing with friends until around sunset, when I went home. As I was heading home my uncle approached me with some food items in his hand as a decoy. He asked “M, do you want some bread”? Not knowing that this was a trap to catch me, I jumped too quickly to get it from him. This was the moment my hand was held and a question followed. “M, did you refused to run an errand for Saikou?” Before I uttered a single sentence I was wrestled to the ground. My bottom was warmed up before I started yelling, I begged for mercy and promised that I will not do it again. Truth be told after that incident, I never refused to run an errand for an older person particularly those around my immediate surroundings in the village. My father Bakary passed away when I was in my tenth year. He will always be remembered as hard working man who provided for his family and owned cattle. One of the best memories of my father was when I attempted to opt out of grade one, at school after my uncle Ansu, his younger brother enrolled me in school. In Gambia, during my childhood, there was nothing called Kindergarten. So I started grade one when I was around seven years old. I believed that contributed immensely to my truancy during my first year and second year in elementary school. One reason for my dislike for going to school was about a single teacher who gives me a very painful corporal punishment on the bottom for every day that I missed school. Knowing what was waiting for me when I missed one day of school, I would go sit at the Village Health Center with my school uniforms on! There was a point where I missed a whole week of school for no good reason, but because of the fear of punishment I simply did not want to go back and face the punishment. It was one evening when that particular teacher was in my side of the village where he passed by our house and unexpectedly ran into me and asked me why I was not coming to school? In response I said “My father do not want me to come to school!” Of course the answer was not a credible and my father was within a hearing distance in the compound and immediately retorted “MJ what did you say?” I now came to the conclusion that my secrets were no longer, so I may have to face the music. I was disciplined by my father only after then; the thought of going back to school hit me. It was one Monday morning a friend who was my senior urged me to go back to school with him! Without questioning his motive I decided to go to school and thankfully I was not punished for all the days I missed. It was a moment of salvation for me and I cherished every moment of it. It became a slow start for me though before I knew it, I was in the third grade the main reason being I was too big for second grade but I thought I was ready for third grade work. I wish my father was there when my brother Yus and I graduated from High School. He would have been very proud of that momentous occasion. I was happy our mother and siblings were great in all their nurturing support. It was August 2004, I returned to the Gambia College to attend an admission interview to pursue a two year Higher Teacher Certificate (HTC) Program. During my second year of studies my oldest nephew, Lamin was set to graduate from the University of Tennessee Law School at the top of his class. He sent me an invitation to attend the graduation on behalf of other members of the family. I was invited with my brother Yus but only I, was offered a visa by the U.S. embassy. So there I was, holding my Gambian passport embossed with a U.S. consular visa valid for travel to the United States.