After a day or two in my holding cell at the Office of Immigrant Crime, they swapped my clothes out for an orange jumpsuit. For reasons beyond me, two men in black uniforms, their faces obscured by ski masks, would drag me by my feet to the mess hall once a day. Ten to 15 men joined me for meals at the long table. Conversation was minimal. The first utterance was met with a rubber truncheon to the back. Meals were not a social occasion. The food was terrible.

After three weeks, at least by my count, a sheet of paper was slipped under my cell door. Apparently, I had been classified a 3A-46b illegal alien descendant, whatever that meant. The only thing I could understand, and caused me the greatest consternation, were the words "DEPORTATION APPROVED" stamped in red ink. I didn't sleep for three days.

On the fourth day, a pair of ski mask-clad men entered my cell.

"John Bear, via the power of the Special Prosecutor in Charge of Immigrant Crime Task Force, you have been approved for summary deportation," one of them announced in monotone.

"Two questions," I said, holding up the proper number of fingers.

"No questions. Turn around and interlace your fingers behind your head."

"What crime am I accused of?" I asked, getting the first question in.

"Stop resisting."

"I don't want any trouble, but I was walking down the street one day, and now I'm ..."

The Taser hit me, and the last word I spoke vibrated like a cellphone atop a glass coffee table. The black hood slipped over my head, and I went to sleep.


I came to a short time later. They were dragging me somewhere. My hands were cuffed behind my back, and they hurt. I started trying to fight.

"Let go of me, you rotten bastards! This is outrageous. My great-great-great-grandmother was born here."

"Ugh, this one," I heard one of them say. I felt the prongs of a Taser against my neck. I swallowed the next barrage of curses before they left my mouth.

They dragged me for another couple of minutes. Then I was being pulled to my feet and the cuffs removed.

"Goodbye, sweetheart," a menacing voice said. Someone shoved me. I hit the ground, quickly jumped to my feet and angrily ripped the hood off. I surveyed my surroundings. The door looked like it belonged on an airplane. When I whipped around, I saw that it was an airplane full of white men. There was a party happening. A blonde man of about 21 approached me. He was drunk and wearing a Dropkick Murphys shirt.

"What's up, man?" he yelled, spitting in my face.

I wiped my face. I wasn't smiling.

"Aren't you happy?" he asked. "We are going home!"


"Ireland, man. Here, have a Guinness."

"Oh no, no, no, no, no, no," I said frantically as I turned and began pounding on the door.

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