Trump’s Amerika:
One Friday after school last June,I went to play soccer with friends in the park in Brentwood, New York, where I live. I love the soccer fields there. There are lights and grass, and it feels so much nicer and safer than the fields where I used to play. In El Salvador, where I’m originally from, a gun might go off or gang members might grab a player off the field and beat him up.
Walking home with my friend, Juan* around 8 p.m., I felt good. We ran into a kid we knew from school, Andres,* and he joined us. I knew Andres’ face, and I would say, “Hey, what’s up?” when we ran into each other at school, but I didn’t know him well.
As we were walking, Juan and I started to joke around and shove each other, laughing. All of a sudden, we saw a police car pull up. For months, the police had been stopping me frequently and accusing me of being in a gang. Their “evidence” was based on nothing — a doodle they found in my notebook and people I said hello to at school. I had even asked to meet with the police to explain to them that I’m not in a gang.
…
I don’t belong locked up. I can’t understand why I’ve been in jail for more than two months. I never belonged to a gang. I never hurt anyone. I never threatened anyone. I fled from the gangs in my country. And I thought I was coming to a country where I would be safe.
