In the Waiting Room Outside Immigration Court - June 2025

The way we sat so close, the hard plastic chairs forcing our thighs to touch; and the way everyone’s nervous tics tumbled toward the floor, all our heels tapping, legs shaking to a silent rhythm of worry; and the way the kids held their bodies, arms crossed as if their bellies ached; and the way our laughter sounded like the most beautiful broken glass, the way it was working so hard to mask the terror; and the way the teenagers looked both grown and so young, with fear in their doe eyes; the way the sixteen-year-old leaned into her brother, placed her head on his shoulder, no one quite saying, what if; and the way we were getting to know each other, two volunteers and this family called into court on this June day, with masked ICE agents lurking out in the hall; and the way I tried to ask, softly, who I should call if, if . . . ; and the way the minutes turned into hours of waiting, watching, witnessing devastation written across faces as the masked men in the hall grabbed people walking out of court; and the way we had to stand by, helpless, frozen in the time it took for the elevator to come, the one that would take a diminutive young man, eyes darting from masked man to floor to the other masked men, to an armored vehicle that would take him to the Northwest Detention Center, detention the polite euphemism for jail for people who don’t have the right to speak to a lawyer; and the way I wanted to scream at the agents with their masks pulled up to their eyeballs, but instead I spoke past them, said to the young man with his eyes on the carpet, te queremos aqui, no estamos de acuerdo, but I still felt like a coward; and the way the clerk with the private security insignia on his uniform, the one who greeted people in a warm Spanish, the one with the close-cut black hair, who looked more like the people awaiting trial than like me, the way he made eye contact with us then glanced toward the agents in the hall, spit a quiet “despicable,” and “it didn’t used to be this way”; and the way I wanted to be anywhere else, crawl under my chair, into a portal, not back ten years but to a future where none of this is happening; but also the way I felt fortunate to be there, getting to know these strangers who were also neighbors who asked for accompaniment on the day my country threatened to tear their family apart. 

Krista Lee Hanson (she/her) lives in Seattle, Washington, home of the Coast Salish people, with her partner and two children. Krista is an MFA student at the Rainier Writing Workshop at PLU; her writing has appeared in The Rumpus, The Normal School, and The Write Launch, among other publications. Krista is also an organizer, embodiment teacher, and slow runner. She is currently working on a memoir about parenting, disability, and care. More at kristaleehanson.com.

This essay is a Short Reads original.