There are certain things you expect when you become a parent. You expect sleepless nights. You expect school fees. You expect children to eat the food you were saving for yourself and then swear they did not see your name written on it. You expect arguments about homework, dirty bedrooms, phones, friends, curfews, and why a human being who is capable of operating three electronic devices at the same time is apparently incapable of seeing a pair of socks lying in the middle of the floor.
What you do not expect is to raise your own immigration officer. Yet that is exactly what happened to me.
You know, parents must now and then have conflicts with their children. I was not an exception. In fact, being an immigrant Black mother in America gave my conflicts a certain international flavor.
My children were growing up American. I was growing up African. Those are two completely different educational systems.
My son believed that when a parent asked him a question, he had a constitutional right to remain silent. I believed that remaining silent when your mother asked you a question was evidence that you were hiding something.
He believed in privacy. I believed privacy was something you acquired after you started paying rent. He believed his bedroom was his personal space. I believed the bedroom was inside my house, which meant his personal space was located inside my personal space.
Sometimes he would close his bedroom door. I would open it. “Mom! You have to knock!” “Knock?” “Yes!” “On whose door?” “My door!” That statement always confused me. “Your door? Did you buy it?” “No, but—” “Did you buy the hinges?” “No.” “Did you buy the house?” “No.” “Then please explain how my door became your door.” These discussions rarely ended peacefully.
But I loved my children, and because I loved them, I could not simply watch them go astray. When I saw something wrong, I took action. Unfortunately, parental action does not always arrive carrying flowers and speaking in a low therapeutic voice. Sometimes it arrives with tough words.
Sometimes it arrives with a lecture that begins with what happened yesterday, passes through your grandparents, visits the village where your mother was born, quotes three Bible verses, compares you with somebody else's child, and finally returns to the dirty plate you left in the sink. And occasionally, there were what I affectionately call Mama Lovely Fights (MLFs).
A Mama Lovely Fight is not hatred. It is love that has temporarily raised its voice. It usually begins with, “My son, come here. I just want to talk to you.” Every child with black parents knows that sentence is a trap. There is no “just.” And there is rarely talking.
One day my son and I had one of those conflicts. I cannot even remember what started it. Perhaps his room looked like FEMA needed to declare it a disaster area. Perhaps I had asked him to do something and he had answered me using one of those dangerous American expressions. “You can't tell me what to do.” That sentence should never be spoken to an African mother while she is standing inside a house for which she pays the bills.
I looked at him. He looked at me. Immediately, the ancestors entered the room. “What did you say?” He repeated himself. That boy had courage. I gave him a lecture about respect, responsibility, sacrifice, and the difficulties I had endured raising him. I reminded him that I had carried him for nine months.
He rolled his eyes. Never roll your eyes when your mother is discussing pregnancy. I upgraded the lecture. “I carried you inside my stomach!” “Mom, everybody's mother does that.” I nearly collapsed. Everybody's mother? So pregnancy had now become ordinary? Did this boy know what he had done to my bladder?
I continued. “I gave birth to you!” “I know.” “I fed you!” “That is what parents are supposed to do.” At that moment I realized America had damaged my child.
Where I came from, when your mother told you she fed you, you did not introduce legal arguments concerning parental obligations. You bowed your head and accepted the historical record.
But my son had been born in America. He knew things. Rights. Constitution. Freedom of speech. Personal boundaries. At some point during the argument, he played his strongest card. “At least I'm American.” I stopped. “What?” “I was born here. I'm American.” “And what am I?” He shrugged. “You're not really American.”
My own son. The child I had produced with my own body was now conducting a citizenship interview in my living room. I pointed at myself. “You are telling ME that I am not American?” “You weren't born here.” “And you were born here because WHO brought you here?”
Technically, that argument did not make sense, but I was angry and it sounded powerful. He smiled. That smile worried me.
Then he said something about immigration. I said, “Young man, don't play with me.” Apparently, he was not playing. He picked up his phone.
At first, I assumed he was doing what children normally do during an argument, contacting one of his equally unemployed friends to report that his mother was oppressing him. Then I heard him talking. “Yes…” Pause. “My mom…” Another pause. I looked at him. “Who are you talking to?”
He turned away. That was when I became suspicious. “Give me that phone.” He moved farther away. Now we were walking around the dining table. “Give me the phone!” “No!” “Who are you calling?”
And then this child, the same child whose diapers I had changed, announced, “ICE.” I froze. “ICE?” “Yes.” For a moment I thought perhaps he meant actual ice. Maybe he had finally become useful and was ordering ice for the refrigerator. Then reality arrived. “Immigration?” He nodded.
My knees nearly resigned from my body. “You called immigration on your own mother?” “You said I couldn't do anything!” “I meant clean your room!” This argument had moved very far from its original destination.
Suddenly, I was negotiating with a domestic terrorist whom I had personally breastfed. I tried to remind him of our history. “Do you remember who used to wake up when you cried at night?” He said nothing. “Do you remember who took you to school?” Silence. “Who bought that phone you are using to call immigration?”
That finally got him. He looked at the phone. I looked at the phone. For one beautiful second, motherhood almost defeated federal law. But it was too late. The matter escalated. And eventually, there I was; deported.
As I sat preparing to leave America, I kept thinking about the unbelievable injustice of the situation. Not from the government. From childbirth. I had carried this boy for nine months. Nine! He had lived inside me without paying rent, utilities, water, electricity, or even a security deposit. He kicked me from the inside. He gave me heartburn. He rearranged my organs. Then he came out, ate my food for years, slept under my roof, used my Wi-Fi, and eventually used the phone I bought him to report me to immigration. If that is not betrayal, Judas deserves an apology.
When I arrived back in Africa, relatives gathered around me. They wanted to know what had happened to me. I did not know where to begin. “How did you get deported?” I sighed. “My son.” “Your son did what?” “He called immigration.” There was silence.
Then one auntie asked the most African question imaginable. “The one you gave birth to?” “No, Auntie. The one I borrowed from grocery store.” Of course the one I gave birth to!
News spread quickly. Soon everyone in the village knew. People would see me walking and whisper, “There goes the woman whose son deported her.”
Even my mother was shocked. She asked, “Didn't you beat him when he was young?” I said, “Mama, this is America. You cannot just beat children.”
She shook her head slowly. “Now you see.” According to her, my deportation was the direct result of modern parenting.
Meanwhile, my American son remained in America enjoying his constitutional rights. Then one day he called me. “Mom?” “Yes, Mr. Immigration.” He sighed. “Are you still mad?” “Mad? Why would I be mad? You only deported the woman who gave birth to you.” “Mom…” “What do you want?” There was a pause.
Then he asked the question that restored my faith in motherhood. “Do you remember where you keep the recipe for that stew?” I smiled. Ah. Justice. “You mean the African stew?” “Yes.” “The stew made by the woman who is not American?” “Mom…” “The deported stew?” He groaned. I sat comfortably in my chair.
For the first time since arriving back home, I felt peace. “My son,” I said gently, “you are an American citizen. Exercise your rights.” “What does that mean?” “Google it.” And I hung up.
Parenting is a strange journey. We raise children hoping they will become independent, confident people capable of standing on their own feet. Then one day they become so independent that they begin quoting the Constitution to us.
But I learned something important from my experience. Never underestimate your children. Especially American-born children. You may think you are having an ordinary family argument about a dirty bedroom. Meanwhile, the child is preparing an international incident.
So these days, whenever another immigrant mother complains to me about her American-born teenager, I give her one piece of advice. “Take away the phone first.” She may ask why. I simply look into the distance like a woman who has seen things.
Then I tell her, “My sister, discipline your child if you must. Correct him. Advise him. Pray for him. Have your Mama Lovely Fight if necessary. But before the argument starts, make sure that phone is in your pocket. Because you gave birth to a son. You did not give birth to an immigration officer.”
What you do not expect is to raise your own immigration officer. Yet that is exactly what happened to me.
You know, parents must now and then have conflicts with their children. I was not an exception. In fact, being an immigrant Black mother in America gave my conflicts a certain international flavor.
My children were growing up American. I was growing up African. Those are two completely different educational systems.
My son believed that when a parent asked him a question, he had a constitutional right to remain silent. I believed that remaining silent when your mother asked you a question was evidence that you were hiding something.
He believed in privacy. I believed privacy was something you acquired after you started paying rent. He believed his bedroom was his personal space. I believed the bedroom was inside my house, which meant his personal space was located inside my personal space.
Sometimes he would close his bedroom door. I would open it. “Mom! You have to knock!” “Knock?” “Yes!” “On whose door?” “My door!” That statement always confused me. “Your door? Did you buy it?” “No, but—” “Did you buy the hinges?” “No.” “Did you buy the house?” “No.” “Then please explain how my door became your door.” These discussions rarely ended peacefully.
But I loved my children, and because I loved them, I could not simply watch them go astray. When I saw something wrong, I took action. Unfortunately, parental action does not always arrive carrying flowers and speaking in a low therapeutic voice. Sometimes it arrives with tough words.
Sometimes it arrives with a lecture that begins with what happened yesterday, passes through your grandparents, visits the village where your mother was born, quotes three Bible verses, compares you with somebody else's child, and finally returns to the dirty plate you left in the sink. And occasionally, there were what I affectionately call Mama Lovely Fights (MLFs).
A Mama Lovely Fight is not hatred. It is love that has temporarily raised its voice. It usually begins with, “My son, come here. I just want to talk to you.” Every child with black parents knows that sentence is a trap. There is no “just.” And there is rarely talking.
One day my son and I had one of those conflicts. I cannot even remember what started it. Perhaps his room looked like FEMA needed to declare it a disaster area. Perhaps I had asked him to do something and he had answered me using one of those dangerous American expressions. “You can't tell me what to do.” That sentence should never be spoken to an African mother while she is standing inside a house for which she pays the bills.
I looked at him. He looked at me. Immediately, the ancestors entered the room. “What did you say?” He repeated himself. That boy had courage. I gave him a lecture about respect, responsibility, sacrifice, and the difficulties I had endured raising him. I reminded him that I had carried him for nine months.
He rolled his eyes. Never roll your eyes when your mother is discussing pregnancy. I upgraded the lecture. “I carried you inside my stomach!” “Mom, everybody's mother does that.” I nearly collapsed. Everybody's mother? So pregnancy had now become ordinary? Did this boy know what he had done to my bladder?
I continued. “I gave birth to you!” “I know.” “I fed you!” “That is what parents are supposed to do.” At that moment I realized America had damaged my child.
Where I came from, when your mother told you she fed you, you did not introduce legal arguments concerning parental obligations. You bowed your head and accepted the historical record.
But my son had been born in America. He knew things. Rights. Constitution. Freedom of speech. Personal boundaries. At some point during the argument, he played his strongest card. “At least I'm American.” I stopped. “What?” “I was born here. I'm American.” “And what am I?” He shrugged. “You're not really American.”
My own son. The child I had produced with my own body was now conducting a citizenship interview in my living room. I pointed at myself. “You are telling ME that I am not American?” “You weren't born here.” “And you were born here because WHO brought you here?”
Technically, that argument did not make sense, but I was angry and it sounded powerful. He smiled. That smile worried me.
Then he said something about immigration. I said, “Young man, don't play with me.” Apparently, he was not playing. He picked up his phone.
At first, I assumed he was doing what children normally do during an argument, contacting one of his equally unemployed friends to report that his mother was oppressing him. Then I heard him talking. “Yes…” Pause. “My mom…” Another pause. I looked at him. “Who are you talking to?”
He turned away. That was when I became suspicious. “Give me that phone.” He moved farther away. Now we were walking around the dining table. “Give me the phone!” “No!” “Who are you calling?”
And then this child, the same child whose diapers I had changed, announced, “ICE.” I froze. “ICE?” “Yes.” For a moment I thought perhaps he meant actual ice. Maybe he had finally become useful and was ordering ice for the refrigerator. Then reality arrived. “Immigration?” He nodded.
My knees nearly resigned from my body. “You called immigration on your own mother?” “You said I couldn't do anything!” “I meant clean your room!” This argument had moved very far from its original destination.
Suddenly, I was negotiating with a domestic terrorist whom I had personally breastfed. I tried to remind him of our history. “Do you remember who used to wake up when you cried at night?” He said nothing. “Do you remember who took you to school?” Silence. “Who bought that phone you are using to call immigration?”
That finally got him. He looked at the phone. I looked at the phone. For one beautiful second, motherhood almost defeated federal law. But it was too late. The matter escalated. And eventually, there I was; deported.
As I sat preparing to leave America, I kept thinking about the unbelievable injustice of the situation. Not from the government. From childbirth. I had carried this boy for nine months. Nine! He had lived inside me without paying rent, utilities, water, electricity, or even a security deposit. He kicked me from the inside. He gave me heartburn. He rearranged my organs. Then he came out, ate my food for years, slept under my roof, used my Wi-Fi, and eventually used the phone I bought him to report me to immigration. If that is not betrayal, Judas deserves an apology.
When I arrived back in Africa, relatives gathered around me. They wanted to know what had happened to me. I did not know where to begin. “How did you get deported?” I sighed. “My son.” “Your son did what?” “He called immigration.” There was silence.
Then one auntie asked the most African question imaginable. “The one you gave birth to?” “No, Auntie. The one I borrowed from grocery store.” Of course the one I gave birth to!
News spread quickly. Soon everyone in the village knew. People would see me walking and whisper, “There goes the woman whose son deported her.”
Even my mother was shocked. She asked, “Didn't you beat him when he was young?” I said, “Mama, this is America. You cannot just beat children.”
She shook her head slowly. “Now you see.” According to her, my deportation was the direct result of modern parenting.
Meanwhile, my American son remained in America enjoying his constitutional rights. Then one day he called me. “Mom?” “Yes, Mr. Immigration.” He sighed. “Are you still mad?” “Mad? Why would I be mad? You only deported the woman who gave birth to you.” “Mom…” “What do you want?” There was a pause.
Then he asked the question that restored my faith in motherhood. “Do you remember where you keep the recipe for that stew?” I smiled. Ah. Justice. “You mean the African stew?” “Yes.” “The stew made by the woman who is not American?” “Mom…” “The deported stew?” He groaned. I sat comfortably in my chair.
For the first time since arriving back home, I felt peace. “My son,” I said gently, “you are an American citizen. Exercise your rights.” “What does that mean?” “Google it.” And I hung up.
Parenting is a strange journey. We raise children hoping they will become independent, confident people capable of standing on their own feet. Then one day they become so independent that they begin quoting the Constitution to us.
But I learned something important from my experience. Never underestimate your children. Especially American-born children. You may think you are having an ordinary family argument about a dirty bedroom. Meanwhile, the child is preparing an international incident.
So these days, whenever another immigrant mother complains to me about her American-born teenager, I give her one piece of advice. “Take away the phone first.” She may ask why. I simply look into the distance like a woman who has seen things.
Then I tell her, “My sister, discipline your child if you must. Correct him. Advise him. Pray for him. Have your Mama Lovely Fight if necessary. But before the argument starts, make sure that phone is in your pocket. Because you gave birth to a son. You did not give birth to an immigration officer.”
