(Read <a href="../2011/12/22/2011/12/20/christmas-undocumented-annunciation-part-i/">Part I here</a>)

(Read <a href="../2011/12/21/christmas-undocumented-anunciation-part-ii/">Part II here</a>)

(Read <a href="http://provoketive.com/2011/12/22/christmas-undocumented-nochebuena-part-i/">Part III here</a>)

The detainees file into the detention center in a single column. When the door closes behind them, shutting out the sunlight, the detainees stare dumbly at empty walls. Everything in the room is drained of life, sterilized from color with stark white paint and buzzing fluorescent lights.

Ave and the other women are marched into an enclosed room and ordered to remove their clothes to be searched. Ave kicks off her shoes, unwilling to bend over to do it with her hands. She then peels off the oversized elastic waistband covering her belly and takes off her jeans, followed by her billowy shirt. Her protruding belly cannot be missed, its navel inverted and skin stretched by the pregnancy.

The room is cold. Ave and the other women shiver in bras and panties, unwilling to remove the last bit of dignity until forced to do so.

“Remove all your clothes,” barks the scrawny-haired officer.

“But we didn’t commit any crimes, ma’am,” one lady ventures from the back. “We just work here in America and eat here. None of us are drug dealers or gang members. I mean, look at her. She’s pregnant. Does she really have to take off her clothes? The only thing she’s hiding is a baby and not very well at that.”

“No exceptions, spic,” the prison guard shouts. “Strip! It’s how we do it here in the Stable. Everyone strips and gets searched. You wetbacks are wily ones. Never know where you might be hiding something.”

Ave draws a deep breath of air, hoping the filtered, recycled air will calm her nerves as she removes the rest of her clothes and stands naked in the cold room.

“Against the wall,” the guard says. “Arms and legs out.”

The guard’s hands are cold and invasive on Ave’s body. She jerks instinctively as the guard’s hands travel up her legs. She tries to hold the image of her cousin Isabella in her mind, and then when that fails to keep her mind from the guard’s hands, she ponders her baby, wondering what he will look like, what his laugh will sound like. Her stomach cramps when the search is finished.

After all the guard finishes with all the women, the detainees are issued identical prison uniforms to wear, but Ave’s belly makes it difficult to cinch the tie on the pants. So, as Ave walks down a long hall of cells, she waddles, using both hands to keep her new pants from slipping to her ankles.

She is led to a cramped cell like every other she has passed.  Her bed, like the rest, is made up with a gray blanket and a stiff white pillow. She shuffles to the open bunk and lies down on her side. She stuffs the pillow between her knees for comfort and uses the crook of her elbow tucked under her head as a pillow.

“Here,” a tired voice says from across the cell. “Take mine.”

Ave opens her eyes to see an elderly woman standing over her, tucking an extra pillow under Ave’s head. “You’ll need it more than I will.”

“Gracias,” Ave says. “Como se llama?”

The old lady smiles. “I’m sorry child. I don’t speak your language. I’m from a different world. My name is Hakima and I come from Iran.”

“I’m sorry. I just assumed. My name is Ave and I come from Mexico.”

“It is nice to meet you,” Hakima replies. “I don’t think you’ll be in here long, though. You are in early labor, as far as I can tell. And I can always tell.”

Hakima winks and touches the side of her face where her graying hair meets her forehead.

“I’m eight months, though,” Ave replies.

“I imagine you had a stressful day?” Hakima inquires, and Ave nods. “From the bruise on your head, you fell, probably from fainting. You were stripped and then cavity searched? And now, I’m guessing from the hand on your belly and the way you were grimacing when you walked in, you’re getting some cramping?” Ave nods in response to each question. “As I thought, then. You are going to have that baby sooner rather than later.”

Hakima’s prediction proves true. The next day, Ave’s labor begins, and Hakima shouts for the guards.

“This woman needs to be in a hospital,” Hakima says when the two guards finally appear. “She is having contractions and is going to have this baby tonight.”

The guards peer into the cell. “What her? The girl lying on the bed? She doesn’t look like she’s in labor. She looks like she’s sleeping.”

Hakima huffs. “She is between contractions and resting, saving her strength for when she will need it.”

As Hakima is speaking, a contraction grips Ave, who grunts and breathes through it as best she can.

“She’s faking,” one of the guards says. “I’ve had a baby and it wasn’t like that. She just wants out of here.”

The guards leave, unperturbed. As Ave’s contractions grow closer together and more powerful, Hakima summons the guards again. This time, there is no doubt Ave is in labor.

“Let’s get her to the hospital,” the guard says, no longer skeptical. “And fast.”

Hakima shakes her head. “It’s too late for that. She will have this baby within the hour. She is dilated at 8 centimeters and her contractions are only 3 minutes apart. Take her to the infirmary. And quick.”

The guard stutters. “But the doctor has gone home for the day.”

Hakima disregards her protests. “Take me with you. I was a midwife in my country. I have delivered more babies than you could count.”

After a moment of hesitation, the guard acquiesces and takes both women to the guard outside the holding cells. “Take them to the infirmary,” she tells him. Without a word, the guard yanks his pants over his paunch and beckons the two women to follow him. They walk to a small building separated from the main center by a small concrete courtyard. When they enter, Hakima notices that meager medical supplies and decides she might need more help than she bargained for if Ave’s labor grows difficult.

“Call an ambulance and get the paramedics here as soon as possible. We’ll need them for the afterbirth,” Hakima says, but the guard does not move. “Did you hear me? Go call the paramedics!”

Unaccustomed to being bossed around by an elderly prisoner, the guard’s demeanor darkens. “I cannot leave the detainee unattended or unsecured,” he says. “I’ll have to remain in the room. I’ll radio for someone else to call them.”

Without a word, the guard shoves Hakima aside and secures Ave to the bed with <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/09/20/undocumented-pregnant-woman-gives-birth-in-shackles_n_971955.html">wrist cuffs</a>.

“What are you doing to her? She is about to give birth. She will need to move around, stand up if she likes. It is the natural way for women to birth their babies,” Hakima protests.

“Security protocol. This detainee is considered criminal, in possession of forged papers, so she has to be restrained,” the guard replies flatly, moving toward Ave’s feet. “She can give birth on her back and without her hands.

“If you are going to force her to lie down, then you cannot strap her legs down, too. The baby will not be able to come out if you do,” Hakima says, exasperated.

“Fine,” the guard retorts, pulling a pair of ankle shackles from his belt. He <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/09/20/undocumented-pregnant-woman-gives-birth-in-shackles_n_971955.html">shackles</a> her feet together, the long chain drooping below the infirmary bed.

“Are you quite finished?” Hakima asks, sneering. “She’s in labor. It’s not like she is a flight risk right now.”

Ave’s labors quickens. The new contractions begin almost as soon as the previous one ends, and Ave struggles to catch her breath as she begins to push new life into the world. The guard standing at the head of Ave’s bed places a hand on her forehead, as a lover would, leans his head toward her ear and whispers to her.

“Come on, push, push, push this baby out,” the guard says. “Push the baby out. The sooner the baby comes the sooner you can go back home to your family in Mexico.”

Ave’s face darkens and she hisses between gasping breaths, “Don’t touch me. You are not my husband. Step away from me.”

The guard raises his hands in a gesture of an accused innocent. “Just trying to help.”

Before an hour in the infirmary building is up, Ave births a son, and for just a moment, there is nothing but mother and son. Hakima gently places the baby boy on her mother’s chest, as the child cries softly and roots for food. Ave laughs.

“Can we remove her restraints at least, to let her hold her son unfettered?” Hakima whispers to the guard, who obliges.

“Congratulations,” the guard says, unbuckling the restraints. “You have given birth to a healthy American citizen. You’ll have 36 hours with him, and then child services will take him to a relative of your choosing.”

The silent night cracks, and all that is calm and bright fractures. “I’m sorry?”

“After 36 hours, we’ll take your child to one of your relatives while you await deportation,” the guard says. “We can’t accommodate an infant in this facility.”

A pain unlike any she has ever felt grips her chest, as if her heart is exploding in a searing fire, like seven daggers are piercing her. She gasps, unable to catch her breath. At last, a wail erupts from Ave, a deep mournful blast announcing the end of faith, hope, love, of everything good she has dreamed of in this promised land of America. Tears stream from her eyes, mixing with her labor’s sweat, dripping onto her chest, falling onto her infant son’s fluffy black hair. She holds him closely to her lips, kissing his head over and over again, weeping. In a moment’s time, she has gone from a pregnant girl to the mother of all sorrows, her cries joining with countless others who have experienced a similar crushing end to the birth of new life.

Ave tries to avoid sleep for the next 36 hours. The time is too precious to let it unravel in a dream. She breathes in her son’s smell, tries to memorize each feature on his tiny face, features she knows will be gone the next time she sees him. The roll of fat that creases his shoulder. The way his drowsy almond eyes close, clasped with long lashes, after she feeds him. The snuffling sound he makes when he eats. The cry of need for comfort from Ave, for food from her body. She tries to burn the image of him into her mind with tears, with love, with anger.

An hour before her time is up, Ave begins to hum to her child, softly at first. As she gazes adoringly at the tiny boy, scarcely a day old, her voice grows stronger, more alive, rhythmed with passion. A pulsing warmth fills her aching chest and emanates throughout the room. A curious glow fills the room and, to her astonishment, she finds herself singing, in a loud, clarion soprano.

Her voice carries through the infirmary and the detention center. It penetrates the gray cinderblock walls, perforates the Stable with a stinging, visionary indictment, piercing the hearts of inmate and guard alike to share in her sorrow.

She sings,

“Look at the lowliness of this handmaiden, and find reason for favor, to call me blessed. The Mighty One has done great things for me, but the mighty ones have stolen them from me. Show then the strength of your arm and scatter these proud in the thoughts of their haughty hearts, bring down the powerful from their thrones and offices and lift up the lowly, the trampled and the oppressed. Fill the hungry with good things and send away the rich empty. Help this handmaiden remember the mercy of God.”

A curious thrumming lingers in the room after Ave finishes her song.

A moment later, it disappears when there is a knock at the door. The infirmary janitor, a Latino woman, pokes her head into Ave’s room.

“I’m sorry to intrude on your last hour, <em>señora</em>, but I heard you singing. Magnificent. Just magnificent. You have said what we all feel,” she says. “I know it’s not much, but I thought you might like a picture.”

The woman holds up a Polaroid instant camera. Ave nods, afraid that if she speaks she will lose control and begin to weep again.

The woman motions for them to snuggle together and snaps the picture. The camera whirs and spits out an image that slowly begins to materialize as the air hits it.

“Thank you,” Ave manages to say. “It’s the perfect gift. What’s your name so that I can repay you one day, if I can.”

“I’m Sofia,” the janitor says. “Sofia Reyes, but you don’t need to repay me. It’s enough to see you light up. You have a very special boy there with a very special mother. Anyone can see you love him very much.”

Ave holds back a cry. “I have to love him enough now forever, in case I don’t see him again.”

Sofia brushes Ave’s hair back. “You’ll see him again. I know you will.”

Looking back, Ave cannot remember them taking her son away. She remembers telling them his name was Jesus, son of José Mann, and she can recall asking that he be given to her cousin Isabella in San Antonio. But she cannot remember the moment they took him from her. All she can remember is two strong hands helping her walk through the concrete courtyard back to the main building, the Stable. But really, she can barely remember that either. All she recall with any certainty is that it was raining and that the bright fluorescent spotlight shining down on her looked like the brightest star she’d ever seen.

Hakima greets her in the cell with a long embrace and helps Ave to bed.

“Some of the others heard what happened,” Hakima says. “One of the women, Farzenah, came by and brought you all she had, a phone card and 30 American dollars, as a gift for you. She said she hoped you would be able to use it to call your cousin to check on the baby while you are here.”

“And how long will I be here?” Ave asks, exhausted. “How long, Hakima?”

“Only God knows, and I’m not even sure God knows,” Hakima responds, her voice firm but compassionate. “It could be two months or two years.”

“How long have you been here, Hakima?”

“Three years.”

Ave begins to weep again, sobs wracking her body.

“Here, child, and this is my gift to you,” Hakima says, pulling a small pill from underneath the mattress. “It will help you sleep, and sleep, I think, is the only thing that can console you right now.”

Hakima places the pill in Ave’s mouth and helps her sip it down with water. “Now, what is it they say in your language? <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nochebuena">Noche buena</a>?”

Ave shakes her head and says weakly, “Buenas noches.”

Hakima waves her hands dismissively. “Yes, that. Buenas noches, then my dear Ave, buenas noches.”

The sedative takes Ave away into the succor of sleep. Hakima holds the young mother’s head in her lap, stroking Ave’s long black hair, deep into the good night.
<p style="text-align: center;">*****</p>
Connect with David on <a href="http://facebook.com/unorthodoxology">Facebook</a> and share your thoughts on <em>Christmas, Undocumented</em>. If there is enough interest, this project will be expanded to <em>Christ, Undocumented</em> and re-imagine the Gospel stories within this context.