In December 2015, I was heading to the library here at Berea College to study for finals when I got a call from my mother’s lawyer. He said Ma was fighting deportation to Ghana, and I would need to write an affidavit explaining why she should be allowed to stay in the United States.
The phone call redirected me, zombielike, across the quad to my dorm. I sat at my computer in a daze of anger and sadness, glaring at the blank screen as if it were the face of Immigration and Customs Enforcement itself.
I couldn’t believe this was happening —

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