HAVANA TIMES – I’m getting ready for my last day as a dishwasher. Luckily, my schedule will be different starting the next week – a new position, and no more working at night.
I can’t stand waiting until the afternoon to work and then going to sleep around 3 in the morning. It alters my Circadian rhythms, and I suffer from insomnia.
I have an hour left, and I only need 45 minutes to reach the restaurant on the electric scooter.
When I’m just about to leave, I get a call from David, the manager. He asks me to go to Carrollwood, a more distant location. They have an emergency and they need me.
I can’t refuse. He’s a good boss, and I have this job thanks to him.
I hate having a boss. My dream is freedom, being able earn my money without depending on a job and an authority who tells you what to do. I’m taking the steps, but, for the moment, it’s my turn to be a sheep and David is a nice guy. I go to the place, do the work, and finish very late, well after midnight.
Back home, I put on the TV and turn to the news, specifically that having to do with the topic of immigration.
There’s one particular item I’m waiting for, and it’s the Supreme Court decision regarding the Humanitarian Parole program.
A district judge had ordered a temporary halt to the Trump administration’s revocation of these benefits, but now the government has appealed.
So, okay, I look at the headlines, that are not at all pleasant, then click on one. In effect: the Supreme Court has just allowed the government to eliminate the legal status of those of us who entered via this program, pending a final decision on the merits of the case.
This means that thousands of us will be left with no legal basis to remain in the United States of America, and I, at least, lose my work permit.
I read a post from Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem celebrating the ruling. (The same person who killed her dog, according to her because “he was disobedient”) .
To these xenophobes of the extreme right, an individual like myself constitutes a danger to the security of the United States.
More than a month has passed since then, and now I’m here at a downtown apartment, contemplating the city while I write the final words of this chronicle for Havana Times.
The storm is growing stronger, but I feel at peace. I’m from Cuba and I’ve survived worse things.
Read more from the diary of Pedro Pablo Morejón here on Havana Times.
