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How I Almost Got Deported
Karolina Philmon

Two minutes before I needed to clock in, my mom called.1 I contemplated hitting the
ignore button. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to talk her, but my mom had a tendency to keep
me on the phone till the speaker turned hot. Many times my ear stayed red for several days. I
picked up, but blurted out, “Hey Mama, I’m rushing into work. I’ll call you later.” She cut me
off at “rushing.”

“Karolina. Listen to me carefully. Please listen!”
Her voice trembled, and she spoke loudly enough that if I were next to a person, he or she
would hear each word clearly. I was still sitting in my car. I looked at the clock, and it showed
6:00 p.m. I was late.
“We got a notice. I’m so sorry that I had forgotten! Karolina, you need to go apply for
citizenship. We lost time already. If you don’t do this now, they can take you!”
Take me? I had no words. I didn’t believe what I was hearing. What in the world did she
mean about taking me away? Take me where? I paid my taxes. I worked two jobs. I had no
police record. I graduated in the top ten of my high school class with honors. I was the only one
at Garfield High School that had received a state community service award. I paid for my own
college education out of pocket. If my records revealed anything, it should be under the category
“overachiever.”
My family emigrated from Poland. I didn’t meet my parents until I was six years old.
Soon after I was born, my mother and father left for the United States. My grandma raised my
brother and me. From the stories I’ve been told, my parents had a rough upbringing in Poland.
My father served in the Polish Navy but couldn’t get a job. My mother had a steady job as an

1 This essay originally appeared in the Fall Line Review vol. 21 (2017-18). Reprinted by permission of the editor.

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