G (42:00)
I've been getting this question a lot. Friends from out of state have been hitting me up, asking me, are you good? They want to know what it's like here. They want to know if the videos and the things they've read are how it's actually playing out. I haven't known what to say. I had to go back through my phone to know what just happened because it's been hard to remember. I've been scrolling back through my text messages, through the half sentences I wrote in my notes app, the videos I saved on my phone. I need them to remember my own life because I don't even know. They launched Operation Midway Blitz in early September. That is when they started to bounce between neighborhoods. Back of the Yards, Brighton Park, Gage Park, Little Village, Pilsen, Little Village. And back at the yards again. In little over a week, more than 500 people were detained. It was a free for all, a purge. There's no other way to describe it. And when they take people, they vanish. They're out as a family at Millennium park on a Sunday. They're waiting for the bus, taking the trash out, selling tamales. Then men in ski masks and mismatched tactical gear appear. And then they're gone. My phone is like a catalog, an archive of how we tried to keep living our lives. This is what I found, scrolling back to the early days to when they started grabbing people from the street. There's a text confirming my nail appointment at Jessica's nail Spa. Wednesday, September 17, 2025, 5:30pm See you soon Michelle Navarro I remember that day. That weekend I was hosting a party for my roommate's birthday. I'm used to being welcomed to the nail salon with laughter and loud Spanish love ballads. I'm a regular. They usually tease me. Let me guess. Red Square tip. But this time, when I approached the salon and I pulled on the door to find it locked, I watched their heads lift in unison. I saw relief when they realized it was just me. I know all the women who work here. We usually ask each other about work, about boyfriends, about family. This time we didn't. We waited, as we always do now, to see who was going to bring it up first. It was them. They told me they'd think about it all day. They heard ICE was spotted in the marshal's parking lot that morning, about a block over where they often leave their cars. It's where they must walk to after work. I asked my nail tech, Sara, about her daughter and her son in hopes of something lighter. She begins to tell me a story about her son's elementary school. She says that during class, kids could hear the screams of someone being taken right outside of the school building. The school administration later wrote to those parents that someone not connected to the school was attained outside by federal agents. They reassured parents that students would be safe in class and that parents would be safe at drop off and pick up. But the next day, out of about 30 kids in her son's class, only three showed up. She stops filing my nails. She looks up at me. What do you think I should do? Should I send them to school? For that moment, I imagine she's my mother, that I'm her eight year old son. Seeing masked, militarized men taking her away. I tell her, if you're scared, don't take them. The following morning, while I'm getting ready for work, I wonder if she's dressing her children for school or if she plans to take my unqualified advice. It's all I can think of for the rest of the day. The most surprising thing about masked men running around your neighborhood and terrorizing your people is realizing that the world doesn't stop. You still have to clock in for your job. You still need groceries. You still have to make small talk. Another text I found in my phone with a guy from hinge October 22nd. He wants to get coffee and pilsen this weekend, but we're having trouble finding a time that works. He works at a factory nearby. He texts me that ICE agents are outside his job and he's covering for co workers without Papers. He keeps having to change the time. I tell him, no worries, he texts. They just grabbing people and waiting for people to leave work. So now we're telling the night shift to stay home. I hate it here. We never met up that weekend. Everyone is talking about rules, but there doesn't seem to be any. Our mayor, organizers and legal advocates have said that ICE and Border Patrol can't do a number of things. They can't go on private property, they can't go on city property. They can't throw tear gas in our neighborhoods, right outside of people's homes. But they continue to do so. Four days after the start of this operation, they shoot and kill a man in Franklin Park. Not long after, just two miles from where I live, they shoot a woman five times. The Department of Homeland Security keeps talking about people who broke the law, who are here illegally, who committed crimes. But they target all of us. Anyone who is brown, anyone who speaks Spanish or just lives here. If you get picked up, you could spend the day or a week in detention. So we can't let people outside by themselves anymore. Even those of us with papers with legal status are on high alert. They roll up on us in parking lots, on people's front yards, outside of schools, and ask, are you from here? Are you from here? Other moments from my phone on October 4th, there's a video from my friend Bianca. We've all been friends since sixth grade. Bianca is a realtor now. She's in her car in between showings. She says, guys, this is so sad. Families who I sold houses to last year are calling me now, asking me to put those same houses back in the market. They're heading back to Mexico. A home in the United States was a dream. They finally realized they were just crying of happiness not that long ago, she says. And now they have to let it go. October 25th. An invite to Gabby's annual Halloween party. She called it a Halloween to remember. After a few hours into the party, I look around and ask where Yasmin is. Gabby looks at me. Yasmin can't come out right now. Oh, shit. I forgot. She's undocumented. I felt so stupid. I felt so careless. Before the end of the party, Gabby makes sure each guest leaves with a goodie bag, which contains two pieces of chocolate, Skittles, a whistle you can wear around your neck, and a small home printed booklet instructing you on what to do when you spot ice. Form a crowd. Stay loud. The COVID says. Code one. Ice. Nearby, blow in a broken rhythm. Pre. Pre. Pre. This alerts the community that ICE agents are in the area. Code red Blow in a continuous steady rhythm when ICE is attaining someone. The last page reads, Protect each other always. Happy Halloween. I guess. I look back at my call log. There's a list of calls in quick succession one day at 1:26pm to my mom and then to her neighbors. I remember exactly what these calls are. I'd seen a post that ICE was two blocks away from my parents house. I called my mom. I know she said there was Nonstop honking about 20 minutes ago. That's a thing now. People honking to alert everyone that ICE is right here and cars follow behind them until they can't. Where's Dad? I asked. He's working. My dad calls me later on his way home from work. I tell him our neighbors are safe. Then I say, dad, you can't go to the swap meet anymore. The owner had said he wanted to keep people safe, but he didn't. More than 20 federal agents took 15 people. That's my dad's spot. It's where he goes for random parts and hardware. But I told him no more swaporama. He agreed he'd find a different place to do his shopping. October 20th. Ice got to my dad anyway. There's a text from my sister at 10:46am I streamt out on Luis. I don't know who he's with. Luis is my sister's husband and he works landscaping with my dad. I wrote on all caps where right now my mom messages me. La migra le higo a tu papa. My dad was shoveling someone's front lawn. When he looked up from his shovel, ICE was right there. The agents just a few feet away. Four cars stood in the middle of the street. One of the agents gripped his coworker's shoulder. Do you all have papers? They all said they did. They think that because no one tried to run, the agents let them continue working. So they did. Going back through these messages now, I forgot how mad I got at my sister. I was alarmed. My sister seemed to move on quickly when she learned Luis and my dad were fine, which I found annoying. I kept asking her, where are they now? Are they together? Had they called the Rapid Response Hotline to report ICE presence in the neighborhood? Taken down license plate numbers or makes and models of the cars. Information that could help other people at risk in the area. My sister texts, I am telling you what I know. I am working and they are working. I don't know how much communication you think I'm getting. My reply Bro, this is a stop work matter. Five weeks into the operation, I saw a cheap flight out of Chicago to New York. I decided to take it, get away for a few days. Part of me felt guilty for leaving. Part of me felt like I should take the chance before it got worse. I spent the weekend with my friends in their living rooms, going on walks to dinner. Nothing about their lives had changed. It was unsettling. I told them how my body tenses up now when I hear a long car horn, how I look into car windows for masked agents, and that when we get a community alert reporting ICE on our phones, we think of every person we know who lives or works around there, how we text and call immediately or show up worried that the other person won't be there. I told them that I wasn't a special case, that this is what everyone I know feels outside of Chicago. It was easier to answer the question what it's like there. From outside. I could see how much we've adapted, how different everything is now, how extreme things have gotten. It's what I could see going back through my phone, that this thing has bled into every single corner of our daily lives. Our commutes, our jobs, our families, our dates and parties, and every single conversation. One last moment I found, going through my phone, a text from my relative. She wanted me to know that ICE was at the corner by the pizzeria where our cousin works. My cousin is the last one in my family who hasn't gotten his papers. I jumped off the train and took one. Going the other way, I ran down the street. If ICE was here, then I had just missed them. My cousin had recently told his mom, my aunt, that if they ever came in and took him, it'd be alright with him. I'm not running, he'd said. Don't say that, she responded. She was upset that he had brought it up. My mother is upset by this too. She told me the story over the phone. Let him have his peace, I told her. Perhaps he was just trying to prepare his mother and himself for something he couldn't control. Let him have that. I stood outside the pizzeria that day. Catching my breath, I peered through the glass until I caught a glimpse of him in the back of the kitchen. I waved and pretended I was only walking by. For once, I avoided the conversation completely, for my sake and for his. And I think we both felt relieved.
