Prelude: 222 Miles

I made my journey to Atlanta with time to spare. What was supposed to be an early morning drive to make sure I could check into my AirBnB in time turned into a scenic walk through Norcross's historic downtown. The Cuban Restaurant I accidentally managed to park next to was a welcoming sight, like some small reminder that even as far as I was from my family they were still with me, pushing me to be the advocate that they would have needed years ago, now for a new generation. 

I crossed 222 miles in a little over 3 hours. As the crow flies Lincolnton, North Carolina is actually only 202 miles from Norcross, but roads and neighborhoods have a way of complicating things like that. As I drove, taking in the verdant hills and forests of Western South Carolina and Northern Georgia (dotted with faded billboards depicting Smokey the Bear) I began to contemplate the length of my journey, putting it in perspective to the work that lay ahead of me. The QuikTrip gas station where I stopped to refuel would prove a useful spot for my amateur cartography.

222 miles is about the same distance as a straight shot from Monterey to Corpus Christi(5 hours driving), Damascus to the Turkish Border(5 1/2 hours driving), or San Salvador to the Mexican Border (12 hours driving). It's less than half the distance from Haiti to the closest strip of Florida, and 130 more miles than what my father managed to navigate on a strung together raft with 9 other men 30 years ago. As I processed this information, I tried to imagine being at sea for days, like my father had been, looking out on a vast expanse of ocean and knowing you had another hundred and thirty miles to travel, much less another 400. A bit of that dread sat heavy in my stomach as I set off again.

I was never ignorant to the hardship of the asylum seeker, to the immeasurable weight it takes to leave one's home, to brave unknown terrains and arrive at a new land a stranger. I heard it in the heavy voices and far off gazes of my friends, family, and colleagues all across South Florida. Yet, as I crested the last hill on I-85 before arriving in the greater Atlanta Metro Area, I appreciated the 2 hours, piles of paperwork, hundreds of dollars, and months of fear I had managed to avoid along my trip. As the wind whipped through my open window, some part of me steeled itself and I felt the purpose of my journey propelling me forward as the speedometer floated around 85 mph.

Atlanta as a city, I found, was more flesh than metal or pavement. It grew out of its surroundings and came to encircle everything around it. Cities sprawl by nature, but Atlanta was a unique beast for me. Miami, by contrast, always felt like a fungus kept in a petri dish, squished on all sides into a corner of the map from which it could influence its surroundings, but not able to consume them. New York, by contrast, was like ivy or an orchid, crawling and seeping into everything around it to feed its big beating heart, feeding heartily off of New Jersey and Connecticut. Out West cities like Houston were big, but empty, the space seeming poorly used. Atlanta though, Atlanta permeated everything around it like a solid wall of moss, growing fat on the surrounding counties. As I took the time to drive from the outside in, I peered around each corner and side street trying to find where the gaps or borders were, and found Atlanta peering back at me each time, unwavering. There was something comforting in that, in knowing I would never be far from my new home. All I could hope was that I could give others that same comfort soon enough. The week ahead looked bright.