By Lynne Juarez | Special to the Courier

In 2017, my curiosity prompted a query: “Who are these immigrants and refugees who are traveling from their homeland to the United States?” With that question in mind I traveled to El Paso, Texas, where I spent two weeks at a refugee center operated by the Catholic Church.

At the center, I worked primarily in the clothes room, which was overflowing with the discarded items of an affluent society. Clothes were divided by gender and size with special categories for infants and children. The men’s clothes were problematic in that most shirts and trousers were large and XL, and the men who came from Central America were overwhelmingly extra small. It made me very happy when I was able to dig through and find just the right pair of pants and a jacket for someone who was traveling to a cold climate.

Every day in that clothes room I encountered the “other” and found myself at home. Gladys, a lovely woman and herself an immigrant seeking asylum, helped the women pick out clothes. I watched as she deftly anticipated needs. Where did she find the goodness and strength to reach out despite her own precarious situation? What motivated her to risk everything to leave her home? In broken English, she shared her journey: ten weeks on foot, to finally reach the border.

Gladys and I worked well together. I lacked the language to fully engage. We shared a meal of sloppy Joes, chips, and cookies. After a warm embrace and my halting, “buena suerte,” we bade each other a fond farewell.

A 7-year-old boy helped the younger children. He knew within minutes where to find the socks, underwear and shoes that were the perfect size for his customers, and loved being of use. That same boy followed me around and anticipated my every move. He was such a lovely child. With few words a relationship blossomed. He knew, before I did, how to help. His mother glanced over occasionally, just to be sure that he was not a “bother,” but also proud of her brave, mature beyond his years son.

Who knew the clothes room could be a holy place? No one took more than they needed. People were tired, dead tired. All had stories. For the many who walked, it was a walk of fear and caution. Any minute could bring trouble. But, despite the exhaustion, they showed a quiet dignity and always, always a willingness to support one another. It did not go unnoticed that the perils associated with the trauma of leaving one’s homeland often elicited kindness that was astounding.

After dinner, residents went to their rooms, took showers, and prepared for much needed sleep. By 7:30 p.m. the hallways were empty, doors to rooms closed. All was quiet. The following morning immigrants could be seen waiting in the hallway for a volunteer driver who escorted them to the airport or bus station.

As I reflect back on my experience I lament the fact that I could not speak Spanish. These people, so often traumatized, asked questions that I was unable to answer. But I did find a very powerful language beyond words. Being in El Paso and connecting at such a deep level was a gift beyond words.

Fast forward to 2025. Again we have a president who promises to “launch the largest deportation program in American history to get the criminals out. Kick them the hell out of our country as fast as possible.” Wait a minute; is he talking about the same people I encountered in El Paso? Is he talking about the many immigrants we all encounter daily who work among us as landscapers, home health care workers, in construction, or the food and hospitality industry? Is he talking about them? I wonder.

Lynne Juarez is a Bay Area native and former early childhood educator. She now resides at Pilgrim Place in Claremont.