This week, we’re sharing an interview with Ángel, an ICE detainee currently incarcerated in Otero Detention Center in New Mexico. Ángel is a trans-masculine lesbian of Mapuche heritage, whose family moved hir to the US from Chile at the age of 7 and has lived undocumented since, attaining DACA status under Obama. During the 2020 George Floyd Uprising she pled guilty to charges related to arson of police vehicles in Little Rock, serving 15 months before moving to Chicago and where s/he was detained by ICE. Approaching 30 years old, the majority of which has been in the so-called USA, Angel made the hard choice to waive the right to fight deportation and has been in detention centers since on hir way to being sent to Chile to join hir mother and family now living there.
For the hour, Ángel speaks about conditions at Prairieland and Otero detention centers, the conditions of hir fellow prisoners, the hurdles they face in access to healthcare, quality food, clean facilities, legal resources, access to communications with their families, ability to communicate needs and demands with staff and guards who only speak English, and other topics.
Support hir Go Fund Me: https://www.gofundme.com/f/political-prisoner-facing-deportation
If you want to learn more about 2020 Uprising prisoners (from 2022 & 2023), you can find our interview with one of the people running the website UprisingSupport.org linked in our show notes.
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Featured Track:
- Óyeme by Ana Tijoux from Vida
Transcription
Ángel Espinosa-Villegas: I go by Ángel, I use she/hir pronouns, and I’m an ICE detainee currently incarcerated in the Otero Processing Center in New Mexico, about 30 miles from the Mexican border. After doing about 15 months in the BOP, ICE came and picked me up. I’ve done about a month and a few more days here. I’m trans. I am a Chilean national with Mapuche heritage. [I’m an] English and Spanish speaker, which is very important being in ICE detainment where most people don’t speak English.
TFSR: Cool, thank you. And I definitely want to ask about the role you’ve played in some facilities in and what the reality is for folks that are struggling to get back to their families or to their homes without access to language, to be able to even argue things. But I wanted to ask a few more questions about the conditions there, if you don’t mind. Would you tell us about yourself and navigating your citizenship status in the US.?
Ángel: Being a Chilean national, I came to the States when I was six years old on a B-2 Tourist Visa that was only good for about two or three weeks. And then my family overstayed that visa, because there was virtually no life in Chile for us. It was very difficult to raise a family. So my parents brought me here, and I was raised in Arkansas. It wasn’t until relatively recent, in Obama’s administration, where DACA was permitted, which is Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, which allows us to work and go to school legally. I was able to go to work. I was able to receive taxes, that kind of thing, with paying a $500 displacement of an American worker fee, every two years that I had to pay for.
I’ve been in the US now for 22 years. It’s been nearly impossible to become a citizen or a resident. It’s very expensive to hire a lawyer, and then meeting all the conditions and criteria in order to even be eligible for that process is really difficult. The only method I had left to me was marriage, and when I tried to do that, not only was the lawyer extremely expensive or asked for $10,000 to help with the Green Card process, but the petitions themselves, the forms, all of that is really expensive. It costs anything from hundreds to thousands of dollars, depending on the forms. The trips themselves, I have to go spend money on biometrics appointments out of the state, things like that.
And ultimately, that process was ended because of the charges that I picked up during the 2020 uprising with Black Lives Matter, which I do not regret doing what I did. And it just goes to show how evil this system is. It doesn’t matter how much you’ve done for your community or what kind of a person that you are. And especially under the Trump administration, it’s damn near impossible for anybody to create a life, even citizens. But in regards to immigrants, I’m surrounded by people that have been seeking asylum, getting their temporary protected status, getting their visas. And they regularly go to ICE to meet with their ICE agents or whoever to continue on their process, but under the Trump administration, every single person has been getting picked up. Most people here have never seen the inside of jails, and everybody’s pretty scared. They’ve lost their homes, their houses. They don’t know where their kids are at. It’s a pretty intense environment to be in every day.
TFSR: If those pathways to citizenship were so hard to navigate, or were full of having to reframe your day-to-day life as a working-class person, can you speculate about why you think it’s set up in that way to be so difficult for the working-class people?
Ángel: Oh, yeah, definitely. Whenever I was navigating all these different pathways, I found that most pathways are very specific. For example, the temporary protective status, you have to meet certain criteria where you have to have proof of somebody’s trying to kill you, or a group is oppressing your group or community, through I have no idea what kinds of evidence. But groups like that typically don’t even have access to phones or printers or anything, so it’s really difficult to prove that kind of stuff. Then there’s straight-up racist pathways, where you have to be of an extraordinary talent in order to apply, which very few people meet that criteria. You have to be a literal famous person or an extremely successful professional sports player, or something like that, in order to apply for residency or a green card. Then there’s asylum… To my understanding, the law requires you to physically surrender yourself at the US. border. The rhetoric in the right wing specifically, but to my understanding, most Americans have this misguided understanding that as an immigrant, you have to come to the US. in the “right way.” They frown upon people that just show up at the border and are trying to come in. They’re like, “No, you have to do it the right way.”
A lot of immigrants don’t have access to lawyers or computers. To be able to apply, you have to go out of your way. A lot of people come from the countryside and are seeking a better life. These are very poor people, usually, who will do anything to have a better life, including walking three days through a desert. They’re risking their lives. They will send their kids with coyotes so they can have safer passage with people that they don’t know, giving all of their earnings and savings to people that they also don’t know might harm their own family. So coming the right way, the way that it’s imagined here in America, is a really difficult process in these other countries. And besides that, asylum law requires you to physically show yourself at the border, which I don’t think a lot of Americans understand. That’s the right way and actually is the way that immigrants are showing up. And most immigrants that I’ve met here in detention centers actually do give themselves willingly at the border because they believe that they’re doing the right thing, that ICE is going to help them, that America is going to help them. This is what we’ve all heard that America will do for us. But once we get here, it’s a much different story.
There have been people sitting here for months without being able to see a judge or seeing an ICE agent. We’re just in these big boxes in barely livable conditions, wondering where we’re going to go, where our kids are at. “What’s going to happen to us?” is the constant question on everybody’s mind, and navigating these pathways of becoming legal are, I believe, very intentionally designed to keep people out. And throughout the years, they’ve only gotten worse, especially for people from Latin American countries.
Now, under the Trump administration, I see that it’s basically everybody. There’s people from every continent here, and while most people are from Latin American countries, people here have spent so much time, especially the immigrants that are from non-Latin American countries, which are referred to as “less common countries,” make up such a good chunk of the population here in particular at this detention center. Africans, Romanians, Egyptians, all kinds of different people actually have learned Spanish, and it tracks the amount of time that people are spending in here, waiting for their deportations or seeing a judge or the next step in this process. Most people know by now that nobody’s able to get out on bond or get their asylum granted. Most people, the vast majority, get deported. I have yet to see someone be released on bond or be released because they were granted asylum, and I’ve met hundreds of people in the detention centers.
TFSR: My understanding is that you are not going to legally challenge your deportation. Correct me if I’m wrong on that. But the majority of people around you that you talk to, who either speak Spanish or English, are planning to resist legally. Is that correct?
Ángel: Yes, I would say the majority are fighting their cases. But there’s a few that have spent enough time in ICE detention where they just like, “Okay, I’ve been here 10 months, and I don’t want to fight any longer,” so they just gave up and asked for their deportation, which is a lot quicker, but still a lengthy process that takes several months. If you’re lucky, a month and a half for deportation. But otherwise, especially depending on your country, most people spend several, several months, sometimes the better part of a year. I’ve met people that have been in detention for even two years.
TFSR: Just to jump to conditions because you’re talking about it. At the facilities that you’re at, or the prior detention center, Prairieland. Could you describe what the conditions are like, access to food, to drinking water, the amount of space? Or, I’ve read that in some facilities there is a housing block that’s designed for 25 women and it’s being used by 250 women so people are having to sleep in shifts. Could you talk about the material conditions there?
Ángel: Absolutely, this is honestly one of the most egregious, horrible things that I’ve seen, especially with men, because there’s far more men that are detained than women, that I’ve seen. For example, in Prairieland, when I arrived, I was taken to medical with a group of women, about twenty. The little medical room probably sat five, so most of us had to stand or sit on the floor. But while we were going into this room, that same size room that sat about five people, we passed by the same size room that was for men, and there were at least 50 men in there. They were so crammed that they couldn’t even sit down. There were some that were standing up sleeping, resting their head on other men’s shoulders. And the men’s dorms are way more overcrowded. The dorms in Prairieland, I think they sat about 30 people max. There was never a time that I was detained in Prairieland where there were less than 30 people. The highest was about 70. Most people were sleeping on the floor, which is not allowed, but still happens. And so I can only imagine what the men’s dorms are like. A lot of people were just sleeping on the floor. There were times where the facility ran out of mats, so people were sleeping directly on the floor with just a thin little blanket.
I experienced that myself when I was being transferred over here to Otero. At Blue Bonnet, we were forced to sleep in a holding cell, basically the equivalent of a drunk tank, just straight up on the floor, not even blankets. They didn’t feed us. There were several times in Prairieland, as well, where we weren’t fed, especially during transfers. During the holy month of Ramadan, a Palestinian woman that was in my dorm had to fight every single day for her halal food. And there were several nights where she went hungry, because the kitchen was like, “Oh, we’re closed now. It’s too late. We forgot, so you’re not going to eat.” That happened several times.
The guards will tell us that water is a privilege, because they’re supposed to, on every shift, lug in this cooler that has a little spout at the bottom, like a normal coolers that football players will drink out of and dunk on their coaches after a game. That same type cooler for, I don’t know, fifty, sixty, seventy women. So that cooler will run out of water pretty quickly, and whenever we demand more water, the guards at Prairieland were very disrespectful and unprofessional, and would say things like, “Water is a privilege. We don’t even really need to be bringing this jug to you. You can drink out of the sink.” And the sinks obviously have dirty, hard water. And our sinks barely worked. Nine out of ten of them dribbled just barely any water. And the one that did work was really, really dirty, clearly. So we have to microwave the water really hot to a boiling point, and that would be our drinking water whenever the jug water wasn’t available.
The food at Prairieland was very little. I often got rotten lettuce. There were times where there would be ants on my bread. And whenever I’d report it, they’d be like, “Well, that’s your food.” A guard even told me once, “You know, they’re being nice to y’all. We don’t even really have to give you this much food. It’s not meant to fill you up. You should be grateful.” The living conditions were awful, just terrible.
Now here in Otero, living conditions are a little better, because in Prairieland, it was filthy. Otero is cleaner. However, privacy is non-existent. In Prairieland, I was able to shower in a closed stall, even though the showers were filthy, it reeked, the water would come back up through the drains. And everybody had athlete’s feet from how dirty everything was, even if you wore shower shoes. Here in Otero, the showers are completely open, as well as the bathroom stalls. So when you go into the bathroom, you see everybody taking a shower. You see everybody doing their business on the toilet or whatever they’re doing.
So for someone like me, who’s trans, who has a bit of a different body than everyone else here, it’s really difficult to feel safe in the bathroom because everybody’s looking at me, everybody makes comments about my body. And some of the girls will think that they’re joking or playing with me, but in fact, it’s sexual harassment. But in order to survive here and not give otherwise good people, serious charges, pre-charges, I just kind of have to be like, “Quit playing” or whatever. And it’s just an awkward situation where everybody’s completely exposed, and every shred of dignity and respect that they could have taken from us is taken. They could have built stalls. They could have put up even just curtains, and they decided not to, to keep us dehumanized and feeling like aliens.
We’re not really treated better than livestock, although I will say that Otero guards are not so blatantly racist or disrespectful like the ones at Prairieland. At Prairieland, the guards would flip you off. They would stick their tongue out at you. They would taunt you. They would refuse to honor rights, like when we’d ask for a lieutenant or a higher rank to come and solve an issue, they would make fun of you.
I’ve heard when there was a woman asking during transport, “Where am I going? Can I please speak to my husband? I don’t know where my kids are at. What’s going on?” And the guard looked at her and was like, “Don’t worry. Your husband got deported, and he’s got a new wife and kids now. You don’t even have to worry about him.” And laughed. Obviously, this woman was brought to tears and just emotionally distraught. We all had to comfort her for hours during this transport while this man that works for ICE got enjoyment from seeing all of this torment. And I would say that’s the attitude of about 80-90% of all the guards that I’ve come in contact with, especially in Prairieland. And I would say about 100% of the guards have that attitude there. And your ICE agents barely come to see you. If they do see you, or if they do respond to any requests that you put on the tablet for an appointment or knowledge about your case at all, they’ll tell you, “I’ll get back to you,” and then they almost never do. Every single thing that you receive in a detention center is very hard fought for.
In Prairieland, in my dorm, nobody spoke English. Well, nobody that was Spanish-speaking spoke English, which was the majority of the dorm. So I was the translator. They even started calling me the abogadito. Abogadito means “the little lawyer,” because I was fighting tooth and nail for every single person. I was on the tablet constantly filling grievances and putting requests for everybody because they don’t know how to maneuver with an English tablet. And even though the guards had interpreter services on their phones available, they would barely move a finger for us to get water, let alone an interpreter service. There’d be posters all around that say ICE agents and the guards are here to help., but they were the exact opposite of that. They were huge blocks that you have to fight against constantly and risk charges or your case process being in jeopardy if you did stand up to these guards. I was constantly threatened with mace, with being put in segregation almost every other day, I would say. We’d have to organize hunger strikes for some serious problems to be resolved. That’s just some of the stuff that we have to go through as detainees in a detention center.
TFSR: Yeah, that’s insane. Thank you for sharing that. It sounds like these operations that the federal government are running are picking people up when they’re on their way to or from work, like retenes or roadblocks. Or just ambushing people and sweeping people up, including people that are citizens, that have green cards, that have documentation, as we’ve seen with the folks that are getting shipped down to countries like El Salvador. As you mentioned, like people who are not in contact with their loved ones, with the people they’re co-parenting with, maybe elders that they’re taking care of, maybe children, and if they’re not being given the ability to navigate that because the services are only in English, let alone the other possibly expensive methods of getting on GTL to make calls, having the numbers to the outside available to you, or lawyer access that isn’t being offered, it sounds like a really frightening circumstance for anyone there. I guess another element of that is that if you’re picked up on your way from work or on your way to pick up your kids, you’re not necessarily thinking, “I’m going to pack up my medication that I need for an extended period of time since I’m going to be away.” Do you have any anecdotes or experiences that you can share about either your or other people’s medical conditions or access to necessary medicines while they’re on the inside?
Ángel: Oh yeah, there have definitely been a lot of people that I’ve met, and even myself, being on testosterone. There have been people that I’ve met where women have just had babies and they got picked up by ICE. Oh my god, there’s so many stories I could tell. I don’t know where to start. But for example, there was a woman who had just had a newborn baby and was picked up by ICE at the hospital because, I don’t know, maybe a racist staff member didn’t like the fact that she didn’t speak English. But she had just had her newborn child and was brought to ICE detention, and she had a caesarean, a C-section, and she could barely move. This was at Prairieland which, I’ll remind you, is filthy. They don’t do anything. Whenever you get taken to intake, not only is everybody’s property strewn all over the place, but it’s dirty. There’s cups and forks and food crumbles and God knows what else.
And part of the intake process is you go to medical. In medical, there are signs posted everywhere, like be COVID safe, here are the guidelines, wash your hands. And this is the medical intake room, so every time that there’s a group in here, you have to clean after every group. And clearly, that room had not been cleaned in months. There was a toilet in that room that you could use, because you wait there for hours, and it was smeared with feces. There was blood spattered all over, all over the floor. It smelled horrible. It was clear that the room had not been cleaned in months. I would be surprised if they had cleaned it any sooner than that.
The medical process is painfully slow, and they tell you that they can’t do anything for you. The only thing that they can do is extract your teeth and give you ibuprofen for any pain, and that’s basically the extent of the medical attention that they give you. The woman that had the C-section could barely move around, and she was barked at with no discrimination as to her situation, just like the rest of us were. And even though she had just had her child and she didn’t know if her child was okay, if her loved ones were able to take care of her other children, and she was asking to be released on bond, ICE didn’t come see her. Nobody tried to help her, to push up her court date so that she could be released sooner on bond. Eventually they just transferred her to some other place, and we never heard from her again. So I don’t know what’s going on with her.
But there are other people that have serious medical issues; there was a woman that I was in Carswell with, and we ended up in the same dorm at Prairieland. She’s an older Chinese woman with cancer, and she went to Carswell because it’s a medical facility. When she was taken to Prairieland, she still had procedures that were regularly scheduled for her bladder cancer. And ICE and the Prairieland Detention Center just basically told her, “Well, you’re going to have to wait. You’re going to have to wait.” And she was like, “I really need this procedure” because her health was in question here. She would get sicker. She sometimes couldn’t eat. She sometimes couldn’t get out of bed. She tried to take the best care of herself that she could. We all tried to help as much as we could, but it was three or four months before she was ever taken to the hospital. To our knowledge, she was finally given her procedure at an outside hospital, but that was after she had gotten really sick. We’d gone on a hunger strike to demand, not just for her, but for multiple people with extremely time-sensitive issues. I was transferred during the time that she was taken out, so I never got to hear back from her about how she’s been doing or how the procedure went for her.
On a smaller scale, for me as a trans person, every time I’ve been to a detention center, and I’ve been to four, they segregate me from the group. When I got to Prairieland, I was segregated for two days in a medical room where I was not given any toilet paper. They skipped meals because they thought they had fed me, and I had told them no, and they were like, “Well too bad, because it says here that we did feed you so you’re not going to eat.” I wasn’t allowed to take a shower. There was no shower that they would take me to for two days. Whenever I was like, “Whenever I was released from the BOP, they gave me two vials of testosterone.” The Lieutenant told me, “We don’t administer that here.” And I was like, “You can’t just cold turkey cut me off of my hormone replacement therapy. That’s just inhumane.” And she said, “It’s Trump’s executive orders.” And I was like, “Trump’s executive orders were blocked by the Supreme Court, so it’s really up to the facility’s discretion to continue these medical treatments, and you’re not a doctor.” And she said, “Well, we’re not going to. This facility doesn’t do that.” So this lieutenant tried to step on the medical department’s toes and tell me something that I guess was to intimidate me or break my spirit or just to be a general a**hole.
Not to mention that this lieutenant was also a very proud lesbian. She didn’t care about me, somebody who would otherwise share community with her in that aspect, being a lesbian myself and a Latina. We shared many intersections, and she still treated me like I was undeserving of medical treatment. But eventually I caused enough trouble where I talked to some nurses, who thankfully are contracted outside of ICE. And I think I just got lucky, and they pushed for me to see a doctor. The doctor was like, “Ok, you’ve been continuing this medication for a while. We’ll continue you on this medication.” And so they kept me going on testosterone finally, but it was over two weeks that they didn’t give me my shot. I was transferred out of Prairieland this last Friday, which was the day for my injection. While I was being transferred, I was like, “Can you call medical and just give me my shot? It will literally take two minutes.” And they were like, “No, if it’s important enough, medical will pull you out, but otherwise you can wait.” And it was the same attitude at every other facility.
And when I finally got to Otero two days later, I had to wait two weeks and go through that whole process of fighting for my testosterone again, being told that they wouldn’t administer it to me, that that they don’t do that here, and so I have to fight for literally everything that is deserved. Medical attention in a detention center is something that you have to fight extremely hard for. You have to expend all your resources, file complaints, talk to the officers, and when you see a lieutenant walking by, you have to say something to them and become enough of a pain in their side for them to be like, “Ok, it’s more trouble to just ignore you. So we’re going to actually give you what you’ve been asking for.” That’s the general attitude.
TFSR: I know that this is an issue that people have talked about at the Northwest Detention Center outside of Tacoma. It’s a privately facility run GEO Group. But you’ve described dealing with ICE employees as guards, it sounds like. But also there are these contracted medical professionals at times. Is your experience in these facilities different according to the facility? Are you mostly dealing with federal employees, or are you dealing with contractors?
Ángel: At these facilities, we mostly deal with contractors. The housing unit officers are contracted security officers. ICE agents just deal with your case from an office, basically. And they’re around in the building, and sometimes you’ll see them. Sometimes they show up. It was very rare in Prairieland, but here in Otero, it’s regular that an ICE representative or agent comes and asks people, “What do you want to know about your case?” They’ll scan your ID and tell you, “We’re waiting on this paperwork, or your next court date is on this date. In my personal experience with Otero ICE agent, meetings that they have where they come and visit, once or twice a week, I’ve been told that I’ll be responded to on my ICE requests on the tablet with all the questions that I have, but that has yet to happen, and all my ICE requests on the tablet since I’ve gotten here have been ignored. It’s a very slow process, and you have to take every chance you get to get one little piece of information. Seeing the actual ICE agents is very rare, but most people are contracted that you’re dealing with on a day-to-day basis. All the lieutenants, all the corrections officers, those are all contracted. The medical team is also contracted. It just depends on the facility that you’re at, too. I’m not sure if it’s a guard that’s cooking our food, but they have little chef suits, so maybe they contracted a chef that cooks for detained people, because the food here in Otero is much better than Prairieland. It’s not great, but it’s definitely an upgrade from other detention centers. I think it just would vary from detention center to detention center, but I would say, normally, most people that you’re dealing with are contracted.
TFSR: Do you want to address the question of your deportation, what you’re leaving behind, or do you want to try to get some folks around you on the call. I don’t know if you’re able to do that there. You sounded interested in doing that before.
Ángel: That would be really cool. I’m not sure who can speak English, though.
TFSR: That’s cool. But if somebody does want to speak, if they speak slowly, I can get someone to translate and do a voiceover, at least for the podcast version, if you want that. But if that sounds complicated, we could work it out a separate call some other time, with a little more planning.
Ángel: Definitely, I’d be very down to help you with that. There’s definitely people that have a fresh interest in speaking to y’all, but the majority of them are Spanish speakers. They know a limited amount of English, but there’s other people from other countries that don’t speak Spanish. I would really love to uplift their voices, since they don’t get heard even as much as the Spanish speakers do.
TFSR: Maybe get someone who can speak French, Mandarin or Creole? Or others beyond those?
Ángel: There’s a lot Russians, Romanians, people from many different countries in Africa that speak many different languages. There are some Indigenous people from all kinds of different countries that speak their native language. Yeah, Mandarin. There are people from Georgia. There’s all kinds of people from all over the world here, and some I haven’t been able to talk to. I don’t know the language they speak, but I would love to be able to get their stories out as well.
TFSR: Then I guess if we don’t have the time, and I would do that, too, if we had time, but it would just be extra process for finding someone who could speak the language to be able to translate. But I’d be down to try. I do have a lot of comrades that do translation work in various languages. Maybe the final question here: If you’re not fighting your deportation, you just got finished with time in federal prison after the 2020 uprising, and then got swept up into ICE detention towards deportation, I know you had a lot of time incarcerated in the United States at the end of your stay, but 22 years of being in this country has to have built a lot of memories, a lot of relationships, a lot of affinity. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind speaking a little bit about some of the things and the people that you’re leaving behind that you feel comfortable talking about and what awaits you when you get to Chile.
Ángel: Yeah, of course. I’m very sad to leave all my relationships, all my family, my community here in the United States. I lost my relationship. I lost my communities, I lost my housing, even my dog I have to leave behind. All the community work that I’ve done. Everybody that I know, everything that I’ve ever known, I’ve had to leave behind. I feel very heartbroken about that. However, I also feel really grateful for my community and my loved ones for showing me undying support. A lot of these people, too, are people that I’ve never even met, but I’ve had such an immense pouring of love and support in any way that people can offer me. So now, towards the end of my incarceration and processing all of these emotions that I’ve been feeling, I mostly feel gratitude toward all the people that I’m going to have to leave behind.
I feel excited to meet my family, too, although I’m also scared of how my countrymen and how my family will receive me because I left as a little girl in a dress. And I’m coming back like a super radical, butch lesbian on T. So I’m thankful that my mom, my immediate family have come around to accepting me, but I’m still a little afraid of how the rest of my community will receive me. But my hopes are high, and I know that I’ll be all right. Even my community here has reached out to any community in Chile that travels back and forth from the US that they’ve been able to talk to, to make sure that I have people that I could speak English with or gay and trans people that I could talk to that are also Chilean, so that I’m not a complete fish out of water in my own country.
It’s a lot of emotions. It’s a lot of grief and anger that I feel every day. It’s a whirlwind of emotions. But being incarcerated has made me incredibly resilient, because my worst nightmares have come true. And I can’t lose my my head. I can’t lose my mind in a time that is so dark in my life. I have to remain strong, and as a revolutionary, this is the path that I’ve chosen to take, and I don’t regret a single thing that I’ve done because all of it, I would give up in the name for liberation of all people. And I’m also grateful that I’ve gotten the chance to help so many people here in detention that otherwise would have been pushed to the side if they didn’t happen to have a translator, somebody that was just willing to risk a lot. And I’m grateful that I get to take that role, and I know that I’ll see all of this pain through and a lot of love awaits me. So I know that I’ll be all right. I feel fine already, even though that there’s a cacophony of emotion inside of me at all times. I know that I’m doing it for the right reasons. So ultimately, I feel all right.