Every other weekend, I pack a suitcase: a sketchbook, laptop, homework, clothes and my navy blue U.S. passport. That's my ticket to see my dad who has been living alone in Tijuana, Mexico, for the last six years.
Apá, as I call him, was deported when I was 11 years old and my family's life has never been the same. Separation defines our routine — the stress, the traffic, the hellos and the goodbyes.
Every time I see my dad, I get emocionada — like excited but emotional at the same time. Apá is 46 years old. He's not very tall, but he didn't seem so short six years ago.