You Know Him as a Criminal. I Know Him as Noah.

This article comes by way of Empowerment Avenue, a nonprofit that works to normalize the inclusion of incarcerated writers and artists in mainstream venues by bridging the gap between them as a path to decarceration and public safety. — The Editors

IN A DIMLY lit room, Noah sits hunched over his half-finished masterpiece. The canvas comes alive under his skilled hand, revealing the weathered face of an old field worker — the grandfather of a dear friend. Every stroke tells a tale of resilience, etching lines of wisdom and hardship that speak to a life often overlooked. As the evening unfolds, Noah’s focused concentration becomes a beacon, drawing curious onlookers who gather around to witness the birth of art.

This is how I think of Bonifacio Alcantar-Maldonado, who I know by his prison handle, “Noah.”

Known outside by his childhood nickname “Junior,” Alcantar-Maldonado is incarcerated at the Washington Corrections Center in Shelton, Wash., where I am serving a life sentence. His life is now defined by two cruel political realities — heartless immigration policies and harsh criminal laws. His story illustrates the waste of human potential by a politics that promotes fear of those struggling in other countries and at home.

JUNIOR WAS BORN in Colima on the central Pacific coast of Mexico. When he was born in 1984, his dad was a day laborer and veterinarian and his mom was a chef who once owned her own restaurant. Unemployment in Mexico was high in the early 1980s, and his dad wanted a better life for his wife, son, and two daughters. So, in 1986, they put all their resources into hiring a coyote (a human smuggler) to lead them through the Sonoran Desert and eventually to Texas.

The trip was not without risk: While the U.S.-Mexico border is less patrolled in desert locations, desert crossings also come with a higher fatality rate because of the dangerous climate and terrain.

“Those who could afford the coyote’s fees were considered fortunate,” he told me. “The investment required everything — every penny, every ounce of effort, and the risk of our lives. But the alternative was poverty and a community overrun with warring cartel factions.”

Junior was 2 years old and undocumented when he arrived in the United States. When he was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder, he qualified for medical benefits. For reasons that aren’t clear, that led to him being issued a Social Security card that would later allow him to work even though he wasn’t a permanent legal resident or citizen.

From Texas, the family settled in the Tri-Cities in southeast Washington, working in agriculture and packing. His parents furnished their modest living space and clothed the family with help from the Society of St. Vincent de Paul.

JUNIOR GREW UP outside of Richland, Wash., where he went to school and played sports. English became his primary language. He spoke Spanish on occasion to appease his parents, who taught him to have pride in his Mexican heritage. Still, he felt American, dressed “like an American,” and talked “like an American.” But after Junior’s uncle was taken by Immigration and Naturalization Service agents, the fear of being deported became a constant anxiety, and he started to feel less American and more like an unwanted Mexican.

There was an obvious racial divide in his elementary school. The white kids loved when police came to the school to lead the D.A.R.E. anti-drug program, but the brown kids were less excited. “To us, when cops were around, our loved ones disappeared,” Junior said. “La Migra,we called them, the cops in green.” Junior recalled how the white kids could often be cruel, taunting them with, “We’re gonna call immigration on you, wetback!”

Junior’s parents divorced when he was 10, and his mom returned to Mexico. He stayed with his dad, who taught him to overcome adversity through a strong work ethic and personal responsibility. Junior worked steadily from the age of 16, contributing to rent and sending half of each paycheck to his mom and sisters in Mexico.

By summer 2000, Junior was a trained lifeguard and held local records in swimming. But discrimination was part of everyday life. He said that he interviewed for a lifeguard position at a prestigious club and was passed over in favor of a white teenager who couldn’t swim as well as he could.

Junior finished school with good grades, but limited financial resources and an uncertain legal status derailed any college plans. After being turned down by military recruiters because he was undocumented, he went to work. He became a certified welder and got a job with a major electrical and mechanical engineering firm at the Hanford nuclear site outside of Richland. He got married, and his daughter was born in 2010. Junior said that although he’s always felt like he was “too Mexican to be American and too American to be Mexican,” he finally felt like he was living the American Dream. But the dream would turn out to be short-lived.

BY 2012, JUNIOR and his wife had decided to divorce, sharing joint custody of their daughter. With the rise in shootings and increased gang activity near his home in the Tri-Cities, Junior said he was increasingly concerned about safety, and so he bought a gun and obtained a concealed-carry permit.

One day, when Junior picked up his daughter from the babysitter, it appeared his ex-wife had dropped her off without shoes. Later that evening, Junior bathed his daughter and noticed bruises on her body. He said that she told him, “Mommy’s boyfriend hurt me.” That night, he went to her house to find out if the bruises on his daughter had happened under his ex-wife’s supervision.

News reports indicate that he forcibly entered his ex-wife’s house. Junior said he was sucker-punched by his ex-wife’s boyfriend, which led to a fight. Medical reports show that his ex-wife’s boyfriend suffered multiple facial injuries, soft tissue swelling, bruises, lacerations on the face, and a bruise on his shoulder. Junior was charged with using his gun to strike his ex-wife’s boyfriend, and he was convicted of first-degree assault with a firearm enhancement and sentenced to 15 years in prison. Junior said his attorney put little effort into his case.

Junior acknowledges that it was a mistake to go to the house and bring the gun, and he accepts responsibility for his part in the fight. But he did not fire the gun, and he had no previous record of violence and no association with gangs. Firearm enhancements — added prison time if someone had a firearm during the commission of a crime — were passed starting in the 1990s during the wave of anti-drug policies and “tough on crime” legislation such as mandatory minimum sentences and three-strikes laws. Whatever the overall value of any of these policies, I believe the severity of Junior’s sentence was out of proportion to the offense.

Compounding Junior’s predicament is his undocumented immigration status, which led the U.S. government to begin deportation proceedings. The political controversy over immigration is particularly intense these days, but the United States has long struggled to create and implement a sensible and humane policy. Undocumented immigrants often are exploited for cheap labor while simultaneously demonized as threats. And even when immigrants manage to build a life in this country, they remain at risk.

As of September 2023, there were 569 federal immigration holds in the Washington State Department of Corrections. Alarmingly, the state spends more than $63,000 per inmate per year to house and reform prisoners, yet it does not allocate any funds toward preparing individuals for deportation. This lack of investment in reintegration and transitional support exacerbates the difficulties faced by those, like Junior, who find themselves at the crossroads of incarceration and deportation. Addressing these systemic shortcomings is crucial to fostering a more just and humane approach that considers the holistic well-being of individuals within the criminal justice and immigration systems.

Politicians keep running on tough-on-crime and tough-on-immigration platforms, but polling suggests that the public is less draconian. Today, most voters in both parties want criminal justice reforms, and for years Americans have told pollsters they believe immigration is good for the country. But the harsh laws and policies that exist today mean Junior has little hope of helping raise his daughter. And if he is deported to Mexico, he will live in a country where he will be a stranger.

“All I’ve ever wanted to do was build a family and live the American Dream,” he said. “After things unraveled with my daughter’s mom, my focus became my little girl. She is my whole world, and now I can’t hold, protect, raise, or watch her grow.”

Junior ponders how things fell apart. “I’m serving a 15-year sentence for wanting my daughter to be safe,” he said. “She was 2 years old, telling me that a strange man was hurting her. I saw the bruises. I saw the fear in her eyes. But now look at me. How can I protect her now? There were other options, if I had just stopped and thought about it. I’m thankful I didn’t hurt him worse. I’m thankful the gun didn’t go off. Violence should never be the solution. I regret my decision every day. I don’t wish anything bad upon him. I want my daughter to be safe.”

Because he and his ex-wife are estranged, Junior is realistic about the small chance that his daughter will visit him in Mexico after his deportation. He may have trouble finding a job because he never registered for the Mexican draft. And because he doesn’t speak Spanish fluently, basic communication will be a struggle.

Junior remembers his father’s desire to keep him safe, away from the cartels. “Success for my dad meant risking everything to come to America. In his heart that made us Americans,” Junior said. “But sadly, the closest title I’ve ever gotten to being an American is being a ‘Dreamer.’”

THE TERM "DREAMER" comes from the Development Relief and Education for Alien Minors Act, a bill first introduced in 2001 to grant temporary residency to undocumented immigrants who entered the United States as minors, with a path to permanent residency. The bill never passed into law, but the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program, an executive policy initiated by President Obama in 2012, deferred the possibility of deportation for people who were brought to the United States as children. Today, that policy’s future is being debated, but the result of those legal and political struggles won’t affect the man I now know as Noah. He wasn’t in school when the program started, which was one of the requirements. That means his deportation is almost inevitable when his sentence concludes in less than two years.

Barring a miracle, he fully expects to be intercepted by Immigration and Custom Enforcement agents and transported from prison to an ICE facility. There, he can either sign an order agreeing to be flown to an undisclosed location in Mexico or contest and plead to stay. However, asking to stay, even after his expired prison sentence, can mean months, or in some cases years, of additional confinement within a detention center, which is like still being in prison.

Noah could petition for a governor’s pardon, a rare remedy sought by few in Noah’s position and received by less. In essence, a pardon would forgive a criminal act in order to remedy a broken immigration system.

Noah’s engagement with the justice system does not negate the fact that this country is his home. “The only flag I’ve ever pledged allegiance to is the American flag,” he said. “I’m an American being sent to a foreign land run by criminal cartels.”

THE SOFT GLOW from a nearby window casts a warm light on Noah’s canvas, illuminating the intricate details and subtle nuances of his subject’s story. His art becomes a powerful bridge, inviting observers to step into a world where the ordinary becomes extraordinary and where stories untold find a voice in the strokes of his brush. With each prayer whispered in the quiet moments and every stroke on the canvas, he weaves a narrative of endurance and belief that transcends the physical confines of his surroundings.

Today I know Bonifacio Alcantar-Maldonado by his prison handle, Noah — “No One As Humble.” “I’m not here to fall prey to the awful design of this system,” Noah told me, with firm resolve. “I’m determined to be the man that God has called me to be, and the father that my daughter needs, even if she’s out there alone and without me. I want her to be proud of me. And I want to help people and have the same mercy on them that God has shown me.”