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April of 2003 was the worst month in my life; it marked the beginning of a life I had never expected would come. After serving two years in San Quentin for moving my wife's mangled body to the local hospital after an auto accident, as if it were not enough, the U.S. government was now taking me into seperate custody for violating my status as a resident alien and deporting me.

I began my life here in California as a child in 1958. After my mother married a naval man who had been stationed in Bermuda, we moved to the U.S. and began what most would call a destiny. In 1941 Kindly Air Force Base opened in Bermuda, and then in 1970 the United States Navy took over until 1995 when the bases were closed down completely. I cannot understand how a naval man would be stationed in Bermuda in 1958 when the navy hadn't occupied the island until 1970.
My childhood had been a typical one, but instead of accepting it that way, I chose to find fault in the arrangement, and patterned my life as if I were on a quest to correct the inconsistencies. There never a moment of contentment, only during the times when other activities dominated my central consciousness.
After ninety days in a federal detention center, a place populated by the loud chatter of non-English speaking immigrants, I had enough. I could have stayed the usual year fighting the deportation, but the harsh living conditions made the removal that much more welcomed, and besides I had given the U.S. my life both militarily and economically and if this is what I get for making a humanistic decision, then screw the U.S. and send me back where I could salvage what little life I had left.
At six in the morning on April of 2003 I was awakened from my sleep at the Oakland city jail where those in transit to their respective countries spent their last days. The sound of clattering keys from the jailer was a welcomed tune; I would be leaving and dam glad to be.
"Your in transit Gibbons, back to beautiful Bermuda you lucky devil," one of the agents from Homeland Security said.
"Well, what I can say," I responded, "You give and still they take."
"Grab all your belongings, this is the last time you'll be here," Agent Marks said.
I gabbed all I had, a few personal papers, new pair of sneakers, sweat pants, and a tee-shirt. These were all the items Homeland Security allowed me to take. I was shackled and shoved into the back of a van and driven to San Francisco to await the departure of my flight,

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