Editor’s note
The Colorado Sun has been hosting fellows selected by the International Center for Journalists almost since our founding in 2018. One of our first fellows, a journalist from Costa Rica, livened up our first birthday party by creating a photo booth complete with sparkly hats and fake mustaches. We’ve since hosted journalists, usually for about a month, from Peru, Colombia, Russia and, this year, the Caribbean island of Saint Vincent. In turn, two Colorado Sun reporters had the opportunity to travel to South America — one to Peru and another to Argentina — through the program intended to foster greater understanding of the responsibility of the free press and sustainable media business models. The ICFJ is a nonprofit funded through grants, donations and federal dollars.
The United States has always been the place where opportunity lives for people back home in Saint Vincent and the Grenadines and the wider Caribbean region. Growing up, we heard the stories: cousins, aunts, uncles and friends who got green cards or citizenship, sending money home, sponsoring relatives, opening doors that felt forever closed on our islands.
That image stuck. Even now, when I tell people I’m here on a J-1 visa, participating in the International Center For Journalists’ Emerging Media Leaders fellowship, their eyes light up: “You’re doing great things!”
For more than a decade, I’ve been coming to the U.S. almost every year, and for most of that time, it felt like slipping into a second home. Family visits, being in transit and sometimes unwinding made America familiar, welcoming and exciting.
This time, though, something feels different. I arrived in Washington, D.C., on Jan. 14, and from day one, I’ve carried my passport everywhere. Not because I tend to forget it, but because I’m scared to leave it behind.
The first time I walked out without it was an accident. I was heading out to explore D.C. when this nagging feeling hit, like I’d left my phone or wallet at home. I turned around, went back to the room and slipped the passport into my coat pocket. That was three weeks ago. Now it’s automatic. My passport comes with me to the symphony, the ski slope, the supermarket, everywhere. In a country I’ve visited so many times, that small blue booklet has now become my constant companion. Not out of carelessness, but out of a quiet, persistent anxiety that is hard to shake in today’s America.
The Emerging Media Leaders fellowship, a program that brought me from the sunny shores of my home to the snowy streets of Washington, D.C., and on to Denver, is an incredible opportunity. It offers workshops on digital storytelling, visits to newsrooms and connections with journalists from across the globe. But even as I soak it all in, the shadow of the current administration’s stance on immigration looms large.
President Donald Trump’s second term has ramped up the rhetoric on borders and enforcement, with once vague talk morphing into one of mass deportations and stricter visa scrutiny. For someone like me, a Black man from a small Caribbean island, it’s not abstract policy. It’s a reminder that one wrong move, one misplaced document, could turn a dream fellowship into a nightmare. My passport gives me a glimmer of comfort: If I were questioned by federal immigration authorities, I could produce lawful evidence of my legal status in the country, although, based on news reports I’ve seen so far, that is not a guarantee that I would not be detained.
Take last week at Eldora Mountain Ski Resort. I was there for my first snowboarding lesson, bundled up against the Colorado chill, learning to carve turns. But tucked in my jacket’s inner pocket? My passport. It was there when I hit the gym the day before, sweating through a workout. And it rode along to the Colorado Symphony the week prior, where I caught a performance that blended classical pieces with modern twists. Even mundane errands, like picking up groceries at a nearby King Soopers, feel different with that extra weight in my pocket.
Visiting the U.S. in years past was all excitement: exploring cities, meeting people, and no second thoughts about documents. But the climate has shifted. Stories of ICE checkpoints, random ID requests and visa holders caught in bureaucratic webs have made me cautious.
In Denver, a welcoming and diverse city, I still find myself double-checking my bag before leaving the hotel. It’s not paranoia; it’s preparation. What if a routine traffic stop turns into something more? What if a concert or recital has unexpected security? Carrying my passport isn’t just practical, it’s peace of mind.
New friends here have noticed. “You’re really taking that everywhere?” one asked over drinks after the Friends of Chamber Music piano recital at Gates Concert Hall.
I nodded, explaining how, back home in St. Vincent and the Grenadines, we deal with our own uncertainties: hurricanes, volcanic eruptions and economic ups and downs. But immigration anxiety is a new layer when you’re abroad. It’s exhausting, this low hum of vigilance, but it’s also a sign of how much I value these opportunities. The fellowship has me embedded in Denver’s media scene, learning from pros at news outlets like this one, and I don’t want anything to cut it short.
Yet there are moments that cut through the anxiety. On Super Bowl Sunday, I watched Bad Bunny take the halftime stage in New Orleans. The performance was electric. Reggaeton blasting, Caribbean flags waving (my country’s included), Bad Bunny himself unapologetic and proud.
He didn’t shy away from the politics; he leaned in. Lines about identity, resistance and belonging hit hard, especially when the crowd roared back. For a few minutes, America felt bigger again, less like a place of checkpoints and more like a stage where voices from the margins could be loud and celebrated.
That halftime show gave me hope. Not naive hope, but the kind that reminds me why I keep coming back: because even in tense times, there are spaces where people like me, Caribbean, Black, visitor, can be seen, heard and valued. Bad Bunny didn’t just perform; he claimed space. And in doing so, he reminded me that the America I fell in love with over a decade ago still exists in flashes, even if it takes courage to find it.
On another positive note, Denver continues to surprise me with its warmth. The National Western Stock Show was loud, crowded and welcoming in a way that reminded me of home festivals. It was the first time I saw cowboy boots, hats and exaggerated belt buckles in person, and I conversed with people who shared tips on surviving Colorado’s winter. The symphony was beautiful, the piano recital intimate and moving, the snowboarding exhilarating. These moments are why I still believe in the possibility here.
In conversations with locals, I’ve shared a bit about life in the Caribbean, turning my anxiety into dialogue. Maybe that’s the point: In uncertain times, we carry more than documents — we carry our stories, too.