I took in a Honduran refugee. It was no big deal—really.
By John Anderson Honduran migrant Jose Macy carries his four-year-old nephew Yair Perez as the thousands-strong caravan of Central Americans migrants hoping to reach the U.S. border moves onward from Juchitan, Oaxaca state, Mexico, Thursday, Nov. 1, 2018. (AP Photo/Rodrigo Abd) On a recent Saturday afternoon, I took my Honduran houseguest, Gerardo, for a haircut at my favorite non-salon, the one with the barber pole and the bottles of complimentary liquor and where a Brooklyn hipster can lose his Old Testament beard for about $8. Gerardo had looked O.K. to me, but he was pretty eager to get tidied up. I guess six months in a detention center will do that to you. The woman I live with never thinks she does enough for other people; she is a civil rights lawyer who devotes much of her time to immigration cases, and as far as I can tell, she saves people’s lives on a regular basis. On election night in 2016, she literally wept, knowing how much worse things were going to bec...