When not wrangling copy for the MoJo crew, Ian writes about immigration, sports, and Latin America. His work has appeared in ESPN the Magazine, Wired, and Slate. Got a comment or a tip? Email him: igordon [at] motherjones [dot] com.
A Salvadoran immigrant is searched on the tarmac in Mesa, Arizona, before boarding an ICE repatriation flight in June 2012.
In Guatemala City, the deportation flights come in twice a day, at 11:30 a.m. and 6:30 p.m. Nearly 50,000 Guatemalan nationals returned to their homeland on ICE Air in fiscal 2013; they landed at the Air Force airport, not the adjacent La Aurora International Airport, where baggage claim flat screens greeted me with Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA" when I visited a few months ago.
See MoJo's full coverage of the surge of unaccompanied child migrants from Central America.
I traveled there to see why so many Guatemalan kids—8,068 Border Patrol apprehensions in fiscal year 2013, more than a 400 percent increase since fiscal 2011—have been trying to come to the United States on their own, and to find out to what happened to the ones who were sent back. For years, the Guatemalan government virtually ignored these repatriated children. It was up to them to figure out how to get home or find someplace else to live. Then, in 2012, a surge of unaccompanied kids from Central America arrived at the US border, and Guatemalan first lady Rosa Leal de Pérez turned child migrants into her signature issue.
Now, when kids arrive without someone waiting for them or family nearby, they're brought to Nuestras Raíces, a narrow colonial building not far from the Palacio Nacional. With its unmarked yellow facade and posters of smiling Mayan kids accompanied by biblical quotes, Nuestras Raíces is a cheery way station for the migrants, who are allowed to stay for up to 72 hours. They get to eat warm, familiar food, sleep in comfy-looking bunk beds, watch DVDs in an airy living room—and ponder what's next: how to get home, but also what to do about paying off smuggling debts in the thousands of dollars, or whether to head north once again. One time, a seven-year-old girl showed up scared, saying she didn't know anything about Guatemala. "But you're from here," said confused shelter employees. "What do you mean?" It turns out that the girl's father was Guatemalan, but her mother was Salvadoran, and she'd been raised in El Salvador by her aunt. The US government had sent her to the wrong country.
The day I visit, Nuestras Raíces is spotless and empty. A staffer tells me that when parents do arrive to gather their kids, they are shown a video about migration and its effects. Many are Mayan, from communities in the western highlands, an area ravaged by the 36-year civil war that now struggles to combat narcoviolence. The government has plans to check in with the kids afterward, but no one knows how that'll get funded. At least Guatemala has a couple of shelters in place; neither El Salvador nor Honduras has much of anything for kids deported from the United States. (One report, from 2008, claimed that in Honduras' second-largest city, San Pedro Sula, "their common practice is to simply release children to their own devices.")
Nuestras Raíces in Guatemala City only takes kids deported from the United States and northern Mexico—far enough away they have to be flown back to Guatemala. There's another Nuestras Raíces shelter five hours away in the country's second-biggest city, Quetzaltenango (known to locals by its ancient nickname, Xela), that receives thousands of kids deported by bus from southern Mexico. Xela is full of Mayans, backpackers, and NGOs, including Una Vida Digna, one of the partners in the Guatemalan repatriation and reintegration project managed by Kids in Need of Defense (KIND), a DC-based nonprofit that helps connect unaccompanied immigrant kids with pro bono attorneys. A two-person shop run by social worker Anna Aziza Grewe and Mayan spiritual guide Carlos Escalante, Una Vida Digna works to help deported Mayan youth fit back into their home communities.
A day after chatting over coffee and sweet rolls at Escalante's house, on a rough cobblestone road a short walk from Xela's center, he and Grewe invited me to a site visit in Totonicapán, a small city about an hour away. It was a cool, gray day, and upon arriving in town we walked five or six blocks from the bus terminal to a little shop surrounded by similar little shops: kites of all shapes and sizes framed the doorway, and a wall of sweet, salty, canned, caffeinated, and carbonated treats met us as soon as we stepped in. Behind the barricaded counter stood a short K'iche' teen dressed head-to-toe in black, bangs slicing across his mahogany brow. His name was Luis, and months earlier he'd been deported from the United States.
One report, from 2008, claimed that in Honduras' second-largest city, San Pedro Sula, "their common practice is to simply release children to their own devices."
Luis had gone to the United States with his uncle. After crossing near McAllen, Texas, they were separated and eventually caught. Luis spent three months in ORR custody, taking classes and putting up with Salvadoran boys he thought too "vain." That's where he heard about KIND, too, and how he got hooked up with Una Vida Digna following his deportation. Meanwhile, Luis' uncle tried again, and made it, but Luis stayed behind in Totonicapán, where he now ran the uncle's store.
As we sat on plastic stools behind the junk-food-laden counter and I asked questions about Luis' hours at the store (open to close, 6:30 a.m. to 10 p.m.) and his take-home pay (nothing, though his uncle pays for him to be in the equivalent of middle school), Escalante sat to the side, his brow furrowing deeper the more Luis talked. "Don't you have to bring something home to your mom?" he asked at one point. Luis blinked, and then talked about how his stepdad paid for everything at home, and how his uncle bought him whatever he needed outside of the store. "Even your underwear?" Grewe joked. Escalante, measured, asked, "Do you feel good about that?"
Escalante wanted Luis to take control of his life, to ask for a wage and to use that money to pay his own way, maybe get a room, think about the future. He talked to Luis about keeping an eye on which products moved and which gathered dust, about not letting friends take advantage of him, about shopping at the storehouses in Xela where coffee was cheapest. About doing all the things that would make this itty-bitty business at least profitable enough to keep Luis from deciding once again to risk it all and head north.
But if he did decide to try again, to leave behind Totonicapán and meet up with his uncle in New York? "We don't measure our success on whether they stay or they go," Escalante had told me earlier. There were just too many factors—substandard education, particularly—that kept rural Mayan kids from getting ahead.
With that in mind, the next day I made one more trip up into mountains. After heading to San Marcos, an hour and a half west of Xela, I hopped a chicken bus due north. We jostled along on a winding highland road, sardined six-across in the retired Blue Bird school bus. A Mexican gangster movie's pinche cabrones blared over the speakers as we paused in a way station called Tejutla to load Mam women lugging bags full from the day's market. A handful of hairpin turns later, the town was nothing but a dusty grid in the green valley below.
Soon enough, the bus shuddered to a stop on a curve carved out of the hillside. This was La Cumbre, the hamlet where Audelina Aguilar—a senior at San Francisco International High School, where I met several students who'd immigrated to the United States alone—and her brothers grew up. (Read more about Aguilar's dangerous solo journey to the United States.) The heaving diesel coughed me out onto the road, and across the way her father, Don Israel, was leaning against a low wall, backlit by the afternoon sun. He'd been expecting us, sort of, for a week.
"We don't measure our success on whether they stay or they go," said Carlos Escalante, who works with deported Mayan youth in Guatemala.
Israel's wife, Doña Eva, made her way over to us with a little boy, about two years old, hiding behind her corte. As we settled into white plastic chairs on the patio between two buildings, the first a traditional, one-story whitewashed adobe home typical to the highlands, the other a two-story cinder block structure painted yellow with red trim, Israel nodded to the smaller house behind us. "That's where we used to live," he said. "Nothing but adobe." On one side of the house, field mice had burrowed a bunch of holes in a corner.
It was already late in the day, and I knew I'd have to get back on the road soon if I had any chance of making the trip back to Xela. But I'd come to talk to them about what it was like watching four of their teenage children—Osvaldo at 15, Audelina at 14, Roberto at 16, and, most recently, Aníbal at 16—leave for the United States by themselves.
Corn, potatoes, and wheat filled the fields that sloped down away from the house and toward the horizon. Israel had been to the United States; he was in Alabama before the state adopted its draconian anti-immigrant law. But he was caught by local authorities in 2005, and after 20 days in jail, he found himself back in Guatemala. He worked in the fields and hauled construction materials, but with so many kids—when I asked how many, Israel and Eva went back and forth (four there, seven—no, eight—no, seven, here), laughing—it was hard to keep them all fed and clothed. As for whether they thought any more of their kids would attempt to go north in the near future, they couldn't be sure.
"Who knows?" Don Israel said matter-of-factly. "The decision is theirs. Maybe if they get some help from there—" he said, nodding up at the sky, at an invisible but implied San Francisco—"because here money's scarce. There isn't any."
In a doorless desert safe house in northwestern Mexico, the drug traffickers sized up the boy—17 years old, 1,700 miles from home, gay, alone—and asked if he was too scared to strap on a load of marijuana and walk across the border into Arizona.
The kid—I'll call him Adrián—paused to consider his options. He didn't have any. Okay, he told them. He'd do it.
See MoJo's full coverage of the surge of unaccompanied child migrants from Central America.
He'd grown up mostly on the streets in Guatemala City, his abusive father a crack addict and his mother everywhere but around, leaving him with a thin, green-eyed prostitute friend who would sometimes have sex with johns right there next to him. He'd seen robberies, stabbings, shootings; he'd never once set foot in a classroom. Eventually he started making a little money selling clothes and makeup in the city's colonial district. It wasn't much, but even so the Barrio 18 street gang took notice and started asking for a cut. When Adrián didn't budge, they pockmarked his tiny stall with bullets. It was time to leave.
Just like that, Adrián became part of an explosion of child migrants traveling alone to sneak into the United States, a group government officials and advocates have begun referring to, with alarm, as "the surge." The number of undocumented children—mostly teens, but some as young as five—apprehended crossing the border without parents or guardians has more than doubled in the past two years, while the number of adults caught at the border increased just 18 percent. On June 2, President Obama described it as an "urgent humanitarian situation," asking Congress for an additional $1.4 billion to deal with the influx and creating a multiagency taskforce, led by the Federal Emergency Management Agency, to coordinate the federal response.
The surge was already in full swing by the time Adrián started on his path north, in December 2012. He took a bus to the Mexico-Guatemala border, crossed the Suchiate River by inner tube into the state of Chiapas, and stole a bike to pedal to the city of Tapachula. He walked 150 miles north, making sure to skirt La Arrocera, a broad swath of scrubland known for migrant kidnappings and assaults. He slept on the doorstep of a church after finding the migrant shelter burned to the ground.
Then, in the town of Arriaga, he hopped aboard La Bestia, the infamous freight train that many migrants ride to the US border despite the often-repeated horror stories: the surging wheels that slice through people who slip trying to jump on moving boxcars, or fall off while sleeping; the thieves who go car to car with machetes or .38s; the night raids from Mexican law enforcement as well as kidnappers sent by Los Zetas.
Adrián rode La Bestia to Guadalajara, where he spent a sleepless Christmas night on a sidewalk. He got back on and rode for days until reaching Monterrey, where he was forced off the train when someone attacked him with a machete because he was gay. He fled barefoot on the trackside gravel and walked an hour to a village, where, his feet bleeding, he pleaded for a pair of shoes.
He begged for money. He sold newspapers. He even sold his body for $50. He headed north to the border at Nuevo Laredo; when he couldn't get across, he moved backward, 450 miles south to San Luis Potosí, 200 miles west to Guadalajara once more, before heading another 1,000 miles north to the Sonora Desert, finally ending up in that decrepit safe house near the border.
So when it was time to make his final push across the line, and the traffickers asked if he was too scared to continue, Adrián said no. Fear, after all, was driving him forward.
Although some have traveled from as far away as Sri Lanka and Tanzania, the bulk are minors from Mexico and from Central America's so-called Northern Triangle—Guatemala, Honduras, and El Salvador, which together account for 74 percent of the surge. Long plagued by instability and unrest, these countries have grown especially dangerous in recent years: Honduras imploded following a military coup in 2009 and now has the world's highest murder rate. El Salvador has the second-highest, despite the 2012 gang truce between Mara Salvatrucha and Barrio 18. Guatemala, new territory for the Zetas cartel, has the fifth-highest murder rate; meanwhile, the cost of tortillas has doubled as corn prices have skyrocketed due to increased American ethanol production (Guatemala imports half of its corn) and the conversion of farmland to sugarcane and oil palm for biofuel.
Many of the kids are coming to help a family in crushing poverty. Some are trying to join a parent who left years ago, before the recession and increased border enforcement slowed down adult immigration. Still others are leaving because of violence from family members and gangs. According to a report from the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, 58 percent of the 400 youth the agency interviewed "had suffered, been threatened, or feared serious harm" that might merit international protection. "This is becoming less like an immigration issue and much more like a refugee issue," says Wendy Young, executive director of Kids in Need of Defense (KIND), a DC-based nonprofit that helps unaccompanied immigrant kids find pro bono legal services. "Because this really is a forced migration. This is not kids choosing voluntarily to leave."
This year, a record number of unaccompanied minors are expected to be caught at the border—74,000, as many as all the kids in Dallas' middle and high schools.
US authorities have struggled with how to handle the tens of thousands of kids who end up caught by the Border Patrol. Those coming from Mexico are taken straight back across. The rest are referred to the Department of Health and Human Services' Office of Refugee Resettlement (rather than being put in immigration detention with adults) and placed in temporary shelters while their deportation proceedings get under way.
Journalists aren't allowed into these shelters "for safety reasons," an ORR spokeswoman told me—due to concerns about trafficking victims, the agency goes to great lengths to conceal the exact locations of its facilities. It also forbids the groups that run them, including Catholic Charities and Southwest Key, from commenting on the issue. It took me a Freedom of Information Act request to obtain basic statistics, like the number of facilities (80) and the average time kids stay in the shelters (45 days in 2013, down from 72 in 2011).
Susan Terrio, a Georgetown University anthropologist, visited 19 shelters over four years before the government cut off her access. She found an almost hermetically sealed system: "The kids were never left unattended. They went to school inside, they played sports inside, and they only got out for supervised outings in the community or for medical and mental-health appointments." Maria Woltjen, director of the Young Center for Immigrant Children's Rights, says that as a result, unaccompanied children are essentially invisible: "Nobody in Chicago knows there are 400 kids detained in our midst. You walk by, and you think it's just an old nursing home, and it's actually all these immigrant kids who are detained inside."
In fiscal 2011, ORR had 53 shelters that housed 6,560 kids. By 2013, there were 80 shelters with nearly 25,000 unaccompanied children. The surge was so unexpected that when it first began, the feds temporarily put hundreds of kids in emergency dormitories at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio. According to a report from the Women's Refugee Commission, "the facility looked and felt like an emergency hurricane shelter." As recently as May, shelters in South Texas were so crowded that ORR was sending hundreds of kids to Lackland, which has room for 1,000.
The majority of shelters are in border states, often hours from big cities, which means it's even harder for kids to find legal representation and stave off being sent back to the dangerous situations they fled. When KIND first started its pro bono work, Young says, it estimated that three-quarters of all unaccompanied kids received no legal representation. KIND was able to get that number to 50 percent, she says, but given the influx, "I fear now that we've slipped backwards quite dramatically."
Nonprofits like KIND say the government should appoint lawyers for unaccompanied children, noting that many actually qualify for legal status via asylum, special immigrant juvenile status (for abandoned, abused, or neglected kids), or visas set aside for victims of crimes or trafficking. But proposals in that vein, by lawmakers including Sen. Mary Landrieu (D-La.), have gone nowhere.
In mid-December, I visited the immigration court in Harlingen, Texas, a squat beige building that sits in the shadow of crisscrossing highway overpasses a few miles from the Rio Grande. The area is home to the nation's highest concentration of children in immigrant shelters, and the Harlingen court is where those kids appear before an immigration judge. Inside Judge Howard Achtsam's courtroom, the Homeland Security attorney sat at a table piled high with files. One of the four children who appeared before Achtsam that day represented himself; another appeared with his attorney from ProBAR, the American Bar Association's pro bono legal project in the Lower Rio Grande Valley. Attorneys were representing two clients who weren't there, thanks in part to ORR's new emphasis on quickly reunifying kids with family members, often in faraway cities, as they await deportation proceedings. (Some 90 percent of children placed in shelters end up with US-based family.) While that is generally a good thing, said ProBAR director Kimi Jackson—certainly better than the months-long shelter stays that were common as recently as last year—it means that attorneys are less likely to be able to meet and interview kids. It also means that the government has less time to vet the people claiming to be the kids' relatives.
What happens to the children, I asked Jackson, once they go off ProBAR's radar? "I don't have data," she told me, shaking her head. "I don't know that anyone does."
Toting a walkie-talkie and chatting as she goes, Julie Kessler parts a sea of teenagers with gelled hairdos, cheap cologne, and skinny jeans. She's got an eye out for colors—red for Norteños, blue for Sureños, both banned—and for making out. "There's too much kissing for my taste," she tells me with a smirk, right before she pulls aside a boy for his red T-shirt. She hands him a gray one, emblazoned with the San Francisco County Sheriff's Department logo, that hangs loose on his skinny frame. "Off you go!" she says.
Kessler is the principal of San Francisco International High School, a public school for newcomers in the city's Mission District: 100 percent of its students are recent immigrants and English-language learners. Spanish- and Chinese-speaking students dominate, though 14 other languages are represented. "Most schools are like, 'I don't know what to do with this population! Their needs are so different from the rest of my class!'" Kessler says. Here, "they are the rest of the class." She estimates that about a fifth of her students immigrated alone.
This is where I first met Adrián. Back when he was apprehended in Tucson, he sat for a spell in a heavily air-conditioned Border Patrol holding cell known as a hielera ("ice box"). Then he stayed at a nearby ORR shelter for a few months before they asked him where he wanted to go next. With no family in the States, he chose San Francisco, and that's how he ended up at a youth shelter in the city. His social worker later connected him to a pro bono attorney. (He told me he won legal status earlier this year, though he was unsure exactly how.)
Integrating a student like Adrián—with zero schooling and years of trauma—is no small task for Kessler and her staff, nor is it an uncommon one. "The vast majority of our kids are suffering from PTSD of one form or another," she says. "For some of them, that's about, 'I'm fleeing a civil war.' But for more of them, it is on a personal level, of 'I was living on the streets of Honduras, and finally realized that wasn't going to work.'" And then there are the challenges of the kids' new American homes, often with relatives who are essentially strangers, in neighborhoods rife with the same problems—gang violence, drugs—they once tried to escape.
In Los Angeles, the school district's mental-health director, Pia Escudero, reviewed records for students entering a newcomer school there; she found that 94 percent of those given mental-health screenings reported at least three traumatic events, and 65 percent had clinical symptoms "in the range of PTSD and depression." They experience hyperarousal and hyperalertness, and everyday urban sounds—say, a helicopter passing overhead—can trigger flashbacks.
San Francisco International offers counseling and mental-health services, and to many of the kids, the school is a refuge: Nearly 80 percent said they felt safe at school, 10 percent better than the districtwide numbers. The first time I visited, the school went on lockdown when a student brought a pellet gun to campus. But he wasn't in a gang, Kessler told me after five San Francisco cops showed up to secure the scene; he was just fronting.
It was here that I met Audelina Aguilar, who at 14 made the journey from Guatemala to the US border by herself, warding off a would-be rapist in Mexico and walking past corpses in southern Texas before making it to the Bay Area, where her brother lived. She cleaned houses full time for two years, then got so sick she had to go to the emergency room, where the nurses asked why she was not in school. Now a legal permanent resident and a senior who's been accepted to several colleges, she's also the head of a growing household, caring for two younger brothers who were caught crossing the border and sent to San Francisco while their immigration hearings play out. Aguilar has seven more siblings and her parents back in the western Guatemalan highlands.
And then there's Adrián, who told me the guys at the shelter stole his stuff and constantly harassed him; Kessler noted that it was a daily battle for him to get to school. One day, as we walked through the near-empty cafeteria, another boy catcalled Adrián, who shot him a sideways glance.
"I'm not here to make friends," he told me. He was wearing a gray T-shirt, black jeans, and a gauzy scarf full of tie-dyed peace symbols that sort of covered up two large bruises on his neck. He said he was hoping to graduate and move on, maybe go to cosmetology school.
In January, when I emailed Kessler to set up a final interview with Adrián, she told me that the shelter had decided to move him to San Jose. She hasn't heard from him since.
Two weeks later, my phone rang. "I'm here in San Francisco," Adrián said. "Do you want to meet now?" I trudged through the February rain to a McDonald's on Market Street. Adrián was wearing '80s rocker ripped jeans and kelly-green nail polish and ordering two cheeseburgers and fries. I helped him carry his beat-up bike downstairs, and we settled into a booth to talk.
He decided to leave for San Jose, he told me, to get away from the drama at the shelter. It was boring in the South Bay, and he missed school, even though he found it a bit tedious—but soon he'd be turning 19, and at that point he could live on his own with the government's blessing.
And the bruises I'd seen on his throat? I mean, I had to ask. "Niño," he said, his voice caramel sweet and condescending, "those weren't bruises. They were hickeys."
We swapped contact info one last time, and as I headed back to the office, I remembered something he'd once told me about why he'd left Guatemala. "I wasn't really looking for the American dream," he'd said, readjusting his scarf for the hundredth time. "I just wanted to get far away."
Even if you don't follow women's basketball, you probably know of Brittney Griner and her nasty dunks. Last year, the 6-foot-8 Phoenix Mercury center made the WNBA All-Star Game as a rookie, and tied the league's all-time dunk record with two slams in her very first game. But she's more than one of the WNBA's hottest stars. She's also one of the most famous gay athletes in all of sports; last year, she became Nike's first out endorsee, and she's helped create an anti-bullying mobile app that's currently raising money on IndieGogo. So why, at 23, did Griner feel the urge to write a memoir? (In My Skin, cowritten with Sue Hovey, was released in April.) It's simple, she says: "I didn't want to wait till the end of my career to tell my story."
Mother Jones: You write that you were bullied as a kid, and that you felt like "a physical misfit, my body flat and thin, my voice low." When did you start to feel comfortable in your skin?
Brittney Griner: I would say ninth grade, when I started wearing the clothes that I wanted to wear. I was so tired of living a lie, dressing a certain way. When you go to high school, you definitely feel like you're an adult, and I wanted to be true to myself. By the time I got to college I was completely out, and all my friends knew—just about everyone in my family knew. That's when I told myself, "Okay, I wanna do all this."
MJ: You're known for your style—lots of tattoos, but also the argyle socks, bow ties, preppy chic. How has that style evolved?
BG: When I first came out, I kinda overdid it. I dressed extremely older-boyish, like sagging, and big shirt and big jeans. I was just like, "I'm gonna go extreme." And then as I got older, the baggy clothes got a little more fitting to my body, but still masculine. Before, I wouldn't wear tight jeans—"That's girl! I want guy!" I thought. But now I wear jeans that actually fit me and look good. A lot of people do the preppy look, and the bow ties and the vest and jacket, the blazer and everything, and I started to like it even more.
MJ: When the WNBA proposed tigther-cut uniforms, how did you react?
"I want you to come watch my game, not the uniforms. If you wanna come just because we look sexy, then I really don't want you there."
BG: I was just running in slow motion, saying, "Nooooooo!" I play basketball. I need a jersey and I need some shorts that I feel comfortable in. I'm trying to hoop, not go to a fashion show on the court. Short shorts are not for everybody. I'm not trying to wear capris, but I got a lot of leg. I need to cover it up a little bit. They want more male attendance, and for us to change our uniforms to "sleek and sexy" takes away from what we're trying to do on the court. I want you to come watch my game, not the uniforms. If you wanna come just because we look sexy, then I really don't want you there. I feel like we need to get away from that.
MJ: Your Nike contract allows you to model clothes branded for men. A Nike spokesman told ESPN the Magazine, "It's safe to say we jumped at the opportunity to work with her because she breaks the mold."
BG: I want to print that quote and put it on the wall! For a company like Nike to say that I'm breaking the mold! I was extremely happy. I'm not the only female that wears men's clothes, so I'm not one in a million. But someone told me I was kinda pioneering it—for it to be okay, to be accepted.
MJ: You write at length about your struggles at Baylor, both with coach Kim Mulkey and with the school's anti-homosexuality policy. What was it like to hear from folks in Waco that this was some sort of betrayal?
BG: It's not right. Like the rule that Baylor has in the handbook, that if you're openly gay you can be kicked out—it's unjust, and I think it should be changed. I never had a problem with my team. My teammates accepted me. We were on the court, we played, we hooped, we fought for each other, and I had a great time as far as basketball. Nobody ever came up to me and was like, "Get off our campus." I never got that. And people knew on campus. I wasn't hiding. From the way I dressed to the way I acted in public, it wasn't a problem, so I don't understand why the rule is still there.
MJ: You write that you didn't know about the policy before arriving at Baylor, and that Mulkey told you being gay wouldn't be a problem there. And yet people ask, "Why did you go to Baylor if you knew it was anti-gay?"
BG: First off, it's easy for people to say stuff when they don't know the full story. If they would read the whole story, the whole book, they would see. I was told everything would be fine, and I didn't know about the rule until later on. I get the question a lot: Do you wish you would've gone somewhere else? No, no I don't. I went 40-0. I won a national championship. I grew as a person, I grew as a player, and me and Coach Mulkey, we had a lot of great times. She taught me a lot of great lessons, and I met a lot of great people. And I still go back to Baylor. I've been back up there; I went there for homecoming. I went down on the field and the fans clapped and cheered for me, yelled my name. I love my school; that's always going to be my school. People who think, "Oh, she should've just gone somewhere else"; I'm like, "No, I was where I needed to be."
MJ: What do you make of the high-profile comings-out of Jason Collins, Michael Sam, and Derrick Gordon?
BG: I had a prior agreement with ESPN to come out with them, but it kind of came out earlier in a Sports Illustrated online interview. It was fine. I wanted it to be a conversation. I didn't want it to be like, "Breaking news: Brittney Griner is gay!" I just wanted it to be on my time. It's a little bit tougher on the male side—people judge really hard—and when they come out it's definitely big news. It takes a lot of bravery. I would love for it to get to the point where it's not breaking news, not how they define us. We don't want to be treated any different.
MJ:Not to shift gears too quickly, but do you think should college athletes get paid?
BG: I do. You give up a lot of your time. You have your not-mandatory-but-mandatory summer. "You don't have to be here, but you better be here." We miss holidays, we miss all that. We devote all our time to basketball. Studying on the road, late nights, getting in—it's like we're working a job nonstop. And I definitely think we should get a little bit more.
MJ: How would it have been different if you'd been considered an employee?
BG: An employee. [Pauses.] I think I would like "employee," because that means that I'm on that payroll! [Laughs.] Honestly, that's how I feel. I felt like I was a Baylor employee. Instead of going to work in the office and punching in on the timecard, I was going to practice everyday, right after class got dressed, and got in practice for a couple of hours. Summertime, I was there the whole time. But we don't get any off days. We can't call in sick.
Donald Sterling's penalty is in: a lifetime ban from the NBA and a $2.5 million fine, the maximum league sanction, for the racist audio recording released last week. The NBA will also work to force him to sell the Los Angeles Clippers, the team he's owned since 1981.
It's a harsh punishment, no doubt. But let's not kid ourselves about the $2.5 million. Sterling, after all, is reportedly worth $1.9 billion. According to a 2013 Credit Suisse report on global wealth, the median American is worth $44,911. In other words, a $2.5 million fine for Sterling is like a $59 fine for that middle-of-the-road American.