Underwood Typewriter, a story by Carlos Mota

A Velvet Sofa and an Underwood Typewriter

by Carlos Mota

Link to Krzystof Pelc’s Story

After reading Green Velvet, by Krzysztof Pelc, the son of an Iranian émigré, I couldn’t help but reflect on the lives of so many migrants whose dreams have been deferred—or even irreversibly devastated—by Trump’s infamous and cruel executive order to deport them. The story’s themes resonated deeply, echoing the shattered hopes of millions who have sought a better life in a country that now turns its back on them.

I was reminded of an old Underwood typewriter my brother found on the streets of Manhattan shortly after he arrived in New York from Venezuela in 1970. He cleaned it and placed it prominently in the home he and his wife purchased eight years later. Though it was in perfect working order, he never typed a word with it. Instead, it became an object of beauty, sitting on a wooden pedestal in the middle of their living room, a small but potent symbol of transformation and pride.

My brother now lives in South Carolina in a smaller home purchased with the proceeds from selling his New York property and a South Carolina apartment he once owned. I imagine the typewriter still commands its place of honor in his new living room, a quiet reminder of how far he has come.

His two sons, who were born and live in New York, exemplify the opportunities once accessible to migrants and their children. His older son holds an MBA, while the younger one, a talented artist with several exhibitions to his name, earned a PhD in psychology. Their accomplishments evince the incredible contributions migrants and their descendants can make when given the chance.

The typewriter and the velvet sofa could symbolize the promise of America: opportunities seemingly lying on the street, waiting to be claimed by those who dare to dream and work for them. Yet, for so many today, that promise has been shattered. The country that once embraced its identity as a land of opportunity has erected barriers, shutting out the very people who continue to enrich it.

This reality is not unique to the United States. Watching a woman on Spanish television express her fears about menas—unaccompanied migrant minors—I was struck by how her concerns mirrored the prejudice and exclusion present across the Atlantic. She claimed these children threatened her community and would drain local resources, an argument that has long been used to justify exclusion, both in Spain and in America.

Possibly, in the eyes of Trump, his German grandfather and his Slovenian wife bypass the concept of unacceptable foreigners, much like unaccompanied Ukrainian children in Spain manage to avert the moniker of menas and are instead welcomed, supported, and provided with opportunities to thrive, opportunities that could just as easily be extended to others, yet are denied because of prejudice.

The Underwood typewriter and my brother’s life serve as reminders of what is possible when opportunities are accessible to all. But they also underscore the tragedy of shutting the door on those who come seeking that same promise. The green velvet sofa reminded me of the lives caught in this tension—those whose potential is stifled by systems that see them as “other.”