Airports and Earthquakes

Hey Peeps.

So on Wednesday, I traveled from Mexico to Minnesota via Atlanta. The two flights were actually suprisingly smooth.

Traveling to the States is great and terrible at the same time. A US airport is a constant reminder that R can’t travel with me here.

I was at the Hartfield-Jackson airport in Atlanta, Georgia. It was that moment during my travels  where I’m so very tired, but nowhere near my final destination.

I took a seat by my gate and people-watched.

Have you ever noticed that couples in airports very rarely hold hands?

I always notice the couples, because R isn’t with me.

If the day ever comes that R and I can travel together in the US, I’ll be sure to hold his hand.

And this realization hit me: If a person was traveling in the Hartfield-Jackson airport that day, they weren’t undocumented. It’s just not possible anymore.

I always hold a deep, deep fear in my bones that I very rarely discuss. God forbid, if something ever happened, like a natural disaster, war, life-threatening illness, etc…and I had to leave for the States, would I go? If R and I have a child in the future, would I leave with our child?

I know R would want what’s best for me.

But would I go?

Please pray that I never ever have to face that day. Peeps, I’m serious. Pray.

The earthquakes in Haiti and today in Chile (that was felt from Japan to Argentina) brings it all very close to home.  Mexico has earthquakes too, ya dig?

What comforts me during moments like this is that I know that I’m not the only woman in this situation, facing that deep fear in the bones.

Peeps, pray for the other women as well. We all need it.

The List

I’m going to fly to the States on Thursday.  I’ll be performing and giving a workshop at this conference at St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota.

You know, Minnesota in February is not necessarily heaven on earth! lol

Nevertheless, I’m truly excited for the opportunity to perform, to participate actively in the immigration reform movement, and to keep learning about the issue.

That’s the lofty and honorable side.

But kids, there’s most definitely a less lofty side! And it’s not specific to only my situation.

For those of you who don’t have a deported husband, but also don’t live in the country that you grew up in -

I want you to testify!

About what? About The List.

The List is for the things that  you can’t find where you presently live.

For me, that would be Mexico.  (That’s in case you haven’t been paying attention. I’m still amazed by the number of people who somehow think that I live in New York.)

The List is also for things that I can find cheaper in the U.S.

Now, I want to be clear here-R and I have our health, a place to live, food to eat.

So by no stretch of the imagination are we talking life or death. But let’s just take a material walk, with three random items, shall we?

1. Lipton Tea in the 100 tea bag yellow box.

2. Neutrogena products

3. A decent bagel

I know, those items seem kind of small and ordinary. The material things that you miss most usually are.

Listen, R and I have a huge, huge List. Anything from The Body Shop shaving cream to a wine refrigerator is on that list.

The List isn’t geared towards only one trip.

But for those of you who understand what I’m talking about here-

What’s on your List?

The Sommelier Who Flipped US Immigration the Bird

Hey peeps.  Happy Monday:)

So on Saturday night, my friend came to dinner with her husband. R made a kick-ass lasagna.

This is the friend who I hadn’t seen in five years, whose visit I mentioned in a previous post.

She was the first friend that I made when I arrived here to Mexico in 2001. And when I met her, I felt like she was sent to me.

I don’t mean because she and I are so similar. Quite the opposite.

But she was a port of calm in what was the storm of my life.

When I met her, I didn’t know if I could live in Mexico. I didn’t know if my marriage could withstand R’s deportation and the aftermath. There were just too many questions hanging in the balance.

The dinner on Saturday was great. My friend and her husband brought a bottle of wine- a Monte Xanic, to be exact.

R is studying to be a certified sommelier-an expert wine taster. Still don’t get what it is? Read here.

So after the dinner, R opened up the wine. He put on his special sommelier apron, and hung his silver tastevin around his neck.

And he explained everything step-by-step, as he opened the wine. He talked about history, agriculture, politics, and the senses.

All from opening one bottle of wine.

I’d never seen him do the whole kit and caboodle before. I really do believe that a sommelier opening a bottle of wine is just as much of a ritual as a Japanese tea ceremony.

And as R continued, I felt so proud of him. He’s going to start wine-tasting workshops soon, and I’ll think that he’ll be great.

I looked at my friend and smiled. And I’d like to believe that she and I were thinking the same thing: Thank God R and I made it through 2001 and 2002.

Listen, those of you who are in a committed relationship, you know that there are moments/days when you just want to poke your partner’s eyes out.

But the moments/days when you see them for who they are, and you love them deeply for it? Ooof.

If you’re in that sweet spot of a place today kids, then go whole hog.

The Day I Broke Up with the Statue of Liberty

Yeah, I know; this is a crooked photo that I apparently scanned with one eye closed. But you get my point, no?

Lady Liberty is definitely an emotional touchstone for me. I’m a New Yorker.  Some of my family came through Ellis Island. My husband and I met in NYC.

And of course, the Statue of Liberty peeked through my grandfather Ben’s downtown Manhattan living room window.

I’m also a typical product of the US public school system. My elementary school books didn’t have any Howard Zinn in them, ya dig?

For me, the Statue of Liberty represented everything that was right and good about the world. In my limited and ignorant view, the “world” meant the United States of America.

When my husband R was deported in 2001, it was under the order to stay out of the US for 2o years. The full spread of it means 2021.

R got the 20-year ban because he was previously deported, in 1993. At that time, he was ordered out of the US for five years. He waited out the time, and then entered the US again without papers.

So he got what’s called a reinstatement of a deportation, i.e., the 20-year ban.

We were legally married at the time of his deportation on April 26, 2001.

I came to Mexico in August of 2001. Right before 9-11. My city falling apart on the Mexican news. But that’s for another day.

I visited New York in 2002. My city was walking, but on crutches.

I went to visit my grandfather Ben on Water Street. We sat by his living room window. He went into the kitchen to make us some herbal tea.

The Statue of Liberty peeked through my grandfather’s living room window. It had been a long time; she wanted to catch up.

I lowered the blinds. Lady Liberty slipped away to cry behind a cloud.

I see her at parties sometimes; we do a good job of avoiding each other’s eyes.

When a US Permanent Residency Rejection Meant Shopping

As I mentioned in earlier posts, R and I went to Ciudad Juárez for his US permanent residency appointment in May of 2006.

Due to the fact that we had a nincompoop for a lawyer, things went badly.

Things didn’t go badly because R’s application was rejected. We expected that; the legal turn-down was necessary to kick in the next step of the R’s legal polka with the US.

A lot of nasty surprises rose up and bit us in the ass during that trip. A more experienced lawyer would’ve warned us.

Nevertheless, while the rejection was expected, it still surprised me with its sting. You know the feeling, when you’re sure that you failed a test, but then are still a wee bit startled when you get the test back with a big F on top?

Yeah, that feeling.

And at the end of the day, I’m still a product of my upper-middle class upbringing in the US.

So I decided to soothe my feelings of failure by going shopping. I crossed one of the Bridges of the Americas into El Paso. Took a bus to the Cielo Vista Mall.

I brought R an Ipod shuffle; the now old-school version that looks like a long white tooth.

I also saw a bed-in-a-bag deal. The comforter was deep blue with white flowers and swirls. The sheets matched in their flowery-ness.

When I got back to our hotel in Ciudad Juarez, R chuckled about the comforter set. The Ipod shuffle consolation prize made him smile. Still does.

Because R and I have way different body temps, I use the blue flowery comforter at night. He uses a different blanket.Truth be told, my deep blue comforter’s a wee bit fickle; it looks a lot warmer than it really is.

And this is what hit my sleepy head when I woke up this morning:

The US immigration system is a lot like my deep blue comforter with the white swirls and flowers:

It can give you the illusion of hope and warmth.

It just depends on the day, kids. It just depends on the day.

DREAMers and the Dream Act

Kids, today I want to write about the DREAMers and the DREAM Act. I feel that these brave peeps are the linchpin for comprehensive immigration reform in the U.S. Put simply, thousands of people are fighting for the following proposed legislation: (This is a copy/paste from the dreamactivist.org website)

The DREAM Act has four basic requirements which are:

• You entered the country before the age of 16;
• You graduate high school or obtain a GED;
• You have good moral character (no criminal record); and
• You have at least five years of continuous presence in the US.

If you meet the above criteria, once the DREAM Act passes, you will then have six years within which to obtain a two-year college degree or complete two-years of military service.  Upon doing all of this you will gain the chance to adjust your conditional permanent residency to U.S. citizenship.

I’ll be straight up with you; I didn’t know what the DREAM Act was for long time. And then when I did find out what it was, I still didn’t really get involved.

I thought that we each had separate fights for immigration reform. I was very wrong.

I met someone last year-you know who you are-who took the time to sit with me and explain what the DREAM Act was, and their opinion on it as a DREAMer themself.

These undocumented young people are out on the front lines. 2010 is the year to break it down civil-rights style, and they’re willing, ready, and doing it every day.

They’re risking their asses and speaking out. In these dangerous times for an undocumented person in the US, they’re making themselves very visible.

Now the DREAM Act isn’t a perfect piece of legislation. I’ve got my issues with it.

And as a US citizen whose been living outside of the US for the past nine years because of my husband’s deportation, I have issues sometimes with how some of the DREAMers talk about their country of birth.

But the passage of the DREAM Act would be a shot heard ’round the world. May it be heard this year. Please.

People, check out dreamactivist.org Donate, write letters, spread the word. This is something that you can do today.

Don’t get paralyzed in your privilege. Move though it. Act through it.

Beyonce: The New Immigrant Rights Activist?

So yeah, I’m one of the Beyonce-obsesssed peeps. And I’m old enough to know better! lol

A question that I’m often asked is, “If you and R were legally married, and you’re a US citizen, didn’t that protect him?”

There’s a general assumption in the US, that if an immigrant marries a US citizen, then they’re automatically placed on the legal path towards residency, and then citizenship. Nothing could be further from the truth. My story and thousands of others prove it.

And while this general view is ignorant, it’s also very hetero.  So many LGBT peeps don’t have this heterosexual luxury, i.e., the assumption that marrying a US citizen guarantees you certain residency rights.

Nevertheless, this brings me back to, “If you want it, then you shoulda put a ring on it,” And my idea for Beyonce’s public service announcement!

So here’s what I visualize: Beyonce is dancing while singing “All the Single Ladies.” When she says the line, “If you want it, then you shoulda put a ring it,” she stops dead. The other dancers stare at her, confused.

Beyonce: “Hold up, everyone, everyone, hold up. This is what I want to say: I know that most of you sing along to the lyrics of my song “All the Single Ladies,” but there’s another reality going on.

If you’re an undocumented immigrant in the United States, and you do put a ring on a US citizen’s finger, you aren’t guaranteed anything at all. US Citizenship and Immigration Services doesn’t give a hot damn.

Too many of us women live like single ladies in the US, because our partners were deported to their country of origin, due to a draconian immigration system that separates families and forces women and children to choose between love and country.

So what I’m asking today is for you to find out the facts, and get involved. Change the immigration laws in the US so that we have a comprehensive immigration reform that is just and humane.”

Beyonce winks at the camera.  “Let’s give everyone a socially just  shot on our country’s dance floor.”

The singing and dancing starts up again. Slow fade out.

White letters on a black screen, voiceover:

Want to get involved? Find out more at www.dancefloorforimmigrantjustice.org

Hey, a girl can dream, right?:)

The Money Scramble, i.e., No Joy in Mudville

Yeah, I’m scrambling for words today. I’m also scrambling for money.

A good friend is staying the night. She lives outside of Mexico, and I haven’t seen her in at least five years. I love her, she loves me.

You know, you want to put the proverbial best foot forward, not have drama to have a sweet catch-up session. I’m gonna try to keep my head quiet.

But that looks like that will be a full-time job today.

Which annoys me with myself, because this friend is about as accepting as friends get.

If your spouse/partner’s been deported, and you live with them, I can pretty much guarantee that you’re the main breadwinner.

On a day like today, I’m angry about that.

My privilege, i.e, my formal education, English being my first language, my ability to possibly earn dollars even though I’m in the Global South, I want to just put that damn privilege package down today.

Due to a whole bunch of economic and political reasons, right now the money scramble is my scramble.

I’m keepin’ it real today, people. I’m keepin’ it real.

My Wedding Ring Story

So the hubby’s a little sick today. I was scrounging around the house for loose change, and a memory snuck up and said hello.

We were living in Chicago in 2000. R was sick, and I was scrounging around the house for loose change. I absent-mindedly stuck my hand in R’s black leather jacket.

I felt a ring box, and there certainly was something inside it!

I waited a killer day or two for R to feel better, and then I told him that I found the ring by mistake. Coyly, I  asked him the meaning behind the ring.

He told me that it was a promise ring. Not an engagement ring, mind you, but a promise ring.

Whaaaaaat? I moved from New York to Chicago to live with this man, and at the moment, I was indignant that the best he could come up with was a promise ring.

I left the ring box on the window sill in our bedroom for days, with the window almost always open.

Out on a lunch date with a friend, I told her what was going on, and how disappointed I was. She said, “You know, he got that ring for you with all of his heart. Why don’t you accept this ring for now, and say thank you?”

Well, since I’m prone to the dramatic-lol-I invited R out to the 2 Amigos restaurant for lunch. With a flourish, I placed the ring box on the table, and said that I knew that he planned to give me that ring with all of his corazoncito, and that I’d accept the promise ring, muchisimas gracias amorcito.

R looked at me with a serious face, but bemused eyes, and said,”O.K.” R isn’t publicly prone to the dramatic-lol-so I put the ring on right there in the 2 Amigos restaurant.

That promise ring is now my wedding ring.

At the end of the day, that’s what a marriage is, no? A promise and a prayer.

The US Consulate General in Ciudad Juárez

Ciudad Juárez. You can click here for the latest

16 people are dead. The victims? Teenagers at a party.

In the New York Times link above, you can read about the drugs, and the crime and the violence. That Juárez is the most dangerous city in all of Mexico is a given. Do a search and you’ll see for yourself.

But guess what else is in Ciudad Juárez? That’s right, my puppies, The US Consulate General.

You may think, so what?

Think again.

The Consulate General in Cd. Juarez is the only immigrant visa issuance post in Mexico, and is the only post which is authorized to take fingerprints required for the criminal history record check as part of the immigrant visa application process.

So any Mexican who wants to try to abide by US immigration laws must go to Ciudad Juárez for their US permanent residency appointment. The most dangerous city in all of Mexico. My husband and I were there in May of 2006. R’s application was rejected. If he ever does apply again, we’ll have to do another trip to Ciudad Juárez.

Off the top of my head, I know two men who saw people get shot in Ciudad Juárez when they were there for the US permanent residency appointment.

Why does the US government continue to force immigrants to literally risk their lives to follow US immigration law?

And kids, US citizens live in Ciudad Juárez as well. Following their love. Pushing away their fear.