I'm Mexican.
Or Mexican-American. I never really know which is the best
way to put it. All I know is I was born here in Texas, or
on an even grander scale, I was born right here in these
United States. The same cannot be said, however, about my
lovely wife. She's one of those immigrants you hear so much
about these days, especially here in Texas, this close to
the border.
She came across to Texas in her late teens. Driven by equal
parts Manifest Destiny and a desire to work jobs other than
food service or manual labor, she came over on a student
visa, attended community college and then finished her collegiate
career with a degree from a state university. She very quickly
assimilated to American culture, and though her accent is
noticeable almost immediately, her English is nearly perfect,
so it rarely causes her any problems. (Only once or twice,
early in our courtship, did I have to ask her to repeat
a few words, but her accent has faded considerably over
the last five years.)
She had already been here almost eight years when we met.
Her work permit allowed her to stay employed and financially
afloat. When our paths did cross, we took to each other
almost immediately. Dating was easy; getting married was
the chore. If you honestly believe that marrying an American
automatically makes you a citizen, then you watch way too
much TV.
The amount of work that goes into becoming an American citizen
is staggering. And staggeringly expensive. I am in no way
defending anyone's decision to live here illegally; I defend
nothing illegal. I'm only saying that I have seen firsthand
how difficult it can be to become legal, and I understand
anyone's reluctance to undertake that task.
The first year of marriage can be difficult for any newlywed
couple, but throw in the financially and emotionally draining
addition of having to prove your relationship's legitimacy
to the government and, well, it can make for some long,
quiet dinners.
Financial records and affidavits from friends and family
are among the many documents frequently requested. Usually
in triplicate, sometimes with one of our thumbprints attached,
almost always with one of our checks attached. But we complied
with every request, attending every appointment with our
INS liaison, including the Big Meeting, the one where we
were quizzed on seemingly trivial aspects of our day-to-day
lives, ending eventually with the slap of a rubber stamp
indicating that we were A-OK in Uncle Sam's eyes. (To be
fair though, our interactions with the INS have grown further
and further apart and one day, I'm sure, we won't even register
on their radar.)
My wife is a model citizen. She pays her taxes. She is fully
insured, both medical and vehicular. (Dental and optical
to boot.) She is law-abiding and stays abreast of American
politics and policies. I don't even think she'll leave much
of a carbon footprint.
And though she's the one who has had to endure all of this,
surprisingly very few people ever ask her about it or even
seem to take notice of it. Ironically, I'm the one whose
national origin is most often questioned. When did my parents
come over? My grandparents?
People, usually friends and co-workers, openly lament in
front of and to me the dangers of so many immigrants coming
to this country. How they – legal or not – have
no respect for the American way of life. How they come here
and force their cultures on us. How they are taking our
jobs and making public schools worse and insurance more
expensive.
They either forget about my wife's personal saga, or they
set it aside. Is it because she fits in so seamlessly? Is
it because she is so friendly and has such a pretty smile?
Or the fact that she speaks English so well? Or maybe, and
I could be grasping at straws here, it's because she's from
Australia. But then they don't really count, do they?
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