Eric glared at him. “You’re not my father,” he muttered. “I don’t have to do what you say.”
All at once, Papi grabbed the neckband of Eric’s T-shirt and pulled my brother toward him. “You watch your mouth!” he shouted as the two stumbled from the stove to the fridge. “In this house, you’re going to show some respect!”
Right then, Mami leaped from her chair, charged toward the two, and tried to wedge herself between them.
“That’s enough!” she yelled. “Calm down!”
My father let go of Eric’s shirt. The instant he did, Eric stomped from the kitchen and into his bedroom, slamming his door so hard that the milk in my bowl swayed. I was too afraid to speak or make a sound.
As young as I was, I knew what was happening between my dad and brother. I didn’t have the maturity or words to explain it back then, but I could sense it. Eric was furious about the way his life was turning out. Because of the circumstances surrounding his birth, he’d been cheated out of a father. While my parents showered me, their princess, with affection, my brother felt misunderstood. Criticized. Like a misfit in his own family. My dad, as honorable as his intentions were, made his viewpoint clear: I was his baby girl, Eric was his stepchild. And the closer my brother got to a manhood I’m sure he was frightened to navigate, the more intense his power struggle with my father became.
Papi had his own sore spots. I could see how much he wanted to create a stable situation for us—to make his risk of coming to America turn out to be worth it. He was also still reeling from the blows he’d sustained when he was Eric’s age; I don’t think you ever quite get over such devastation. Following his father’s death, my dad became a grown-up overnight. The responsible one. Above all, he wanted to pass on a similar sense of responsibility to my brother. He was just doing so in the shadow of a painful past.
As for me, all I wanted was peace. The fight that began that morning ended the way they all did: with my parents blaming each other. “You’re babying Eric!” my father yelled at my mother that night. “Alcahueta! Let him grow up!” There I sat, in my small rocking chair in our living room, witnessing the hostility and feeling helpless to end it. The screaming escalated until Mami, her face covered in tears, grabbed a box of buttons on a credenza. She lifted her arm to hurl it in Dad’s direction, and in an attempt to block her, I darted from my seat and pulled the bottom edge of her hair. But it was too late. The buttons—big ones, little ones, dozens of them in different colors and shapes—scattered across the floor.
“Stop it!” I screamed through sobs. “Stop it or I’ll call the police!”
Silence fell over the room. My father, who’d been standing near the entertainment center, slid down onto the couch near me. From her chair on the other side of the room, Mami gave me a blank look. For as long as I live, I will never forget what she said next.
“Go ahead and call the cops,” she whispered, her voice raspy from the yelling. She paused. “Then they can come and send us all back to Colombia.”
I gazed at her but couldn’t bring myself to respond. My thoughts raced as I tried to make sense of what I’d just heard. “What are you talking about, Mami?” I asked, my eyes filling with tears. “What do you mean, they’ll send you back?”
She shifted forward in her chair and dropped her head. “I mean they’ll deport us, Diane,” she said. “They’ll take us all away from you.”
I stared at my mother, then over at my father, and then at Mami again. By this point, I already knew my parents’ legal status. In fact, I don’t recall a time when I didn’t know they were undocumented. In our house, that was just understood. A fact of life. The way things were. But at seven, I hadn’t fully comprehended what their status could mean for me. I hadn’t realized that, with a single phone call, I could lose them. For the first time, Mami had spilled the truth.
After midnight, my parents continued their argument behind their closed bedroom door. I hated it when they fought; it made me so anxious. In the dim light of my corner in the living room, I rose from my little mattress and turned on a lamp. At the foot of my bed lay a large nylon bag; my costumes were inside. I hoisted the bag onto the bed and dumped out its contents. Among the jumble of tiaras and bright metallic fabrics, I spotted my white tights, a pair that went with a princess getup. I picked them up and slowly pulled them onto my hair like a stocking cap, letting the legs dangle down past the shoulders of my pink gown. Mami’s heels, the ones she wore to Mass, sat near the couch. I slid in one bare foot at a time, wobbled a bit, but then stood up straight. On this night, I would be Molly. Or Tina. Or Elizabeth. Or Carrie. Or any little white girl whose parents didn’t bicker. Whose brother didn’t hurt. Whose family would never, in a million years, be pulled apart. There, in my land of make-believe, I could always find a happy ending.
I had no teeth but I was a great makeup artist. Me and Mama.
Papi and me at our favorite place in the whole world, Nantasket Beach, Massachusetts.
CHAPTER 3
Underground
When we came to America … we became invisible, the people who swam in between other people’s lives, bussing dishes, delivering groceries …
The most important thing, Abba said, was not to stick out. Don’t let them see you.
But I think it hurt him, to hide so much.
—From Ask Me No Questions by MARINA BUDHOS, novelist
When you’re the child of undocumented immigrants, you learn to keep your mouth shut. Someone wants to know where your parents are from? It’s none of their friggin’ business. Like everyone else in our secret network, we followed the First Commandment of life under the radar: Do nothing that might bring the cops to your doorstep. “Nuestra situación no esta resuelta,” my father frequently told me. “Our situation isn’t settled.” Which is why the simple ring of our bell was all it took to make us panic. “Did you invite anyone over today?” Mami would ask Papi. “No,” he’d say—and within seconds, he’d be lowering the blinds.
My papi was also incredibly careful whenever he was out. He stayed more quiet in public than he did at home, never wanting to say or do anything that might draw attention. And when he drove, he followed the traffic laws carefully. No running yellow lights. No switching lanes without signaling. No unnecessary honking. And definitely no speeding. He didn’t want to take the chance that we’d be pulled over by the police. That would immediately blow our cover.
Our house was like a stop on the Underground Railroad. When my parents’ friends or the relatives of our neighbors fled here from Colombia, they often slept on our floor. “We need to help them get settled,” Mami would explain as she scooted over my mattress to make room for the visitors. “They’ll only be here for a few weeks.” During that time, the community would do for them what they’d once done for my parents: Hook them up with menial labor. Connect them with a landlord willing to accept rent in cash. Show them where to get groceries and household goods on the cheap. And above all, encourage them to pursue what my mom, dad, and brother longed to receive: legal residence, which most of them did. I’m not bitter, but what the fuck? What about us? Why were we the unfortunate family?
Our lives revolved around my parents’ quest for citizenship. Nearly every week, Mami and Papi strategized about how to get their papers. Lamented that they didn’t yet have them. Or argued about whether they ever would. A few years after we settled in Boston, Mami scraped together money to pay a local lady who promised to secure a work visa for us; a neighbor had hooked my mother up with her. As it turned out, the woman was a notary public, not the lawyer she’d claimed to be. By the time my mother heard that from several others who’d been hoodwinked, the con artist had left town.
In 1986, the year I was born, President Reagan extended a temporary lifeline to families like mine. His Immigration Reform and Control Act gave foreigners who’d illegally entered the country before 1982 an opportunity to apply for amnesty. “Let’s file our papers,” Mami pleaded with my father. “This is our opening.” Pap
i, ever the reluctant one, tried to talk her out of it, but Mami filed for amnesty anyway. She was denied because she’d been in Colombia during six months (between 1980 and 1982) when she needed to be in America. Dad later applied himself, but was too scared to follow up with the process.
Comprehending my father’s reluctance takes understanding what is a reality for millions of foreigners. As much as my dad respected this country, he also had a deep mistrust of its system. He honestly believed that if he presented himself to authorities, he’d be handcuffed and immediately deported for having overstayed his visa. Given the rumors and misinformation constantly circulating among those around us, it makes sense that he thought that way. From time to time, we’d get the news that someone had indeed been granted a pardon. But then a month later, we’d hear that another person, during the application process, had been torn away from his or her family and carted off to prison. Like so many others around us, my dad wanted to do the right thing. He was just paralyzed by enormous fear.
That changed in the spring of 1997, when I was eleven. Amid relentless pushing and coaxing from my mother, Papi at last mustered the courage to step out of the shadows. A friend had also given him a strong nudge and a resource. “I know a lawyer who can do all the paperwork for you,” the woman told him. She handed him a business card bearing the attorney’s information. “You should go see him. I’ve heard he’s good. He’s a Harvard law school graduate.” In our neighborhood, most business was done by word of mouth.
That evening over supper, my father pulled the card from his wallet and slid it across the table toward Mami. He smiled. “I’m going to check out this guy tomorrow,” he told her.
My mother picked up the card, turned it over a couple of times, and brought it right up to her face. She then lowered it and ran her fingertip across the gold-embossed lettering. “This looks good,” she said. “How do you know this guy?”
“You know Betty, the Guatemalan woman at the end of the block?” he said. Mami nodded. “Well,” Papi continued, “she heard that this lawyer is helping people get their green cards.”
My mother’s lips spread into a grin. “Good,” Mami said, setting aside the card to begin clearing the breakfast dishes. “Maybe Diane can go with you.”
Damn right I’d go—neither of my parents speaks English fluently. Not that they didn’t try. In fact, my dad wanted to learn English so badly that, over the years, he signed himself up for several classes and practiced into the wee hours. But as a teenager, he’d lost hearing in his left ear while working in a sugarcane plant. A pipe burst, water shot out and knocked him to the floor, and his eardrum was permanently damaged. So he had difficulty picking up the language and was very shy about speaking it. Mami’s skills were stronger, yet she didn’t understand dozens of words. So when Eric wasn’t around to interpret, I became my parents’ official translator. I read everything from our electric bills (“What does this mean?” my dad would ask me, pointing to a word on the statement) to the ingredients on our food packages. I accompanied my parents to doctors’ appointments so I could explain to them what their physicians were saying. So for Papi’s visit with the attorney, I’d definitely need to tag along, no question about it. And besides, I was Papi’s little friend. He took me almost everywhere.
On the Saturday of the appointment, we pulled into the lot of a towering office building in downtown Boston. My father was clean-shaven and had on his nicest clothes—gray slacks, a jacket and tie, and newly shined shoes; I wore a floral cotton dress and white sandals. “Stay close to me,” Papi whispered as we made our way through the sliding-glass doors and into the lobby. “It’s on the twelfth floor.”
We emerged from the elevator onto a long carpeted hall. Beneath fluorescent lights, we meandered down the corridor, scanning each door in search of the suite number. We passed a temp agency. An accounting firm. A dental practice. At the end of the hallway we reached the law office. The attorney’s name was engraved in all-capital gold letters across the door’s placard. I don’t remember the name, but I do recall that it sounded all-American—something like Bradley Scott or Dylan Michaels, JD. He definitely wasn’t Latino.
Papi turned the handle and cracked open the door. My father stepped inside and I followed. There, in a room the size of a small studio, a man who appeared to be in his forties sat behind a large oak desk covered in papers. He wore a three-piece suit and had a warm smile. The top of his head was bald and shiny. He was fit with an athletic build. He stood and extended his hand.
“It’s Mr. Guerrero, right?” he said. My dad gripped the man’s palm.
“Have a seat, sir,” he said, motioning toward two cushiony chairs near his desk. “Bienvenido.”
Exhale—this man spoke some Spanish. Not great Spanish, I’d soon learn, but good enough to lighten my translation duties. “Cuéntame tu historia,” the lawyer butchered like a gringo. “I need to hear your story.”
Papi leaned forward in the chair. He peered over at a painting on the wall, this cheesy poster of Lady Justice holding up an ancient scale; below it was the framed Harvard diploma. My dad then looked back at the man and cleared his throat. “Well,” he said softly, “I left Colombia so I could earn more money for my family.”
“How long have you been in the United States?” the man asked.
“Since 1981,” Papi said.
“Have you ever applied for citizenship?”
My father shook his head.
“Do you have a family member who’s a citizen?”
“Well, my daughter,” Papi said, looking over at me. “And my daughter’s mother has a sister here, but she’s a resident, not a citizen.”
The lawyer inhaled deeply. “Well then, we’ve got a lot of work to do,” he said. He reached for a maroon binder on the top corner of his desk, opened it, and removed a thick packet. “In order for me to help you,” he continued, “I’ll need you to fill out this questionnaire.” He gave my father the twenty or so stapled pages.
Papi flipped through it. “So how many months does it take to get a green card?” he asked.
The lawyer chuckled. “Mr. Guerrero,” he said, “I’m afraid it’s years, not months. For some of my clients, it takes ten years or longer—especially if there’s no family member who has citizenship.”
My dad stared at him and tried not to let his jaw drop down to his knees. “Ten years?” he said.
“That’s right,” the man said. “It can even be longer than that. But you never know. You might be one of the lucky ones.”
My father scowled. “Cuanto cuesta?” he asked. “How much does it cost?”
The man shrugged. “That depends on how long your case takes,” he told him. “My rate is three hundred an hour.”
Papi gasped. “We don’t have that kind of money,” he said, rising from his chair. “I think we’d better go.”
The man rose from his chair. “But wait a minute,” the man cut in. “I can set up a monthly payment plan. I’ve assisted many people in your predicament.”
My father didn’t look convinced, but he did return to his seat. “So what would I need to pay you up front?” he asked.
“We can start with seven hundred dollars,” he said. “But why don’t you go through these papers, return them to me next week, and we’ll talk about it then. I’m sure I can come up with a plan that fits your budget.” My father thanked the man and we left.
Back at home, Mami rushed out to meet us when we turned into the driveway. “So,” she said before we could get out of the car, “how did it go?”
Papi sighed. “Okay, I guess,” he said. “I’ll have to find myself a third job.”
“Why?” Mami pressed. “What’s the price?”
“Seven hundred bucks minimum,” he told her.
She frowned. “Well,” she said, “I could take on some extra babysitting. And we do have some savings.”
“True,” said Papi. “I’ll have to see what I can work out with him.”
Every day that week, I got the
plum assignment of—surprise, surprise—tackling that packet for my parents. The following Sunday, when my dad and I returned to the lawyer’s office, he seemed impressed that we’d pulled it together so quickly. “Very good, Mr. Guerrero,” he said, flipping through the pages to be sure all were complete. “Now we can talk about the payment terms.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” my father said. He paused. “And the best we can do is five hundred up front. That’s the highest I can go.”
The man paused. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Guerrero,” he finally agreed. My dad’s face lit up. “I’ll start your case tomorrow and give you a call soon to talk about the next steps.”
The two rose, clasped hands, and shook vigorously. On the way out, my father reached into his wallet, pulled out three bills he’d folded together, and gave the attorney his fee. “Gracias,” he said, holding back tears. “I appreciate this very much.”
The whole way home, Papi kept glancing over at me but didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. We both knew what the meeting could mean for us. At last, we had a plan. We had a payment in place. We knew the route to citizenship might come with setbacks, but at least we’d taken a step forward. A big one. Someone wise once said that hope is the best medicine. In our family, in our community, in that attorney’s office, hope wasn’t just the finest remedy. It was the only one we knew.
* * *
I loved school—from elementary on up. And yet thanks to having the attention span of a gnat, I wasn’t the best student. I did get As in music and gym, and I could sometimes swing a B in English. But math and science? Let’s just say I had to do a few summer sessions. My parents pushed me to do better; after all, they’d come here, in part, to give me a solid education. And yet Mami and Papi had their hands so full with keeping Eric on track and earning a living that they couldn’t give much attention to improving my performance; it’s not like they had the funds for tutoring. They recognized I was striving to be a good girl, that I took my courses seriously. So given everything going on in our house, my average grades had to be sufficient.
In the Country We Love Page 3
