Living Together, Living Apart

Mixed Status Families and US Immigration Policy

April Schueths, Jodie Lawston, April Schueths, Jodie Lawston

• Publisher: University of Washington Press
• Year: 2015
• ISBN:
  9780295806143
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Emigration & Immigration
• Index: Social Sciences

Immigration reform remains one of the most contentious issues in the United States today. For mixed status families—families that include both citizens and noncitizens—this is more than a political issue: it's a deeply personal one. Undocumented family members and legal residents lack the rights and benefits of their family members who are US citizens, while family members and legal residents sometimes have their rights compromised by punitive immigration policies based on a strict "citizen/noncitizen" dichotomy. This collection of personal narratives and academic essays is the first to focus on the daily lives and experiences, as well as the broader social contexts, for mixed status families in the contemporary United States. Threats of raids, deportation, incarceration, and detention loom large over these families. At the same time, their lives are characterized by the resilience, perseverance, and resourcefulness necessary to maintain strong family bonds, both within the United States and across national boundaries.

Part I

Living Together, Living Apart

Stories of Separation

1 The Purpose of My Trip to Tijuana

GISELLE STERN HERNÁNDEZ

THE US CUSTOMS AND BORDER PROTECTION (CBP) OFFICER at the San Ysidro port of entry in San Diego, California, asks me, “What was the purpose of your trip to Tijuana?”

What I want to answer is, “The purpose was amazing sex with my husband in an air-conditioned hotel.”

What I say to the officer is, “Visiting my husband.”

My husband, Roberto, and I decided to meet again “in the middle” for a rendezvous this past April. While meeting for a rendezvous sounds all champagne and caviar, the reality was that for the past twelve and a half years, we couldn’t meet in the middle if the middle wasn’t inside Mexico. Tijuana, Mexico, was an easier trip for me to manage from Oakland, California, where I lived without my husband since 2011. The trip for Roberto from our home in the state of Morelos, Mexico, to Tijuana was an adventure that he enjoyed.

I purchased a racy black-and-red silk teddy with matching garters from an online site for plus-size women. I never purchased something like that before. If the CBP officer did a baggage check, I had some daring new visuals to back up what I just said to him.

I wondered if the CBP officer could tell that I had some fantastic, sweaty sex with my husband a few hours before I crossed back over into the United States. I used to not be able to knock boots on the day of my departure.

Time, as well as my husband, has been a great teacher.

My husband was deported from Chicago, Illinois, back to Mexico in April 2001. His case was complicated. It didn’t matter that I was born and raised in the United States and that we were married in a civil ceremony a week and a half before his deportation. He was handcuffed to his seat for the entire flight back to his home country of Mexico.

Roberto was barred for life from entering the United States, since his deportation at the time was the second one under his belt, triggering the lifetime ban. At the end of August 2001, I went to live with him in Mexico, in Morelos, an hour-and-a-half bus ride away from Mexico City.

Ten years later, the rules of the game changed slightly. In April 2011—exactly ten years to the date of his deportation—Roberto could make some legal moves. He could formally ask the US government, through the US Citizenship and Immigration Services, under the auspices of the US Department of Homeland Security, to waive the lifetime ban. If he got the green light for the waiver, which wasn’t at all guaranteed, he could proceed to step number two and apply for his US permanent residency, another no-guarantees situation.

To move forward with this completely nonguaranteed process, we needed money. A lot more than what we had at that moment. The brutal exchange rate of our Mexican pesos to dollars wasn’t going to do us any favors. We decided that I’d apply for jobs in the United States. And we definitely needed a good immigration lawyer.

I got a job, got on a plane, and landed in San Francisco, California, in January 2011, so as to get a few months of work in before we looked for an immigration lawyer.

I honestly didn’t think that it would be as hard as it was to go and live in the United States full-time without my husband at my side. I mistakenly thought that since I traveled in and out of the states during my ten years in Mexico, this full-time transition wouldn’t be so bad.

It was bad. As in drinking cheap wine alone in my room at two o’clock on a Monday night bad. As in wanting to break the wrists of couples holding hands during Sunday brunches bad. As in immediately changing the station when a love song came on the radio bad.

In the beginning, I set up phone dates with Roberto from my office. I came in early, before work, and tried to have a normal conversation while rubbing away imaginary spots on my desk to distract myself from the sadness of our situation. At the time, I had a pay-as-you-go cell phone, so calling Roberto on that number was only for emergencies.

A Skype video call was usually a frustrating enterprise, since I could barely see Roberto. The Internet bandwidth wasn’t strong enough on his end to make a Skype video session anything more than blurry lines. If it was Roberto’s hand in the bottom left corner of the computer screen, or if it was one of our cats, I really couldn’t tell.

We decided it would be best to stick to the phone. We still do. Sometimes we have a lot to say to each other. Sometimes we don’t, which we sheepishly started to acknowledge when those awkward moments hit. I’m sure that the awkward moments over the phone surfaced because we didn’t have the ability to simply sit physically with each other in the silence, Roberto holding me in his arms, our legs stretched out in front of us on our little wooden table with the glass center.

On those long-distance phone calls, we flirted, but never talked straight-up dirty. It just didn’t feel right, with the echoes and the static on the line.

I returned to our home in Morelos for a brief visit over a long weekend after the first three months of living full-time in the United States. We had sex during that long weekend, good sex. But the ever-present reality was that I had to say good-bye and get back on a plane in a few short days. It was my constant, anxious background music, only stopping when I slept.

The day before my departure, it was all I could do to simply take Roberto’s hand and lean my head against his shoulder as we watched mindless TV.

The job that I came to the United States for wasn’t a good fit. I stepped away from it in July 2011. After a quick trip to see Roberto, I didn’t have the funds or a vacation schedule to come back again to see my husband until December of that same year, five months from the previous visit. I tried not to panic about the situation. I told myself that Roberto and I were just fine. And we actually were, as fine as we could be under the circumstances.

I surprised myself by how much I missed sex with my husband. It wasn’t that I was surprised that I missed my husband. It was the depth of my sexual desire—it caught me off guard to finally trust myself and my body to miss someone that way.

The truth is that I wasn’t all that great in bed when we first got married. Too much thinking and not enough hips. My first husband can attest to this. And Roberto, my second husband? Well, let’s just say that he saw the potential and rolled up his sleeves.

Roberto and I met in a hotel in Tijuana during Christmas of 2011 for that long-awaited visit. We returned to that same hotel this past April.

I’d love to tell you that as soon as Roberto and I are alone together in a room now, be it in a hotel or at our house, we throw each other up against the walls in a frenzy of lust, and the framed pictures rattle and fall off their hooks. Reality is a little more G-rated. Roberto holds my hand. We kiss each other. Cuddle for a bit. I’m the one that needs the time to settle in emotionally, to give my soul a minute to catch up to my body, to acknowledge the depth of my desire.

When I see my husband again after being away, there’s a circling that happens. We’re jolted into the present through the memory of each other’s scents. Roberto smells like a fresh-cut plank of wood with a light wash of ocean water, salty and tangy. I worry that I’m starting to smell too much like somewhere else.

Yet once my shyness and worry wears off, there’s that sweet release. The buildup of not seeing each other every day creates the revelation of hands, and sweat, and movement. In those moments, what Roberto and I do for and with each other is something that we don’t do for or with anyone else. I don’t take it for granted, and neither does he.

Meeting my husband in hotel rooms in Tijuana is a lot easier than meeting him at our home in Morelos. In Tijuana, we’re on vacation. No cats to feed. No bills to pay. We explore unfamiliar streets and cheap places to eat. We stop by an OXXO, the Mexican equivalent of a convenience store, to buy hair gel, condoms, and spicy snacks.

When the vacation ends, when it’s time to go, we both pull small rolling suitcases behind us. No one stays back, waving good-bye.

In September 2012, we finally put in his waiver application. And we waited, deciding that if we got the go-ahead, his permanent residency application was next, and I’d continue to circle my mental tarmac in the states, earn some more dollars. If his waiver was denied, I’d start planning for a move back to Mexico to live with Roberto once again.

But either way, I was definitely going to buy more plus-size lingerie.

Because in between expanding my lingerie collection and adjusting to life without my husband in the states, I came to realize that the US immigration system, with its “no guarantees,” actually turned me into a better lover. When I left Mexico, I wasn’t absolutely sure of the next time that I’d see my husband in person again. And that made me much less shy in bed, because the stakes were higher. And Lord knows, Roberto didn’t complain about that one bit. Good sex, average sex, or out-of-this-world sex, it all counted.

The compressed time together became an unexpected gift, deceivingly wrapped in flat, one-dimensional photocopies of US immigration applications that I tore open with abandon.

I used to get so upset when US officials would ask me about the purpose of my visits to Mexico.

Now? I just lick my lips and hope for a baggage check.

2 Life and Love outside the Citizenship Binary

The Lived Experiences of Mixed-Status Couples in the United States

APRIL M. SCHUETHS

A POPULAR MYTH IS HARMING FAMILIES IN THE UNITED States. The notion that families are split into mutually exclusive groups of citizens and noncitizens is false. The belief in such a citizenship binary hides the interconnections between Americans, both documented and undocumented, in the same family. While scholars are beginning to discuss the important challenges surrounding mixed-status families, few have documented the experiences of mixed-status couples (i.e., undocumented immigrants partnered with US citizens). The public mistakenly assumes that mixed-status marriage confers legalization to the undocumented partner (Schueths 2012). However, marriage alone does not provide the protections of citizenship for undocumented spouses and in many cases creates a compromised citizenship for the citizen spouse (Mercer 2008; Schueths 2012). Misunderstood and hidden in the shadows, mixed-status couples quietly suffer injustice.

The increase in immigrant Latino/a populations, particularly Mexican immigrants (Ennis, Ríos-Vargas, and Albert 2011), has coincided with the growth of punitive immigration laws that promote family inequality. Navigating confusing immigration policies that vilify undocumented immigrants and their families is essentially like walking through a minefield, as one misstep can cost a family their life as they know it. Accordingly, the stories of mixed-status couples have become complex and important to understand. Thus my work is focused on the following research question: How do thirty-nine participants, representing twenty mixed-status couples, construct and understand their subjective experiences within the United States as they attempt to negotiate their position?

SELF-REFLECTIONS OF MY WORK WITH MIXED-STATUS COUPLES

The impetus for this research took place on my friend Jacqueline’s front porch one chilly fall evening. We were talking about her partner, Aarón, and how hard it was for him living as an undocumented immigrant and the profound impact it had on their relationship.¹ As we sat on her porch, it occurred to me that this educated, successful woman was not the only person I knew who was in a relationship with or married to an undocumented Latino/a. There were others including another close friend, a circle of acquaintances, and also former students. These educated women, many who identified as white, did not seem to fit the “media profile” of an individual married or partnered with an undocumented person. I wondered why no one was talking about these issues, in the same way these women were, especially in the light of intense immigration debates.

On December 12, 2006, about two months after I started my research, large-scale immigration raids of Swift meatpacking plants took place in six states, including Nebraska, the state I was residing in at the time. Both large-scale and less publicized raids continued, creating an environment of fear and uncertainty for undocumented individuals and their families. Participants were well aware of the anti-immigrant sentiment and during interviews often commented on specific incidences in their communities and within the United States. Thus my recruitment flyers were in English and Spanish and stated, “No human being is illegal!,” and included an excerpt that stated, “Undocumented and formerly undocumented individuals and their families contribute to our society and deserve to tell their story in a safe environment.”

I was naturally concerned that families would be reluctant to tell their stories. I am a middle-class, heterosexual, white woman who receives numerous privileges because of my status set; I have never been undocumented, nor am I currently a member of a mixed-status couple. My Spanish-language skills are basic, at best. Before my personal experiences with mixed-status couples, I too believed the stereotype that marriage was an easy antidote for legalization. I know now that I was mistaken.

My privileged position affects my perceptions and interpretations; therefore it has been my goal to remain self-reflective throughout the entire research process. I used reflective journals to record my impressions, thoughts, and, ideas. I relied heavily on the guidance of my immigration scholar colleagues, especially my interpreter, who grew up in a mixed-status family. Most importantly, I returned to my participants for their feedback on my findings.

Even with my blind spots I strive, albeit imperfectly, to be an advocate of social justice. I must acknowledge that I may have unknowingly had greater rapport with English-speaking participants, regardless of legal status. Yet, regardless of language, individuals welcomed the opportunity to tell their story, and some even expressed gratitude that “someone was actually looking at this.” As more than one participant stated, “It’s relieving to tell your story, because who really cares? Nobody.”

STORIES OF MIXED-STATUS COUPLES

My research on mixed-status couples was collected over a two-year period (2007–9) and examines the lived experiences of undocumented and formerly undocumented Latino/a immigrants partnered or married to US native-born citizens of any race and ethnicity (Schueths 2009).² Latino/a participants reported that they left their country of origin because of scarce job opportunities in Mexico, or the desire to be closer to their family members who were already in the United States, or both. Several male participants stated that they were seeking a sense of adventure, while one female participant stated that she was fleeing political persecution.

I conducted interviews with thirty-nine participants (twenty couples). One couple included only the female partner because the male partner was living in Mexico and did not choose to participate. I interviewed participants in person (twenty-seven) or, because of distance, on the telephone (twelve) and either one-on-one (seven couples) or with their partner present (thirteen couples). Twenty-two participants reported that Spanish was their first language. Of these, four participants requested a Spanish interpreter. I used the same interpreter, a bilingual male colleague, who self-identifies as Mexican and, at the time, was studying Latino/a immigration. In-person interviews generally took place in the couples’ homes (twenty) or at private community settings (seven). Due to the sensitivity of this research, participants were not required to provide their names; only verbal consent was required. The interviews typically averaged sixty to ninety minutes, and I used aliases to protect the privacy and safety of the families.

Participants lived in seven states (Illinois, Iowa, Minnesota, Missouri, Nebraska, Texas, and Wisconsin), and three participants were residing in Mexico at the time of the interview. In general, participants tended to be undocumented Mexican men married to Anglo women. One Latina participant reported being from Central America. An overwhelming majority of couples were married and reported being married for about three years on average and together for a total of five. Couples that were not married or engaged were together from one to three years. Ninety percent of the couples in my sample self-identified as interracial, while 10 percent self-identified as Mexican/...