Winds of Change | On the Current CIR Debate | Amor and Exile

**Note: This is probably more subject matter than should have gone in one blog post. Time is more precious than ever, and I've been more exhausted in the last 3 weeks than I can remember being since college over 15 years ago. There's so much to say, too little time, and some trains are fast departing from the stations of my life that I can't afford to miss. But I wanted to simultaneously speak to recent accomplishments with Amor and Exile and going to D.C., the perspective of many years having observed and been a victim of immigration politics, and also acknowledge that my intense involvement in this issue, to the exclusion of other, more earthy parts of my life, has taken a toll, and I'm in the process of achieving a new equilibrium.**

Cycles are being completed and new chapters are opening in my life, and for this I am grateful. But in many ways, some things are as they always were.

I recently traveled to Washington, D.C. to deliver a copy of the book I co-wrote with Nathaniel Hoffman, Amor and Exile: True Stories of Love Across America's Borders. The trip, which in essence launched the publication of our book, was many things to me at once: a dream come true to tell my story to our nation, a collaborative vision seen through to completion, an eye-opening experience about the way politics are done in my country, and a reminder that I must continue to find grounding in my daily life back home.

Nearly 12 years ago, I began dating my husband and discovered what we were up against in terms of immigration laws that effectively shut out a large number of North Americans from access to legal immigration to the United States, even when married to American citizens.

Almost 6 years ago, despite the successful protest of the passage of even harsher immigration laws (HR 4437), which would have made it a felony to merely be in association with my husband, we came to the conclusion that the only way for my husband to obtain legal status was to move abroad to his home country of Mexico. We packed our belongings and moved south, where we've been ever since.

A few years after we moved here, I began seriously contemplating the possibility of writing about my story. Everytime I told our story about why we'd moved here to someone, they'd respond, "But you're married!?" as if it was a no-brainer that my husband should have U.S. papers. It drove me crazy that nobody understood why things just weren't that simple. On one hand, part of me wanted to wash my hands of the issue entirely, just focus on my field (ecology) and pursue my dreams of a green business or non-profit in a country that sorely needs environmental conservation work. I did restore a good part of our land with greywater and organic vegetable production. I did publish a short collection of regional recipes using Mexican native food plants (The Bajio's Bounty). And I remained tangentially involved in the environmental movement here in Querétaro. But the pull of fate in the direction of writing a memoir and adding my voice to the millions of disenfranchised by U.S. immigration law was too strong. I kept adding to my many notebooks of visions I was having about "telling a story about migration."

In winter of 2011, only a few months after my daughter was born, I began writing my part for Amor and Exile. Ever since then, my life as been drawn inexorably deeper into the path of advocacy on behalf of families like mine. Starting with the story that is now part of Chapter 9 of Amor and Exile, entitled "Alienation," in which I tell of our passage south to Mexico, I began the laborious task of encapsulating my most painful struggles and my lofty ideals (of the ones that still remain) into prose, exposing them to my coauthor's critiquing and making them universally understandable, as opposed to making sense only to me. The first years were an internal struggle—overcoming the fears and anxieties with making our story. I first received great support from family, friends, my coauthor Nathaniel, and then from a therapist who helped me creatively work through my trauma and heal many hurt parts of having to leave my country to keep my family together, essentially against my will.

Our manuscript was finally done in December 2012. It represented two and a half years of writing and collaborative editing. In the first few months that we began "shopping around" our manuscript with our agent, was when all the Comprehensive Immigration Reform debate hit Congress. I'd written my story without any specific political language, mainly because it was telling a past story, also because it was anyone's guess as to when actual reform could happen. Moreover, as I tell in the book, part of my personal peacemaking has had to do with separating my political hopes from my own personal goals and motivations—in other words, I can't pin my personal happiness on political outcomes.

That being said, I'm well aware of what the current debate represents and I would be amiss to not be a part of it. It's been satisfying to be able to make contact with many individuals who are advocating on behalf of families like ours. Coming in contact with dozens of families like mine has renewed my resolve to continue speaking out on this subject—even though the "best" reforms available (waiver reform) really would only allow my family to apply for a waiver a couple years earlier. It's too little too late for us—but it could be a lot for some families.

Being in D.C.—getting the community support to go there as a result of our Indiegogo campaign to "Send Amor and Exile to Washington"—was an incredibly uplifting experience. Going from totally disempowered, silenced for so many years due to my family's lack of legal recourse—to dialoguing with Capitol staffers and representatives themselves was to come full circle in terms of where I was and where I now am. We have no guarantee that our efforts will actually make any difference in the long run in terms of policy, but I am convinced that at least in terms of personal views, dozens of individuals have been affected as a result of our work. And I can only pray that it will continue to have an impact in the long term.

Because ultimately, as things are currently being played out in the Senate, it is truly a political game in which our lives hang in the balance. A game whose players have no problem sacrificing billions of taxpayer dollars for even higher and more electrified fences in the name of immigration reform—always with the risk that every compromise will never be enough to satisfy the most extreme negotiators. I'm personally more skeptical about the long-term positive impact of the most recent version of SB 744 (if the Corker-Hoeven amendment to spend $30 billion in additional "border security" is included) compared to the original version. It's the product of compromise that might get some of us home a little sooner, that might prevent some of us from having to go into exile, but my question is, how will it affect generations of migrants, citizens of both countries even, to come?

It's really easy to fall in the trap of thinking about only our own families' problems, I did this for many years as I pitied myself and couldn't imagine how I was going to make my life work in a foreign country. I saw myself as somewhat different than the rest, when in reality, we're all in the same boat. I am so thankful to my fellow friends in exile for opening my eyes about that. What I dread happening is that we, the exiled or separated, forget to think of those who will come after us, as we are thrown a bone, while draconian regulations continue to be passed.

What concerns me about the passage of an SB 744 with extreme border militarization clauses is because of the reasons these regulations are being written in. Does this version of immigration policy engender cross-cultural understanding and reduce the likelihood of attempted illegal immigration to the U.S? Probably not. Would using that money instead on international programs that improve the standard of living in foreign countries, create programs for individuals to more easily access legal immigration channels to the U.S. have more positive effect in the long run? Most likely. But those type of answers aren't as politically sexy as more choppers and barbed wire, when catering to the xenophobic crowd in the U.S.

Much of our populace is still stuck, lamentably, in a culturally insensitive rut that is costing us the ability to move forward as a nation, embrace our immigrant roots, our immigrant present, and our immigrant future. We welcome those who have the financial resources (or luck in the lotteries) to make it across the border "legitimately," but we reject many who are the salt of the earth. Those of us who have acknowledged the migratory and highly adaptable nature of our continent will keep working toward true change, at great personal sacrifice, sorrow, and even joy sometimes, no matter what the outcome on Capitol Hill.

Amor and Exile's Launch | Send Amor and Exile to Washington

It's exciting to find out that some dreams do come true. A vision to tell a story about migration is being made possible, by divining with the creative spirit within, a lot of hard collaborative work with my coauthor Nathaniel Hoffman, an excellent technical support crew, die-hard fans and advocates, and now, an outpouring of support from the community. Amor and Exile is being born at this very moment.

Our initial campaign started this past weekend on Indiegogo. It's called "Send Amor and Exile to Washington." You can help us launch our book and ensure that Congress hears about American families divided and exiled by U.S. immigration law. Send a copy of the new book, Amor and Exile, to Washington with our IndieGoGo campaign: http://igg.me/at/amorandexile/x/3194161 Be sure to watch the video, it features yours truly and my coauthor Nate. :)

Thanks to all our contributors in the first five days, we've reached 50% of our campaign goal and have raised enough to send enough books to all 100 Senators—but we need help with the rest of Congress!

Here's the summary of the book from the back cover:
Across the United States, American citizens are forced underground, exiled abroad and separated from their spouses for a surprising reason. Amor and Exile is the story of American citizens—including Veronica, Ben, J.W., and Nicole—who fall in love with undocumented immigrants only to find themselves trapped in a legal labyrinth, stymied by their country’s de facto exclusion of their partners. Journalist Nathaniel Hoffman visited both sides of the border to document the lives of these couples caught in the crossfire of America’s high stakes political fight over immigration. In his disarming and precise style, Hoffman also traces the historical relationship between immigration, love and marriage. Lending an authentic voice to Amor and Exile, coauthor Nicole Salgado delivers a searing first-person account of life in the U.S. with her husband while he was undocumented, her tortured decision to leave the country with him, and their seven years of exile and starting over together in Mexico. Amor and Exile tells of love that transcends borders—a story shared by hundreds of thousands of U.S. citizens—cutting through the immigration debate rhetoric and providing a courageous perspective for one of the most vexing policy problems of our time.

I'm not one to brag much, but I'm pretty excited about the initial critical feedback we've been getting from some fairly big names in immigration/civil liberties journalism. You can read it here. Thanks to all our supporters...we're really excited to see our several years of writing come to fruition!
 

Wasp stings and Seguro Popular | Mexico vs. U.S. 1-0

Some family of mine visited for the first time this past week. As is apt to happen, when comparing the U.S. and Mexico, we got off on a spirited detour about the direction in which the U.S. government is headed.
I had remarked how ironic it was that the direction of the effect of current U.S. policies (slashing essential public programs, failing to support universal education, lining the pockets of the wealthy, etc.) are sending our country down a similar path as Mexico, where growth is occurring in some sectors, but because of the monopolies and corrupt bureacracies, a lot of the "progress" truly benefits only the rich, leaving the majority of the country stuck about 40 years in the past, maybe more.
My motivation in saying something like that was probably stemming from a sense of helplessness at only being able to watch what goes down in the U.S. from afar, also a fear that things I most cherished about my home country, like great free education, are at risk. 

But then something hit me—part of my imaginary equation was off, and not in the direction I'd anticipated. Just the day prior, I'd visited the Queretaro General Hospital ER for a large wasp sting that had gotten worse and infected. I was seen immediately, administered a shot to reduce the reaction, and sent home with medicine—all in under 1 hour's time, and all free, under the Seguro Popular federal medical care program.

I first enrolled in 2010, before my daughter was born. I'd been able to pay for private doctor's office visits out of pocket up until then, but was worried about potential accidents, my inability to afford private medical insurance, and wanted a sort of catastrophic family medical insurance. So far we've only used it for severe insect bites—Margo also got treated for one, last year, when he was stung by a scorpion. But it's a relief to think it's there when we need it.
Suddenly, on my imaginary scoreboard between the U.S. and Mexico federal benefits to my family, I was left staring at a big fat 1-0, with Mexico on the unexpected left hand side.
Inside, I felt outraged, shocked, even a little dismayed. How could it be that the glorious U.S. of A could be down on the count, and of all rivals, with Mexico? There had to be something I was missing.
I racked my brains for things the U.S. federal government had done for me (a direct benefit, not some sort of trickle-down benefit) and my inner conscience immediately felt lame doing so, especially after hearing the words of JFK, "ask not what your country can do for you," first inside my own head, and then from my uncle sitting next to me as he invoked the time of the Kennedys.
It was as if I had an inner anti-governmental critic meter and some alarm was getting sounded. Over the years my morality meter had driven me to do well in school, honor my family, work, pay taxes, volunteer, sit on boards of directors. It had allowed me to practice freedom of speech by being critical of government policies, an environmental activist, and even challenge the morality of current U.S. immigration policies. But somehow wondering what direct personal benefit I'd gotten with my U.S. membership card felt sacrilegious. What felt especially weird was having spent the last 7 years up in arms about not being able to go back home to the U.S. with my husband and daughter, as a complete family unit. It was a very weird feeling indeed.
But what was worse was not finding any answer to counter my suspicion, that the score was still 1-0. All I could think of was having to pay taxes since I started getting W-2s when I was 16 years old. The next thing I thought of was my $20,000 college scholarship through the National Science Scholars Program that had gotten revoked as a result of Newt Gingrich's contract with America the summer of 1995, leaving me with just under that amount of debt 3.5 years later after graduating.
The response to my question I posed to my family was disturbingly spare. After asking in earnest for the third time if I was being rash, if I was missing something, my uncle said, "Let it go already...you may just have to accept that things aren't really what you thought."
That seems to go without saying—this isn't the first time that the dual allegiance I've been obliged to forge in the throes of forced expatriation has caused me to question everything I've known to be true.
That part of me that still wants to see that scoreboard blowing up on the right hand side is not just juvenile fantasy, but self-preservation, in that restoring something from ruins is usually a lot harder than preventing something from falling apart in the first place. On the other hand, maybe a middle ground would be to allow something to grow and evolve. That's been my wish ever since it became clear to me at 12 years old that our country's oil-dependent economy would need to sprout new wings and let the dinosaurs go the way of oblivion. What saddens me as an adult is that the country I thought the most innovative and capable of progress—my own—still really has so far to go.

Resolution Anxiety

   My New Year's Resolution went like this: "find balance between it [my new part-time job as an english instructor] and the rest of my life: caring for my daughter, carving out couple time, and finishing Amor and Exile; plus some new goals—seriously reviving my garden, gettin' some wheels, and attending not one but two weddings up North." It's been four days, and I might be jumping the gun, but I am a little nervous about how this all is going to pan out. 
   I'm one of those kind of people who sets a really high bar for herself. It's a big reason why adapting to life in Mexico has been so hard at times. Sometimes I wish I was a little more like my husband, or another friend here who's also living in exile, who expect the worst and are pleasantly surprised when something good happens. But although those people might get less disappointed, a reservation I have to taking that approach is, one, it's not quite easy to change your outlook on things once you're mature, and two, if you set your bar too low, you might not shoot for enough achievement to make any progress at all. In any case, my way leads to me having done a lot of things that I'm proud of. But letdowns also abound.
   I might as well quit beating around the bush. My resolution may have been a little too ambitious. I accepted a part-time job to supplement the family coffers with some sorely needed income, and this is my last free Friday before my new full Monday to Friday work schedule starts next week. I'm spending (part of) it blogging because I'll be seriously surprised if I have time to again before April! The fact that I may not have time to do much writing at all (if any) in the near future bums me out for a number of reasons. 
   As I explained it to my therapist, I have time for a family and a part-time job, or a family and an aspiring part-time career as a writer, but I don't have time for all three. Since i can't afford to be an unpaid writer (we still have no contract for the book as of yet), the job is a must. But I  there simply aren't enough hours in the day for everything. I don't want to sacrifice my health (i.e. stay up all night writing  instead of sleeping), or my fairly balanced lifestyle (i.e. write on the weekend instead of hanging out with friends and family), because I've been there, done that, and the stress it creates is not something I want in my life. I have enough as it is not being able to live in my own country.
   I've considered the idea that I might just have yet to refine the art of juggling multiple things as a working mom. But in the first three days of training for my new job, which I don't dislike at all, but also is not my passion (it's teaching English, one of the rare professional opportunities that I'm uniquely qualified for that's ubiquitous here), I haven't found the spare time to do much more than catch my breath. And I'm still plotting when to make time to plan for it—my am hours at home caring for my 15 month old while my husband works are pretty packed. 
   I heard that the author of that teenage vampire series wrote while watching her kids at home, but I'm not sure how she managed to do that. She must have hired a nanny at some point. Even today, our last full day together for who knows how long, the writing for this piece exceeded her bedtime and is competing with help in the coloring book, punctuated by lapses of dancing to childrens' music, and requests for food. But we're not comfortable with the idea of daycare yet (if ever?) and aren't into the TV as nanny idea although it is helpful while I take care of the essentials like meals and housework. She might be able to entertain herself for short periods of time, and she's held up well while I leave her with a sitter to go to swim class for a couple hours twice a week, but I don't want to push it any further. It feels bad enough being away for five hours in the pm and coming home an hour before she goes to bed. I have a sister in-law here who works seven days a week full-time with four kids and another on the way, and it's not a parenting approach that I admire.
   I've had a good run of luck up until now money-wise, that's for sure. When I first got to Mexico and we built our house, I remember sweating it every day that I'd be bankrupt the next. Somehow, we've managed to eke out a modest lifestyle for this long, with my consulting and giving workshops and my husband's jobs in construction. After a while like this, the financial fear factor (the one that everyone in the U.S. who's struggling knows so well) receded and was replaced by a more relaxed, dare I say, Mexican perspective of "it will work out," no matter what happens. This was a welcome change of heart, for even when we had the baby, for the first year, we felt assured that we'd manage to keep our heads above water. But when I had to sell my car to pay the utility and food bills, and more recently, I had to borrow money for hospitalization to have my appendix removed, the safety net suddenly received a very large tear in the middle—a point that I've been anticipating for years—and now we've got to mend it.
   Now that the bottom line has finally been reached, I'm realizing that, until she's old enough to be in school full-time, my husband and I will continue to juggle our schedules between each of our paid jobs and our time with our daughter and chores at home. And when the dust has settled, there isn't any significant amount of time left for my vocation as a writer. If I get lucky, I might find something in my field (ecology)—by the looks of Occupy Wall Street, that's getting hard to do that in the U.S.—but it's even tougher here in Mexico. But even if I were to land a day job as an environmentalist, I'm still scared.
   I'm scared because, in this past year, I've come to love writing and I don't want to let it go as an artistic occupation. As emotionally difficult as it has been to gather up the courage to tell the world our story and actually do it with any style and coherence; as challenging of a process it has been to mature professionally in concert with my coauthor, as we ford the uncharted waters of collaborative journalist/subject writing; as hard as it's been to avoid worrying about my dwindling bank account while praying constantly to the Great Spirit to continue supporting my creative path; I have absolutely loved every second of it. Being inspired to write about something makes me positively bounce out of bed in the morning.
   What I most hoped would happen—that I could find a profession that I enjoy every aspect of—has happened, but at the same time I've discovered the one aspect of it that might be the dealbreaker—not because I want to let it go, but because I have a family to care for—the economic factor of being a writer. And it terrifies me to think that I might lose all the progress I've made in the last year of delivering myself heart and soul to the process, that it may issue forth unbridled and in abundance. It frustrates me to think that I can't conscionably make more time for something that's become so important to me; without sacrificing even more precious time with the loved ones I'm most doing this for in the first place—my husband and daughter.
   I want my daughter to see her mother follow her dreams, and being a creative person in addition to a scientifically trained person, I've realized, is one of those dreams. When I accepted my new job, and made my New Year's resolution, I had told myself that working for a few months to supplement my husband's part-time income and afford to attend two  weddings in the States wouldn't impact my creative goals, that in fact it would carry me closer to them. And in fact, in the long-term, it may still. But since I have a tendency to leap before I look, I am concerned I may have overstated my possibilities for 2012, raised the bar beyond what I can reach. Been practical about my income, but not so practical about all that I could accomplish at once. Yet I really had no choice in the matter. I had to make a change.
   We shall see—luck and timing could play a big role here. My coauthor says we're not taking a break (even though we both have to accept PT jobs), that we're just doing what's necessary for our families. That it's what all writers have to do in order to survive. Maybe, like my initiation into the working-outside of the home-mom club, I just need to accept my initiation into the long-term process of the aspiring writers' club, and this is what they mean when they say it takes years to write a book. If that's the case, I can breathe a little easier. But I just hope I don't have to make finishing our book a 2013 resolution. Because despite the odds, there's a lot of other things I also want to be doing by then, and my inspiration for Amor and Exile is overflowing. I'd like to be able to tell our story, and I'd like for it to not fall on deaf ears. 
   And hell, since the creative spirit has been fairly generous with me when I've asked it nicely,  I'll share one more hope: I'd like to keep doing things like this for the rest of my life.

Mi Mexicana (Major Mexican Holidays, Mexican Citizenship, & Me)

Big things always seem to happen to me around major holidays here in Mexico. This past Dia de la Independencia in September, I got word that my Mexican naturalization certificate was issued, and I would not have to go back to Immigration (Instituto Nacional de Inmigracion) ever again (whew!). The only problem was that although the document was printed in Mexico City, it'd still take a month or more to be delivered, a situation which left me a bit vulnerable in terms of traveling—it'd been a last minute scramble to issue the document before my Mexican visa expired, and while I was waiting for the naturalization document to get a passport, I'd be without traveling papers for on my way back into Mexico. It was unlikely I'd have to travel, since I had no plans to do so, but the prospect of being grounded in the case of an emergency was a concern in the back of my mind.

Today, on Dia de los Muertos, another major Mexican holiday that gives Halloween a serious run for its money, it was just another typical day at home with the baby while my husband went to work. I was getting ready to put the baby down for a nap when I got a phone call on my cell. It was my contact at the Secretaria de Relaciones Exteriores, calling to tell me that he just received my carta de naturalizacion. "Yay!" I exclaimed immediately. "Can you come pick it up before 3," he asked. Can I ever, I thought.

Soon, I was rushing about to get the baby's diaper bag ready, change my clothes, and pack a little gift bag for my liason at the agency. Noe Lujan has been truly one of the most professional, responsive, compassionate, efficient government representatives I've ever been attended by at a Mexican government agency. And that's saying a lot, because it hasn't always been a pleasurable experience (not just to be a complainer, but most "routine" visits are difficult to a level that Americans who haven't spent time abroad would be hard-pressed to imagine, although some agencies are definitely improving). I loaded the baby into the truck and got on the road as fast as possible, to avoid the late lunch traffic.

What I didn't expect was the range of emotions I would feel on my way there. First, I felt an overwhelming wave of joy. I was all smiles. I felt warm all over and super excited. "Damn, I don't feel this awesome very often anymore," I noted to myself, but I let it last. The end of all my visits to immigration aside, what this really means to me started to sink in. Honestly, I think that'll be something that'll take years to happen.

Then the tears started to flow. Looking back over the years of frustrating visits to immigration, the difficult year of applying for citizenship, and then wondering if it'd ever really happen, and now it finally was. And how I had this opportunity, here in Mexico, one that I wonder whether my husband will have ever have in my country of origin. I felt basically filled with emotion and excited up through parking, walking down the street to the SRE building, and up the steps to the door. Then I finally came down off my cloud of elation.

The guard inside, an older fellow, waved his hand vigorously, motioning me away. He wanted me to go downstairs to the passport office entry, since the office I was going to doesn't let people in after 12 pm, and it was 1:30 pm. But I knew since Noe had called me, I needed to be let in. I stood there waving my own hand, as if asking him to open the door. We did this a few times and I started to get annoyed. Finally he reluctantly came over, opened the door, and I explained my situation, he went and confirmed it, and let me in, not without taking my ID# and signature, of course. At that point the principal emotion was feeling rather smug.

I continued down the hall, where they knew I was coming and waved me in. My heightened sense of anticipation endured. I sat at Noe's desk with the baby on my lap, we exchanged our pleasantries and then we got down to business. I stared at the pile of papers emanating from his mountains of file folders, and felt a mixture of deep appreciation, pity for kind-hearted bureacrats, and relief. After signing several documents, I remarked that I felt like I was buying a car. He laughed and said that this was much better. He explained the documents one by one, and the new stipulations I'll have now that I'm officially Mexican. It's an interesting list, one I'll probably write more about in the future. I gave him his gift, he said I shouldn't have, and we chatted for a while longer. The baby was extra squirmy, so I said my goodbyes and was on my way out.

He'd recommended I stop in to the passport office to ask about the documentation required. Referring to my naturalization certificate gave me that feeling of accomplishment. Then I started to think about voter registration cards. And my mind started racing off in many directions. Is there something in particular I should do to celebrate my new Mexicanness? How do I identify myself now? Does this change anything? If anything, my sense of responsibility as a participating member of Mexican society. It was an exciting, if not worrisome feeling.

Then, of course, life kicked back in. Errands, a whiny baby, and a drive home. A creeping feeling of exhaustion as I finally got her off for her nap. But before I could attempt my own, I had to corral some stray chickens in the garden, give the rabbit some grass, swat a couple flies in the living room. I contemplated logging on immediately to share my pile of new feelings about my new status with the world, one that way exceeds a single tweet or Facebook post...but the desire to try and nap won over. So I kicked off my sandals and contentedly curled up on the couch.

I was just...drifting... off... to sleep... when Margo got home. I couldn't pretend I was sleeping, and I had to share the news—I'd wanted to keep the surprise for an in-person delivery. "Really?!" he exclaimed delightedly when I told him. "Aw...Mi Mexicana," he said, leaning over to give me a kiss. And I smiled and thought to myself, damn! He's right, and yet I still just can't believe it.

Commemoration

Some things turn out to be harder than you expected. And some things turn out when you least expect them to. Sometimes those things are one and the same. My husband just says, "September is a tough month for us."

We're referring to my recent obtaining of Mexican citizenship, and my daughter's first birthday. Both things seemed to be happening according to plan, with no kinks. But then for each event, in the eleventh hour, all hell broke loose. Miraculously, everything DID turn out "okay." But for both, it was touch and go until the very last moment.

In the case of my Mexican naturalization, I could have done like most of my expat friends here and just kept renewing my visa (the FM2, for legal stay in this country) until I got permanent residency. But for me, there was an irresistible draw to "no more trips to immigration (INM)" (only 2 years of renewing the FM2 vs. 5), and the ability to vote. As I saw it, I could be here indefinitely, so why not be a full-fledged member of society?

So the papers were dutifully gathered, submitted, and accepted over the course of months, from late 2010 to March of this year. It was a difficult, expensive, and sometimes stressful process that led me all over Queretaro and Mexico City jumping through bureacratic hoops to properly document my existence and qualifications for becoming Mexican by marriage. Then began the waiting game. In late July, we heard back that my application was approved. I figured it was just a matter of time before my naturalization certificate was delivered, and I was good to go—and put it out of my mind.

As August came to an end, my radar touched back onto the question of my naturalization certificate. Where the heck was it anyways? August is the time when, for the last five years, I start getting my papers together for the visa renewal—up to thirty days before its expiration date. But since my citizenship was on the table, I assumed I wouldn't have to renew this year. I was finishing up a chapter in Amor and Exile, and making plans for the baby's first birthday party, in other words, busy. So I merely shot an email off to my contact at the Secretary of Exterior Relations (SRE) to "check in" and continued to hope for the best.

When he got back to me, still no printing of the certificate. By this time it was early Sept. My visa expire(s/d) on the 18th of Sept., so I started to get a little worried. He told me to wait until the last minute if possible—which is not my style, but who wants to pay $300 more for a document they won't need if the one they're waiting on is almost ready? I decided to try and relax, and play a little roulette.

Meanwhile, plans were going well for the baby's birthday bash. When initially weighing how much to take on, we'd voted down dipping into savings for various home improvement projects prior to the party in favor of a low-budget bash. At first, I meant to keep it on the small side. But I love parties, hadn't had a really big one since the baby shower, and that invite list sort of took on a life of its own, so the budget got pushed to the limit. Luckily, a bunch of friends had committed to chip in with time and effort. But the amount of stress over preparation and expenses approached a level I wasn't quite expecting.

Normally, I am fairly conservative in my estimates when planning for parties and life in general. However, I indulged in a few fantasies that, in retrospect, I probably shouldn't have: First, that my baby would know (or care) that I was throwing a party for her, and would demand any less of my attention in the weeks leading up to it. Second, I assumed we'd have income around the time of the party, but then in a random stroke of bad luck, my husband was out of work for the two weeks prior. I also didn't have the cushion of the long-hoped for contract for the book (I know, I am crazy! But that's why I called it a fantasy). I also assumed that I wouldn't be reapplying for a visa in the days prior to the party—those of you who've done it before know that it's almost like a full-time job for the week before the renewal date.

The week before the party, and my visa's expiration date; which ironically are one and the same, I decided I couldn't just "wait until the last minute." I went into INM and SRE to beg them to give me clarity about what was going to happen: would I in fact get my naturalization papers in time, or would be I be dipping into my savings for a useless document that I'd have to reapply for on a technicality (in order for it to have validity, the naturalization certificate's print date must coincide with a date prior to the expiration of your visa)?


The possibility of running out of money hasn't occurred to me for at least 10 years, back when I was struggling to get on my feet as a recent college graduate. But when they turned me away at the SRE doors and I sat down on the bench outside with the baby, after 5 years of underemployment, and contemplating the possibility that my application for citizenship had been for naught, I wondered if heartless bureaucrats would continue to empty my pockets until I failed to even qualify for either a visa OR citizenship—and then how would my husband and I be together? I broke down in tears. So as to not get stuck in the paperless limbo land that my husband lived in the U.S., I decided to go ahead and reapply for the visa at the eleventh hour, on September 15th, the day before Mexican Independence Day. It was the last day I could submit my papers.

We were down in the commercial district making our way to the bank to transfer money to the INM coffers for the right to be here another year with my family when I got a phone call from my contact at SRE. Only that I couldn't answer because I'd just dropped my cell phone on the ground and I could hear nothing on the other end. I ran outside to get my husband's cell phone, ran into the grocery store to put credit on the phone, and ran back out to call my contact. "Is Syracuse spelled with a 'Y'?" he asked. I stammered yes, wondering if this really meant my wait was over. Half an hour later, at the bank, before I had to get in line behind 40 others before business hours ended for the next 4 days, I got word that the certificate had been printed, and I wouldn't have to renew my visa.

I couldn't believe things had turned out this way. The only problem was that I'd still have to wait to get my certificate in the mail, as it had been printed but not signed. So until then, I'd be unable to get a Mexican passport, and essentially unable to travel (back into Mexico is the catch—there's no problem going up into the States because of my U.S. passport). I wavered but after conferring with family, decided it was worth the risk. I hope I don't eat my words.

It was Independence Day, and I was officially a Mexican citizen. I should have been elated—and I was—I went out and partied like I hadn't for a long time that night with friends downtown. When I got home during the wee hours of the next morning, the baby had been up wailing for an hour with my husband, who'd stayed home to watch her. But I had no regrets. However, I had only two days to go before the party—I had to get my act together, raging hangover or not. I set about taking care of the last minute details and gathered a small army for the food preparation the day prior.

But then family hit the fan—Margo's side had a small crisis of their own and infighting had broken out, making me fear no one would show up at our party for not wanting to see each other. That made it sink in how upset I was that my own family couldn't be there with us to celebrate. Our situation doesn't make it easy for them either—the distance is considerable, tickets are expensive, mail is tough, internet is erratic. We'd had to make a choice—have them visit either this date, or Christmas, and pinned our hopes on the latter. But as the big day approached I felt more and more sad that we'd be apart for this one.

It's weird, because I don't usually feel this bad for my own birthday. Nostalgic, yes. Sometimes wishing my husband would do it up for me like only my family and friends can, also. But never with the dark cloud of dreariness that I felt creeping up on me like I did as my daughter's 1st birthday without my side of the family present. That caught me off guard.

So much so, that I woke up the morning of her birthday with paralyzing back pain. I'd been worn out the day before, and I'd been having hip pain for months, but having my back go out was completely unexpected, especially since I'd managed to make it all the way through pregnancy without that happening. What was going on? I tried to get my frustrations out with my therapist, who graciously spoke with me that morning. After skype didn't work ten times while trying to set up a happy birthday phone call with my parents for the baby, I had an embarrassingly upsetting incident with them and my husband. It became apparent how raw I'd gotten, or how the stress I'd been desperately trying to avoid had finally caught up with me. All of my attempts to hold it together—meditation, affirmation, visualization, gratitude—seemed to be simultaneously imploding.

On our way down to town to pick up the cake, I felt ashamed for the way I'd spoken earlier that morning, and could only look at my daughter next to me, who laughed as tears and snot streamed down my face. And I realized how silly I must have looked to her, and began to laugh myself. What felt like emergencies minutes prior seemed wholly insignificant, if only for a moment.

In the end, I was able to carry on and we were able to pull off a very fun, memorable party with plenty of friends and family present. My parents were even able to watch the piñata being broken and the cake being cut via Skype—the gods were willing this time. As a friend had predicted a week earlier, it was a celebration not just for our daughter's first birthday, but for us all having been able to make it through one more year—together. The pain may have yet to be resolved, but the commemoration is complete.

9 in, 9 out, and Northward Bound

A little over a week ago, my baby girl was nine months old. The date held a lot of significance for me, whether it was because she'd spent an equal amount of time in the womb and out of the womb, because all the pregnancy fitness magazines say you should expect it to take at least that long for you to get your pre-pregnancy body back (I don't quite), or that she's got one more season to go til she's a year old.

Enthused by the auspicious-feeling date, I told Margo it was high time we pulled that placenta we'd saved from the birth, which had been hiding out in the freezer ever since. You may not have known that some cultures consider the placenta a deceased twin. Or that there's a Chinese medicine custom of consuming it in capsules for post-partum or menopausal complaints. Many people give no thought to the fact that many placentas simply fall down trash chutes after birth. Whereas we didn't feel quite the same as the traditional cultures do about our placenta, we also didn't have such little regard for it as to let it get hauled off to the garbage.

So we settled for something in the middle. We said a few words and planted it under a tree in our yard. When I told my midwife friend in San Miguel, whose website was where I learned about the above customs, she said "Cool!" When I told my mom, she said, "Ohhh." (Or was it "eww"?) But no matter—it was our idea that it'd nourish a beautiful mesquite that the baby will someday climb in when she is older. So literally, it will help her put down roots in what's a new land for her maternal lineage (I was fourth-generation Northern Forest girl, she is a first-generation Semidesierto Queretana).

Now that that's out of the way, we're ready to show that we're both big girls. The baby and I will be flying up by ourselves to go visit her grandparents in those verdant landscapes of Upstate New York. I must put aside my misgivings about having to travel without her father, of having this ongoing, frustrating status as a binational family without certain rights and privileges. Although it's impossible for the bitterness to disappear entirely, I will have to find a way to enjoy my time there, for my daughter's sake. She must meet her northern great-grandmother, her uncle, great-aunts and uncles. I want to introduce her to the land where I grew up, where I was inspired to become an ecologist and a teacher. I want to do it with enough gusto to convince her too that it is worth continuing to dream about returning to someday, as an entire family. I pray that the universe will conspire to help me pull it off, because God knows it's not just about me.

Cycles

Precisely ten years ago yesterday was when I first fell for my husband, and yes, it was connected to a Cinco de Mayo party—which yours truly happened to throw.  At the time, we both lived in a small coastal town in Northern California, between San Francisco and Santa Cruz. It was a "friends of friends" kind of encounter, the way our lives overlapped. One of those friends had a portrait hanging on her kitchen wall with a quote: "wherever you go, there you are." Something a young woman far from home was well advised to contemplate: I was 23 years old—I never would have imagined where I'd be ten years later. 

Needless to say much has transpired since then—a very long engagement, a cross-country trip for both of us to meet the parents, a wedding, lots of jobs and bouncing around residences looking for cheap rent in a pricey zone, a Masters' degree, disillusionment with the prospects for adjusting Margo's immigration status in the U.S., a move down south, a period living with the in-laws, a home built, "starting over" lifestyle-wise and financially, pining for the U.S., several false starts at numerous odd jobs, plenty of dabbling in creative projects, perhaps most notably a lovely baby, and now, coauthoring a book about why and how I got here.

Writing the book is a monumental process for me that represents a lot of aspirations on many levels. One of the interesting things that comes out of it is for me to be able to stand back and reflect how many lives have touched mine and whose I have touched along the way in these last ten years. Numerous family members and friends have helped me keep me from drowning, limp along, and sometimes even soar above the challenges that I've faced with having to leave my native country and make it in another land. For them I am grateful. The one who's been there all along, is that same guy I fell for 10 years ago—the very reason I am here.  Sometimes I'm amazed we're still together considering what we've been through but when I think of what first captivated me, none of that has changed. I shouted it out on Facebook yesterday although I knew he wouldn't read it- he doesn't use a computer. I wanted to celebrate in some way, but he was exhausted and asleep before I could catch up with him last night.

Tonight, I want to keep that promise to celebrate, but a wave of inspiration at what feels like an auspicious time cannot be ignored. Earlier this afternoon. I wrote to a friend, "Love is a blessing no matter where it is found." It wasn't about me, though—it was in support of her own decision to follow her heart's desire to a southern land, a pull that took her all the way to Central America.  I just heard from her today.  She was a former student of mine back in the Bay Area. I logged on to her Facebook page and saw an array of photos portraying a beautiful couple, on wave-swept beaches, a smiling face in a wedding dress, just exuding with love. The pictures reminded me of our early days as a couple, then when I first went to Mexico, those who were optimistic told me it'd be amazing. And how those who were from there told me I'd probably have a hard time. How she probably has friends who think, ah, life in Costa Rica—what could be wrong with that? But she too had to deal with painful issues that come with such distance, both culturally and geographically.

I was just stunned, after hearing her story. The thought, "careful what you wish for, you just might get it" entered my mind. How just a few days ago, I had hoped for more individuals in my life who could demonstrate a true empathy, a real understanding of what I was going through in living in another land that I can't always voluntarily break away from. And here she was, certainly not the person I'd imagined, but a kindred spirit in all senses of the word. I happened to notice on her FB page that it was her birthday. I sent her a well wish asking how old she was. She replied, "23- crazy, huh?" Girl, you have no idea.

Exciting News: AmorandExile.com Goes Live

It's been many years in the making...but I am finally going public and sharing the story behind my move to Mexico with my husband Margarito in the book Amor and Exile—ours is one of several couples' profiled by my coauthor and friend, journalist Nathaniel Hoffman—I'll be contributing several chapters in 1st person. You can find more information about the book, its coauthors, and related stories and links on amorandexile.com, which we're publicly unveiling today!  Looking forward to your feedback!

I began blogging about our impending move in the summer of 2006- chronicled here in the Succulent Seer archives. That said, I first envisioned a memoir book project as early as 2007...around the same time my colleague Nathaniel developed a strong interest in chronicling the stories of other couples in similar situations as ours. Now, Nathaniel and I are committed to creating a powerful journalistic and first-hand treatment of the situation that thousands of couples find themselves in America and abroad- a difficulty (sometimes impossibility) in adjusting the status of the undocumented partner despite the other partner's American citizenship.  

I am very excited about this collaboration and the continued writing process—after all, we have only just begun! Although Succulent Seer will continue to be my personal blog, there will definitely be some cross-pollination between the two sites- I'll have periodic updates about the book project here, and you can also find Amor and Exile on Facebook, where you can follow our latest happenings and comments from others involved in the project.

 

 

Lying to Ourselves

On the north side of the "Western" Hemisphere there is a trilateral juxtaposition of geopolitical boundaries referred to as Canada, United States, and Mexico-which really is a landmass called North America- perhaps it is most accurately known as Turtle Island, as many First Nation and bioregionalist people have called it....

In any case, for reasons you can find in myriad history books and magazines, the center geographical space in that landmass -the United States- long ago a thriving hub of fairly freely moving indigenous communities and commerce routes for the entire continent, has in 500 years become a magnet for migrants worldwide.  At first this was met with suspicion (then welcome for some) on the part of the indigenous people. It would be outside the scope of my ability to fully summarize the variety of indigenous reactions to the European entry and later violent conquest of their lands.  But suffice it to say that these people remain, for better or for worse, in their ancestral lands, while the "white man" now claims original stake to the country of which it technically, was once merely a guest.

The persons in control of these geopolitical zones, no matter what color their skin, now demand duly stamped pieces of paper to prove a person's right to move autonomously across arbitrary lines determined by "national laws," and "executive powers" and woe to the person who does not, in their eyes, meet the qualifications of someone fit to travel freely across those lines.

Isn't that ironic? It's as if someone came into your home against your will, you tried to be nice to them, but they eventually killed half your family, set up shop in your front yard, and then proceeded to dictate who could come over to party at your house and then acted like you never had anything to do with the situation and that what they were doing was perfectly justified. This might sound like a bit of a weird interpretation of national borders and immigration law to you.  But it's because we, with average lifespans of about 80 years, and our greatly enhanced modern ability to forget the lessons of history, can very easily overlook all that's happened on this corner of the world in the last 500+ years. It's especially easy for us to act as if we are absolutely entitled to those papers and the rights that come with them, especially when it means our right to a Spring Break vacation in Cabo- but not a  Northward vacation for the Southern folks that'll be serving your all-inclusive Brunch.

I might be a little more bitter than most because, although I myself am not restrained in my movement because I hail from the middle latitudes by birth, was lucky enough to experience birth in the brain center of this get rich quick and easy scheme, my husband happened to be born en el otro lado (on the other side) to parents also of el otro lado and for that reason (and many other I have not mentioned nor have space and time to do so here) he is not deemed appropriate for northern travel and instance.  My daughter, oddly, is. That's because although she was also born en el otro lado like her dad, she also hailed from my this middle latitude mother's womb- but I digress.

The reason why I write is because three occurrences converge in space and time in this little person's life that make me reflect on the idiocy of current immigration law:

1. My husband (who for at least the next 5 years won't be able to begin to apply for a U.S. visa & for that reason can't legally travel there) was denied a Canadian tourist visa earlier this month.  Bottom line results of this small act are; he probably will never see my grandmother again (she is almost 90 and can't come here to Mexico), and I will be forced to travel alone with our infant daughter north so she can meet her great-grandaughter, unless some small miracle happens and some angels come to help me.
2. A high-profile Dreamer (student immigration rights activist in the U.S.) is being very seriously threatened with deportation http://prernalal.com/2011/04/gw-law-student-prepares-for-the-trial-of-her-life/
3. A good friend of ours, who has not seen my husband since we moved here to Mexico in 2006, is visiting us for Spring Break.  In reminiscing about what our life used to be up in the U.S., I am forced to remember all the things I miss- but also what makes me most angry about this truly unjust situation.

Honestly, as Americans we have more rights and privileges than we know what to do with.  But despite this, we are probably the #1 complainers in the world. (Do they have stats on that? I am pretty sure we are at least ranked one of the most unhappy cultures)  At what cost do we alienate the rest of the world, convincing our neighbors to do the same, even to our best and brightest, whether they have exactly the right order of stamps on their multiple sheafs of paper.  When will we grow up and see that, playground rules aside, we're not doing ourselves any favors by continuing to lie to ourselves that we're all about "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," but that what we're really about is getting whatever we want, when we want it, no matter who we have to step on to get it, and that we are exporting that way of life around the world and then wondering why we have so much violence and so many problems?

Ahora, la espera (the waiting game)

All my documents finally came together and I received the call on Wednesday afternoon informing me that my exam date was set for the next day at 8:30 am.  Earlier that day I'd gotten nervous that I hadn't heard from my contact yet or that they weren't answering the phones, and stopped by the offices to check in person.  I was told to hang on, they'd be calling soon.  So I did.  Sure enough, the call came through around 4-ish. 

The next day, we packed ourselves into the truck early, made it over to Secretary of Exterior Relations, where we only waited about 10 minutes before I was called in to submit my documents, take my exam, do my fingerprints, pay, and then we said our goodbyes.  Altogether, the process took about 2 hours- not bad considering the electricity went out in the offices while we were there. Now, I wait 4-6 months to hear the official response- was my application for citizenship granted or not.

I'm not telling the entire story because I am, frankly, tired out from the process but more so from the fact that my baby daughter got sick for the first time ever, the day after.  She and her dad both started to cough, and try as I might have, I simply could not figure out where she got it from. I think it was a combination of things.  But this evening as I was putting her to bed- she almost all better after 48 short hrs- I recalled something that struck me as remarkable this past Thursday.  Her and my own adaptability- I'm really not bragging,  maybe simply reflecting on how flexible life forces us to be.

From the moment we found out we'd be having her, I knew my life was about to pass through a number of intense changes, not too unlike moving to Mexico.  So many things in my pregnancy prepared me for what was to come as a mother.  And again, this citizenship seeking process, as difficult as it has been at times, has prepared me for things that lie ahead.  The baby has kept up- perhaps even exceeded me- every step of the way in terms of adaptability. To illustrate, when she was a newborn, I felt frightened to take her out anywhere- it made me nervous that places that stress me out, such as long lines, chaotic streets, etc., would in turn be hard places to take her to. 

At first, it really was hard- diaper changes or nursing out on the streets, even in my mother in-law's dark bedroom, were often a cause of screams and tears and anxiety for all of us.  But how far she has come- in five short months- to being able to get her diaper changed and be nursed, on the floor of the Insurgentes Metro station in the heart of Mexico City, still all smiles- all of us!  That's pretty impressive, in my opinion.  I, an American, and my husband, a Mexican, brought an American Mexican (how d'you like that flipped script for our daughter) into this world.  And now not just my husband, but she too, is ushering me newly into this world as a naturalized Mexican (if all goes well).  I think that's a fair, albeit rather unexpected twist on things.

One Step Closer...

I need to discover the art of the short post.  So I will try to keep this as just an update.  After gathering together 100+ sheafs of Mexican legalese meant to document who I am and why I ought to be granted citizenship...I gave up on endless unanswered emails and phone calls and headed over in person to the Secretary of Exterior Relations (SRE) on Bernardo Quintana, baby in tow, to see just how ready my documents were, or, just how close I was to this exam & interview.  I must confess I was feeling a little cocky, too sure of myself, and that emotion never bodes well in my experience here when scaling paper mountains.

On the bright side, my contact at the SRE is a really nice guy.  His interest was piqued when I mentioned that I had sangre Latina that was coming back home -in that grandparents on my Dad's side were Mexican.  He said "perfecto" several times when 5 out of the 14 requisites I had to present were just right.  He thoroughly helped me correct the writing of some letters.  On the down side, the other 9 requisites had little details.  Umm, yeah. Some littler than others.   Stuff like 80+ pages, printer ink & trips to the copy shop being a total waste because they want bright white paper and not recycled paper or two-sided copies, even on 32 page documents.  I should have known better.  But since INM had been accepting some of my copies like that I got sloppy.  My bad.  Or that their interpretation of "certified copy" is "original" in our house.  So, we'll need to let go of a few VIP documents & get them replaced sooner or later.  At least that can be done here or by mail.  "Just think of one lady," he said, "who has to go in person to get her birth certificate. She cried. And pleaded.  And I had to tell her, I'm sorry, asi es, señora."  I did feel gratitude for that. So what the expensive certified copies that took hours and a trip with a screaming baby to get @ the local notary are worthless. Big deal.  It's just paper & change.  Although I may need to plant another tree as a result of this naturalization process.

Perhaps the biggest "detallito" was about our wedding certificate.  With this one, there were no guarantees the error would be fixed to my favor.  I described the issue rather verbosely on FB- it's been a nearly 5 year saga with the civil registry, but the third time's a charm- they fixed their third & hopefully final error, which was to not include the place and date of our wedding (Pacifica, 2004) on the acta de matrimonio.  It only took two visits downtown, lots of prayer and deep breaths, and about 4 hrs total to get that one figured out.

The horrible passport photos taken on Monday were replaced with some much better ones.  My contact seems to think we have enough window to get in my formal appt. to deliver documents and take the interview and exam before March 18th.   I got an A on the study guide & will try to commit it to memory this weekend.  The payment doesn't take place until after.  So it looks like yours truly is one step closer to Mexican citizenship.  This invokes elusive definitions of what belonging to a land really means.  For example, I'll be able to vote legally, unlike expats who've lived here for much longer than me but still haven't and may never obtain citizenship.  I hate to say it, but the level to which my community accepts my change will affect my own view of things. Above all my sense is that naturalization is really just a first step ...  really "becoming Mexican" will take much longer. And my ability to type a short post may have to wait too.

Visiting the Home of the Aztecs

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I am undertaking several major governmental paperwork items this spring, seriously, a large enough pile to constitute a part-time job for a few months.  This past week I finally came to grips with the fact that I'd have to go down to Mexico City (DF) to complete two of the requirements for two separate goals- a Constancia de No Antecedentes Penales Federales (Federal Criminal Record or lack thereof) at the Secretaria de Seguridad Publica Federal, and apply for the baby's U.S. Social Security number at the U.S. Embassy.  While I'm not going to repeat the entire, lengthy, process of finding the contact information, the requirements to fulfill my requirements, and the number of hours it took me to prepare a short folder of precious documents to ensure a successful outing, you'll have to trust me that there are many good reasons individuals hire lawyers to take care of these projects for them.

But of course since I am so D-I-Y, I've always done my Mexican visa applications myself every year and now I figured I was ready for the big leagues- naturalization and all of the baby & Margo's international papers as well.  And so although I knew this DF trip was coming up, I was putting it off since it's kind of a hassle, costly, and time-consuming.  I wasn't even sure I myself had to go, was hoping the SS# could be done in the mail and that Margo could stand in line for me for the record.  But on Monday came the moment when I found out none of this was possible and that it couldn't be put off any longer, or I'd have to wait until next year (why this one had to be done in person when her Consular Report of Birth Abroad and Passport were issued by mail, I'll never know).  So I was a little nervous about going- as much as I feel that I am safe where I live, the stories you hear & the prospect of having a young baby on her first big trip in tow probably added to my sleepless state the morning before we left.  However, after a philosophical epiphany at 5 am that let me snooze for another couple hours, and a successful bus boarding the bus and taxi ride later, we were snug in our posada at the Casa Gonzalez in Colonia Centro, only two blocks from the Embassy where we'd go and be herded like cattle the next morning @ 7:30 am.

But before then, we were received by the welcome wagon in the form of our friend & her dog, who took us for tacos and assured us that I was probably so overly nervous about how things would go the next day that everything would probably turn out fine.  I hate to jinx myself so I nodded but kept worrying that we'd be missing some document, but deep down hoped she was right.  Luckily, the cool thing that was immediately apparent was that our traveling baby was digging the new sights.  Although I was delighted at the Cupcakery in the Zona Rosa, I was surprised to shell out for the most expensive frozen treats ever (even more than Coldstone!) at some average fro yo spot & Baskin Robbins.  Alas, commercialism in its full glory.  A full night's of sleep for her was another great sign although two 4 am starts in a row left me a bit tired the next day.

Again, I won't tell the entire tale here, but suffice it to say after a long noisy night, 2 bus rides, 1 mellow and 1 harrowing taxi ride later,  and several kilometers of walking around, several deep breaths, sighs, and rolled eyes at the Embassy, a few streaks of good luck and brotherly kindness on behalf of our fellow line standers, and a couple of saintly Capitalinos named Damian and his mom Laura who fed us, watched the baby, and brought Margo food & a folding chair while in the 6-hr wait at the SSPF, the DF mission was accomplished.   Afterwards, we saw a few new neighborhoods & several new sights in the Roma and Condesa (particularly cute was the dog park & organic cafe near Parque Mexico). The nervousness wasn't for naught because there was a close call with the paperwork, but it all worked out.   In fact, things we going so well even with the baby that even Margo, a self-proclaimed DF hater, agreed to go see Chapultepec Park the next morning before we left.  At 36, he'd never seen it before.

And so the next morning after breakfast we shunned the radio taxis and boarded the Metrobus down Reforma to Chapultepec, where we leisurely walked up the hill to the castle after convincing them to let us go through the guards' station with the backpack, that it was an indispensable diaper bag (it was!), but dissed the Castle on principle because of $5 tickets in a public place. A quick loop around the lake and the baby began to signal that she was about ready for the trip to end.  Yet we were ambitious.  After checking out of the hotel and lunching, again in the dang overpriced Zona Rosa, we headed for the Insurgentes Metro Station.  Arriving and with 20 cent tickets in hand (rad!) Margo announced that the baby had pooped.  So we plopped ourselves in pleno estacion where I proceeded to change & nurse her for the long ride ahead.  We got psyched and dove in.  8 stops later, we were all sweaty and happy to board the Primera Plus to Queretaro.  Two crappy movies & lots of baby entertainment & a taxi later, we were back home sweet home.

That night, I confessed to Margo that even after our trip I wasn't sure I deserved Mexican citizenship since I didn't technically stand in that line- we'd hastily scratched out a carta de poder letter to let him do it so I could go back & watch the baby at our friends' house.  "I won't make a good citizen," I said.  "Who is?"  he replied,  I laughed.  Overall, the best things to come out of this trip were a greater willingness on Margo's part to explore the big city although he affirmed he'd never live there, and an amazing reaction from the baby- total adaptability and grace under pressure.  Many firsts for her- big trip, bus ride, shower, sleeping in a strange bed, metro ride, and she couldn't have been better- lots of smiles and only cried once!  I am once again in awe of the true mettle of the true natives. 

Patience (el gran reto) in Mexico

A good friend of ours was supposed to get into town this evening, flying in to the Queretaro airport from Ciudad Juarez. There for the last four days, he's been covering stories similar to ours- American/Mexican couples who've, one way or another, been separated or forced into living situations other than the "ideal" as a result of one of the partners having an undocumented U.S. immigration status.  I was looking forward to his arrival.   When my husband told me he'd called and said the flight had been cancelled, I felt bad for him, but I was on a massage table at my friend's house -we barter professional services- and so I had to put the annoying thoughts away. Back home, instead of preparing to go out and pick him up, I went about my business as normal, put the baby to bed, and called another friend in the States to chat.  I sent him an email recommending patience in the next 18 hours, when the next flight arrives.  Four years ago, I might not have had the same reaction.  I now realize the change I swore would never happen has indeed occurred.  Like it or not, I am "becoming Mexican."

A week or so after Margo & I first arrived here in 2006, I had to go to the Instituto Nacional de Migracion to register my presence in my new residence, namely, Queretaro.  You know how the old U.S. passports had the spot where you fill in your mailing address in case it gets lost, and how you have to sign the document for it to be valid?  Well, I figured that was the same for the Mexican visa booklet that I'd been issued back in San Jose at the Mexican consulate, a place I'd had to go to several times to complete my paperwork, no easy task in itself.  So in the truck on the way to the office, I found the spot where it said local residence and three blank lines, and diligently filled in my information.  After waiting what felt like a couple hours for my turn in line, we stood at the counter, handing over my documents.  The agent scanned my things briefly, when making a face, she asked me if I had written inside the document.  "Si," I replied half proudly, half nervously, wondering why she was asking me.  "Sabes que eso es un delito?" she asked me.  Do you know that's a felony?  My heart sank. 

To make a long story short, I had to re-apply for my visa, from Mexico, which was a lot harder than the application I'd done in the U.S., which is saying a lot.  I couldn't understand why, I was overwhelmed with frustration, and upon leaving the office, I walked across Avenida Universidad and sat on the grass overlooking the river below, and contemplated throwing myself in.  I was truly beside myself.  I think I actually cried.  Margo couldn't understand at all why I was so upset and therefore was not that great at consoling me.  In fact I think he said various things along the lines of, what were you thinking to write in that book?  Which of course only made me feel worse.

That event, and countless other tangles with Mexican bureacracy over the next year or two only served to make me more and more despondent.  It seemed no matter how airtight my applications were, no matter how punctual we were to appointments, nothing could speed up any process, all paperwork indicated a complicated spiral of visits to copy shops, a relative's house for several witnesses' signatures, or a failed attempt in which we were told to go to the office across town, or that offices didn't open until next Monday, or that we ought to call back in four weeks.   It seemed to require a full-time job just to perform the most basic tasks like paying taxes or renewing a license .  Every time we went, I'd complain a red streak.  Margo would get cross, and I'd get more insistent.  He started suggesting I not join him on trips to government agencies.  If you're wondering why we spent so much time on these things, it's because all transactions need to be made in person- over the phone or online is just barely starting to make it on the scene here.  I brought the issue up with my sister-in-law.  After telling her how I felt and wondering aloud why no one complained to officials about their terribly inefficient systems, I naively asked her why none of them ever got fed up.  She earnestly replied that they'd never known anything different, and it wasn't likely to change anything by complaining.  This was impossible for me to understand.

Until now.

For a long time, I thought I had the lock on bitching about things that drive me mad about Mexico.  My poor husband is reminded every year when I reapply for my visa, just how important that "apoyo moral" moral support letter they ask for from the spouse, really is.  But then, as if imperceptibly, my perspective seemed to change.  I began to defend Mexico from outside criticisms to a whole host of people- friends, family, unknowns on blog commentaries, etc.

When a friend came to visit for an extended period this past summer, I unleashed some pent-up "quejas" (complaints), but she met them stride for stride.  At one point, "me rebaso" she beat me to the punch- and I began hearing her very justified commentaries about various things- the delayed status of road construction projects, the poor signage on highways, the way people wait (or don't) in lines, and so on, but I heard them with different ears.  All of a sudden, although in theory I agreed with her, I realized how my earlier comments must sound to Margo.  All right already, OK, you've got a point, but what the hell can I do about it???

It was at that point that I noticed how much less I take issue with ostensibly annoying aspects of life in Mexico than I used to.  Maybe it's like the fraternity hazing mentality, you bond with those with whom you suffer.  Soon after that near-suicidal incident by the river, my head swirling with self-pity as to why had I moved my life thousands of miles south into a land so foreign it might as well have been halfway across the world, I swore to myself, and to anyone standing in earshot, that I'd never accept the pace of Mexican life, how slow things go, or substandard service.   But four years later, I look back and I see that "this too shall pass."  Of course, I still prefer that I be attended to more rapidly, that lines be shorter, that the title to our house could be delivered in less than 5 years, but I now see less reason to get so uptight about the failings of customer service.  It won't do anything to accelerate what I'm waiting for, and why guarantee my husband another headache?

I just take a deep breath, head for the "quejas y sugerencias" comment box, and if there ain't one, crack a joke and save my energy.  I'll be needing it for the next visit downtown.