A Dream

Outside the leaves are turning from green to different shades of red and orange; the temperature is in the lower seventies and the sky is a vibrant blue. An airplane is flying overhead, going south, toward Mexico. I wish I could be on it, heading home to see my parents. I've been married for almost ten years now; this winter's solstice will make it a decade of marital bliss for me and my husband. In that time I have not been able to go home to Mexico and visit my family. Not even once.

I've had four children, moved three times, watched my little sister get married, learned to speak and write English, watched the leaves change color ten times, but I haven't been able to visit my parents. They haven't even seen three of their grandchildren. My oldest son visited them last year, for one month during summer vacation, so at least they know him, but the three youngest, my two daughters and youngest son, have never met my parents.

We've had the money for me to go, once or twice, and if I could go, I would make time for the trip. All I want is two weeks. I miss my parents so much. I talk to them on the phone every once in a while, but it's not the same. I want to feel my mother's arms around me, making me feel loved and needed, like I was when I was a child. I want to talk to my father, and thank him for everything that he sacrificed for me and my brothers and sister.

But I can't.

When I came to the United States, thirteen years ago, I crossed the border illegally. In other words, I am an undocumented alien -- an illegal alien. Although my husband is an American citizen, born and raised here, we've had nothing but heartache and red tape dealing with INS, the Department of Immigration and Naturalization.

We put in the paperwork six years ago for me to become a legal alien, but after not hearing anything for a year -- not abnormal when dealing with INS -- we checked with them, and after a few months of checking, they told us that somehow the paperwork disappeared. So we tried again. This time, after a year, we found out that my paperwork was supposedly lost in some kind of fire.

So we tried again. This time, we hired somebody to do all of the paperwork, but when INS got the paperwork, they claimed that one form was missing, so they sent everything back. In the middle of the bunch of papers sat the form they claimed was missing, completely filled out and signed by everybody who needed to sign it.

This time, we couldn't try again. A law was passed saying that I couldn't become a legal citizen via the avenues that we were trying. With the help of some friends, we contacted members of Congress. Fortunately, we were contacted almost right away by an employee of both our senator and representative. The bad news was that they couldn't help me. They recommended that we write a strong letter to INS, in care of their office, and see what happened, but they warned that if the INS was in a bad mood, they might try to deport me.

At this same time, we read in the papers that some people were being deported in cases very similar to mine. We decided that the risk of deportation was too great, no matter how small of a chance it actually was, so we decided against sending the letter.

Here I am, in a country that I've lived in for nearly half my life, with a husband that is an American citizen and four children that are American Citizens, but it is impossible for me to become a legal alien. Because of that, unless I want to pay a coyote to bring me back over the Mexican-American border, for nearly two thousand dollars that we do not have, I'm stuck here, unable to see my parents, and unable to bring them here to know their grandchildren.

There is a possibility that in the coming years, amnesty will be granted to Mexican-Americans who have lived here illegally for over fifteen years. I hope it happens, but I hope it waits at least a year to happen, then I will be eligible for that program. The problem will be in proving that I have lived here since I was fifteen years old. I worked at the time, but I got paid in cash, so there aren't any tax records of me being here then. I lived with my uncle, so I do not have anything like rent receipts to prove that I lived here. If the amnesty program does happen, I will have to find a way to prove that I have lived here long enough. I'm just not sure how.

Every time I talk to my mother on the phone, tears come to my eyes. I miss her so much. I try not to cry, because when she hears me crying, she cries too. I want her to see her grandchildren, I want her to hold me, I want to see her smile, feel my tears of joy on my cheeks as she holds me for the first time in ten years. I want a dream.

Another plane is flying overhead, heading south. I wish I was up there, looking down, instead of down here, looking up.

Maria G.