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7 Voice of an American-Mexican

NEIDA SOTO ARRINGTON

I’VE ALWAYS LIKED THE NAME SARA. IN MY HEAD, THE SOFT letters form an image of a wholesome, beautiful woman, whose sophisticated airs follow each confident step. A casual hair toss glistens in the delicate glow cast by the simple name, a glow perhaps only envisioned by me. Neida, on the other hand, does not resonate quite as well. Through school, I never liked my own name, and with no middle name (can you blame Mom for not wanting to remember sixteen different names for her eight children?), I did not have any other choice but to use it. Origins of this dislike had everything to do with the pronunciation or, more accurately, the mispronunciation of a name most had never seen or heard before.

Through the years, I have been amused listening to the attempts of those tongues unaccustomed to the Spanish language fight with the tricky vowels. Variations have included Nidia, Niada, and even Nada (the last being one of my personal favorites). I can laugh at these phonetically incorrect versions now, but a mistake in the pronunciation in my early years set the stage for a personal, lifelong dislike of my name. My kindergarten teachers had no one to tell them how to pronounce this strange name—who was I at five years old to point out their mistake? Granted, I too assumed my “smart” teachers knew the correct English pronunciation of my name. Quickly enough, though, I learned that they were indeed wrong, thanks to my siblings and their endless teasing. Even so, I couldn’t change my name (or so I thought) since everyone knew it, and I graduated from Toombs County High School, in Lyons, Georgia, as “Need-a” Soto. For me, “Need-a” was unattractive, awkward, and bizarre. Though my senior vice presidential campaign slogans wouldn’t have been as successful without this pronunciation (“You ‘Need-a’ vote for Neida for Senior V.P.!”), I still hated hearing and saying my name.

Over time, I’ve learned how to best explain the pronunciation: “Nei-,” as in “neighbor” and “-da,” in which the letter d makes a “th-” sound (the soft Spanish pronunciation for ). The dictionary would probably show this as “'n-th.” In college,d introductions were less shameful when my lips released the correct pronunciation. Now people even express their liking of my name. Slowly, I have become more and more accepting, even proud, of my uncommon name. Maybe Neida isn’t so bad after all. Besides, if I remember correctly, being a Sara wasn’t quite as sumptuous as the name sounds.

LA FRONTERA

My legs dangled from the cool leather bench as my uncle and his wife leaned down toward me, speaking in low voices with a tone usually reserved for occasions when convincing a child to keep a secret. Their words were casual, but faint traces of urgency in their voices and their occasional side-glances to each other revealed the desperation and uncertainty anyone feels when placing their trust in a six-year-old.

“If anyone asks, you tell them your name is Sara White, okay?” “Okay.” “And remember that you’ve got to pretend we are your parents. Don’t forget to tell them if they ask. You’re our daughter,

okay?” I nod. “So what is your name from now on?” “Sara White.” “And who are we?” “My parents.” “Just make sure you tell them your name is Sara, not Neida. Don’t tell them your name is Neida! You are Sara…. Who

are you?” “Sara White.” We were in the lobby of Hotel Rendon in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, waiting to check out. Now past noon, the last

belongings were being collected and packed away in preparation for the ride across the (border). This was the end offrontera our summer vacation with my parents and sisters, and we were now joined by two uncles, or , and a wife. With their help,tíos my mom, sisters, and I would cross back into the states.

Now there was no problem with my three sisters returning home—their American citizenship assured that. For my mom, Juana, and me, however, the situation was quite different. Mom was using her sister’s legal papers to pass immigration. I, a Mexican citizen as well, had to pretend to be the daughter of my uncle and his Caucasian wife. My light complexion strengthened the credibility of the story, and as long as my true identity remained hidden under Sara White, we would be homebound in no time.C op yr ig ht @ 2 01 5. U ni ve rs it y of W as hi ng to n Pr es s.

Al l ri gh ts r es er ve d. M ay n ot b e re pr od uc ed i n an y fo rm w it ho ut p er mi ss io n fr om t he p ub li sh er , ex ce pt f ai r us es p er mi tt ed u nd er U .S . or a pp li ca bl e co py ri gh t la w.

EBSCO : eBook Academic Collection (EBSCOhost) - printed on 8/23/2018 3:11 PM via SYRACUSE UNIVERSITY AN: 1064067 ; Lawston, Jodie Michelle, Schueths, April M..; Living Together, Living Apart : Mixed Status Families and US Immigration Policy Account: s3372930.main.ehost

Not that I was worried about getting caught, though. I don’t even recall being told of the consequences of what could happen if our scheme was uncovered, but who would share such information with a carefree six-year-old? I was mostly excited about the chance to ride in Tío’s new Silverado pickup. My sisters envied me; they were riding not with us but with my other in his vehicle.tío

Traffic slowly trickled into the American land through lanes that men in green uniforms opened and closed. As our truck pulled into one of the lanes, I waved to catch the attention of my sisters in the other vehicle as it passed by a few lanes down to our right. If I saw wide grins like mine plastered on their faces, I’d know we shared the same excitement to be amid the throng of cars and people waiting to pass the border. Quickly, Tío and his wife asked me to calm down, pointing out that my sisters weren’t my sisters when I was pretending to be their daughter—I had to act as if I did not know them. These last few seconds were crucial for a successful cross, and I needed to remember who I was.

The car quieted down as our turn at the checkpoint arrived. In the backseat, I sat still by the window, where the immigration officer seemed very close to me in his gray box as he asked my uncle for his family’s documentation. All my preparation and practice to be Sara White fell upon this very moment as everyone anxiously awaited questions from the stolid officer peering into the Chevy. None came, though, and a simple hand motion with our returned papers granted passage forward. Air refilled the truck as breaths escaped the tense bodies that were crossing their niece posed as their daughter into America.

Though the hardest part was over, extra attention was still the last thing we needed. Thus my thrill of seeing my mother was quickly subdued as my uncle reminded me yet again of my role. I was supposed to pretend I did not know that woman coolly clutching her purse as she walked over the Rio Grande. I wanted badly to show her we had made it through, but my squeals of “Mom! Mom!” and my window knocking had to stop.

Mom, though, hadn’t made the slightest move to indicate my actions had been noticed. Instead, her stare was intently fixed ahead on the spot where she would step onto solid earth, the earth that every day felt more and more the unfamiliar weight of those who had finally taken one of the greatest steps of their lives.

SEEING PAST THE STEREOTYPES

Though it’s impossible to know for sure, the number of “illegal” immigrants currently residing in the United States is estimated near 11 million, according to the Center for Immigration Studies. What to do with this large population has long caused friction in Washington, DC, between those who reject any sort of amnesty or legalization path for undocumented persons and those who believe that such actions are necessary. But who are these people caught between the escape of past struggles and the encounter of new ones?

Fueled wildly by media portrayals, “illegal immigrants” living in America have been given the face of a José or María who swam across a river to pick vegetables or clean houses, to eat beans and tortillas every meal, and to never pay taxes. Such stereotypes for undocumented immigrants go on and on, and one must suppose that they exist because there might be some sort of truth to them. To be honest, my mom is a housekeeper, and up until my high school years my family worked year-round in fields picking various crops. Did I mention that my favorite home-cooked meal includes beans and tortillas? Oh, and my dad sports that classic mustache “all” “illegals” have.

But what if I told you that my mom has a tax ID number so she can file taxes every April? Or that I graduated valedictorian of my high school class? Oh, and my brothers and I have Social Security numbers that aren’t fake, nor were they stolen from Americans. And, yes, we are undocumented.

Stereotypical or not, these people are only pursuing the classic American dream. It’s just the simple hope for a better future, a better life for themselves and their families. Many times it can take years to establish a firm foothold in America, and many live well below the living standards of most Americans. Yet even the low-paid positions, shabby homes, and limited freedoms endured here still allow a life better than the one left behind in the native lands.

A CROSSING

Its punctuality deterred momentarily by a light morning rain, the sun finally emerged to escort the group through the Mexican lands on that January day in 1977. A blue Chevy sedan containing five young adults, all under twenty-five, and two kids wound its way northbound, finally arriving at Piedras Negras, a border town separated from Texan soil by the ever-famous Rio Grande. After more than twenty-four hours of traveling, only a day’s rest remained before the individuals took up their new life as undocumented immigrants.

My mother, Juana, would be leaving behind a life in La Laguna, Mexico, the only place she had known since a baby. With eight families residing in the hilly countryside, it could hardly be called a village. The nearest town was six hours awayC op yr ig ht @ 2 01 5. U ni ve rs it y of W as hi ng to n Pr es s.

by foot, so trips out of their remote location were rare. A single-room house contained Juana, her seven siblings, and her mom. Purchased with only the standing walls (the roof was taken by its previous owners), this adobe house was an upgrade from the sticks-and-mud home in which they grew up. All day, children entertained themselves with whatever they found lying about. Worn slingshots nestled perfectly into the hands of their owners, little boys in constant search of unsuspecting birds; meanwhile, girly clutches modeled sticks to make dolls, their makeshift existence hardly comparable to their plastic counterparts. The older teens could be found doing the chores of the day—collecting water from the well, sweeping the dirt floor, preparing meals in the “kitchen.” Though the family never lacked food, the supply was not abundant. Tortillas, beans, and eggs dominated the diet, occasionally accompanied by red meat when lightning struck a neighbor’s unlucky cow. But without school or a job, there wasn’t much for Juana to do in La Laguna.

And so overexcitement filled her as she thought about what the foreign land would bring. She had romanticized about this land as any reader dreams about the fantasy lands found in books. Thrill and eagerness had crushed any trace of worry or fear for the adventure-deprived teen.

Arriving at a hotel, Juana, her aunt, and her uncle met with the coyote, the man paid to smuggle the group into America. (The others, fortunate with the proper documentation, were going to meet the group on the other side later.) Tired, the group had to rest before their rapidly approaching nocturnal departure.

Darkness engulfed Juana, Tía Rosa, Tío Honorio, the coyote, and another hopeful as they entered the still, cold river. Clutching black flotation devices called , pairs swam the expanse of the half-mile-wide river, silent throughout,cámaras except for the swimmers’ careful strokes through the water. The coyote pushed along the floatie that carried Juana. Back home, she had never learned to swim. A couple of hours later, moist sand finally squished through the toes of the hushed quintet—they had made it.

Or so they thought. The (border patrol) is nearby, the coyote’s partner on the other side informed them. It would be too dangerous tomigra

continue with the patrol lurking in the chilly night. Avoiding detection now depended on the skimpy surroundings in which the Mexicans had to make their sandy beds until further notice, unable to move, just waiting and hoping for fast relief from the bleak environment.

Years later, Juana would describe a desert scene, not even knowing the name of such place. She remembers small shrubs but no trees, trees that with just a tiny section of their branches could have blocked the betrayal of their once friendly sun. No grass grew here, nothing to cushion the lumpy sand beds in which they lay all night and all the next day; standing up required a risk none was willing to take, not after coming this far. Any traces of water had already been drunk by the atmosphere first, and the desert was not a gracious host to offer any more. Even so, the day of hunger, thirst, and heat seemed like a small price to pay for the opportunity of living in America.

Nighttime delivered bittersweet news. Unfortunately, immigration officials nearby still wouldn’t allow safe passage out of the desert, so the group would have to retrace their path back across the southern border. A slight setback, but this also meant that after the long day and night, they could finally eat and drink before they retried crossing.

Back on familiar soil, the coyotes paid for dinner at a restaurant. My mother will never forget the embarrassment she and her aunt felt as they entered the establishment in the same way they exited the forsaken desert: with uncombed, tangled hair, dirty faces and bodies, reeking probably as anyone would have lying under a scorching sun in a sandy prison.

That night, only the stars could testify of the five relentless bodies cutting through the river’s current to reach dry land. Only the stars witnessed the sprinting humans as they flew past their hiding locations from the day before and hastily climbed the fence to reach the awaiting coyote’s car by the road. And no one apart from the stars saw the successful border crossing as the car sped into the night, its passengers’ fear wisping away into the American skies, to join and be joined by the fear of other crossers tracing the same paths.

THE CULTURAL DIVIDE

On February 7, 2005, the US Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) received my I-130 petition for permanent residency filed by my older brother, a US citizen. On February 14, 2005, the USCIS sent an I-797C, its notice informing me the petition had been received in its offices. And that is the last I heard from the USCIS. Almost nine years with my case simply “pending.”

I’m not surprised. The current immigration system employs a preference system in which applicants are granted green cards on the basis of order of importance. If you aren’t the parent, spouse, or unmarried child of an American citizen, you are placed in a queue to receive an immigration visa number, ranked by category from first preference to fourth preference. Being a sibling of the petitioner, I fall into the fourth preference category—in other words, the lowest-priority group.

Additionally, the Immigration and Nationality Act sets a quota for the total number of family-sponsored immigrant visasC op yr ig ht @ 2 01 5. U ni ve rs it y of W as hi ng to n Pr es s.

distributed each year. This means each year only 226,000 people will receive their green card, of which only 65,000 are allocated for the fourth preference category. The chances further dwindle as we account for the limits per country. There’s no telling the hundreds of thousands like me also trying to gain legal status.

The initial application cost $185. The next step will probably require an additional $300, if not more. Add in lawyer fees and the $1,000 fine that will eventually have to be paid to the USCIS, and the price tag for becoming a legalized resident of America becomes overwhelming. But it is a price I’m willing to pay to officially be recognized by the country with which I best identify. Besides, those thousand dollars don’t seem like much when I’ve already paid so much more by simply being here.

Well, perhaps I haven’t had to pay, but my Mexican heritage has. I have lived here all my life, and the tremendous push of the American way of life has caused a loss of the tradition that no amount of money can restore. Take language, for example. One identifies and becomes part of a culture through language. It gives others a sense of who you are. More importantly, it gives you a sense of who you are. Like any musician who loses talent after discontinuing regular practice, proficiency in my native language diminishes drastically the longer I live in this English-dominated country.

Not that I was ever fully competent in Spanish, though. Whatever Spanish I naturally picked up from my Spanish-speaking parents competed with the English my older brothers brought home from school. Soon six siblings were learning English, and it became the language of communication among them. The Spanish that existed in our household hung only by the necessity of communicating with my parents. However, that thread thinned as Mom and Dad began learning English from us and from their everyday natural immersion in an American culture. My parents, both with no more than a year’s worth of elementary school education, could not pass on a well-developed Spanish vocabulary to us. Needless to say, my English surpassed my Spanish in my early school days. I would estimate my own current Spanish level to be comparable to that of an elementary school student’s.

Standardized tests and applications usually stump me even before I reach the actual bulk of the questions, just as I’m filling in the basic information in part 1. I can say that I’m female, that I’m twenty-one, that I’m Mexican, but I cannot say what my “first language” is. What does that even mean, anyway? Does “first” imply chronology or superiority? Is it the language that is first used in households (that which the parents teach), or is it the language that is now best spoken? My parents taught me Spanish—I learned it first. School taught me English—I learned it better.

It makes meeting other Spanish speakers difficult. I begin to sweat as I frantically attempt to hide my limited capabilities with the language assumed standard in the brown-skinned package. If they find out, I’ll be less of a Mexican in their eyes. As I struggle to find the correct translation or the right shape for my tongue, I see a shadow cross their slightly confused faces. Their thoughts are as evident as my lack of proficiency: What kind of Mexican is this? The polite ones will offer sympathetic smiles while patiently waiting for my string of stuttering to end. Others not so sympathetic will blatantly question my claim of Hispanic heritage. I laugh with them to cover my embarrassment, yet I silently agree with them. How can I tell people I was born in Mexico yet cannot hold a fluid conversation in Spanish without long pauses or insertions of English?

Under time restraints, my pencil usually darkens the circle to which it’s closest. Sometimes it’s English. Other times it’s Spanish. Where’s the Spanglish bubble?

A PENDING CASE, A PENDING LIFE

In 1986, President Ronald Reagan signed the Immigration Reform and Control Act, which granted amnesty to a little over 2.5 million “illegal” immigrants residing in the United States. Under the guidelines, my parents and two oldest brothers (four other siblings were born in America after my parents arrived in 1979) were eligible to gain legal residency, but my father’s insistence on returning to Mexico resulted in no amnesty for them. They left to go Mexico in February 1988—that December I was born. Ten months later, in October 1989, my family returned to the states. And so it happened that a simple move cost half of my family the opportunity to live comfortably and securely in America thereafter.

Growing up, I knew that I was undocumented, but the term held little significance for me, probably because I never felt any effects of it. I was as carefree as the next kid. I didn’t need an American birth certificate to memorize my ABC’s, learn my multiplication table, or build exploding volcanoes. I didn’t need a valid Social Security number to win at school carnivals, to trick-or-treat until my bag overflowed, or to belt “God Bless America” at my first-grade graduation. I have faint recollections of telling my classmates in elementary and middle school that I was an “illegal” immigrant, but it didn’t mean much to them or to me. This fact seemed minute in our lives of recesses and milk cartons.

But elementary school didn’t last forever. As I grew up, the costs of being an “illegal” immigrant became more apparent, and suddenly it did matter.

For example, at age sixteen it mattered when the talk at the lunch table was about who already had their driver’s license and who was close, but regardless of my birthday, I had no proof of legal status. It mattered at age eighteen when I couldn’tC op yr ig ht @ 2 01 5. U ni ve rs it y of W as hi ng to n Pr es s.

get financial aid from the government for college. No, no, that money is for American citizens only. It mattered at age twenty when financial independence was what I wanted most. But reaching such independence requires a Social Security card that doesn’t blatantly state “NOT VALID FOR EMPLOYMENT.” It mattered when I had an opportunity to study abroad in Italy, the place I most wanted to visit. But there’s no boarding a plane without American identification, much less leaving the country. And it mattered at twenty-two, when my bachelor’s degree in environmental studies began collecting dust from forced disuse.

So while my case is pending, so is my life, and often I am overcome with frustration, anger, and uncertainty at my situation. How is it possible that my birth is sandwiched between the five American births of my siblings? How can I attain my goals and move forward with my life if I am limited in resources and capabilities? Why am I denied the rights and privileges that come standard with an American birth certificate even though I’ve been here my entire life? Why can’t I live like everyone I know?

On several occasions, friends have told me I’m the most “American” Mexican they know. It could be true. I’m sure I’m the least “Mexican” Mexican they know. I don’t even know the national anthem of my birth country. And don’t ask me about national heroes or the history of Mexico. Dia de los Muertos and Dia de los Reyes—you may be as clueless as I am. Returning now … well, I might as well land on Mars. The stark contrast of the culture of my ancestors and the culture of my adopted home would make me, interestingly enough, a foreigner there, the same thing I’m considered here.

LIFE, LIBERTY, AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS

I’ve joked about how it would be a free trip to Mexico. I suppose it’s just a means of making deportation sound as least scary as possible. Cold cells. Metal beds without sheets. Meager meals. Crowded bus rides back to the homeland. Such were the conditions endured by people caught living “illegally” in America—my mother remembers it clearly. Perhaps things have changed since Mom was deported in 1978, a year after her initial crossing in 1977. But the underlying fact still remains: these man-made and imaginary boundaries dictate the rights of the people living on both sides, often dislodging individuals and separating families in the name of the law.

With their signatures, fifty-six men acknowledged their agreement of the United States Declaration of Independence in which it reads, in one of its most famous lines, that “all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.” Of what “men” does Thomas Jefferson refer? The fortunate ones born within American borders? Does this equality not spread beyond those invisible lines that appear only on paper? And if all men were created equal, then why are their rights not equal?

Many people will agree that life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are basic human rights. Yet it seems that these rights, these unalienable rights, are denied every day to the 11 million people now in America who never had the option of being born into a country that freely acknowledges these civil liberties for its citizens. These “illegal aliens” abandon all they have ever known to provide life for themselves and, in many cases, for their families who come from places where poverty and hunger overwhelm the majority. These “illegal aliens” sacrifice heritage and culture in exchange for liberty in the free American expanse. These “illegal aliens” forfeit personal securities because their pursuit of happiness in a bountiful country outweighs all. Yet it’s what these humans are willing to do to live half the life that is automatically given to those arbitrarily born within those “American” borders.

ADDITIONAL REMARKS

This piece was originally written for a creative writing class during my undergraduate studies back in 2010. As of October 2012, I received deferred action and a temporary work visa under the US Department of Homeland Security’s Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program. The inception of DACA restored hope and broke the glass ceiling for thousands of young adults constricted by their immigration status. The lives waiting to finish their college education, to pursue the career of their dreams, and to live freely were finally awarded the opportunity to fully unleash their potential. Any limitations and constraints we felt now were our own, instead of those commandeered by the government.

For some of us, the new limitless possibilities at our discretion are still unbelievable and overwhelming. I’d like to extend a huge thank-you to my husband, family, friends, teachers, and professors who have cheered for me throughout my life. With your support and leadership, I am empowered to live my dreams and pay all your love forward.

Co py ri gh t @ 20 15 . Un iv er si ty o f Wa sh in gt on P re ss .