The Unknown

This piece was originally published in Bender's Immigration Bulletin (Vol. 13, No. 7) on April 1, 2008.

"I've never been apart from him," she said, trying to hold back the flood of tears gathering in the back of her throat and apologizing to me for the show of emotion. I was instantly struck by her statement since I'd rarely ever heard such vulnerability expressed by the detained men I counseled regularly about being deported. Although half of all migrants in the world are women, I now almost exclusively represent men, and they are stoic, or at least act invincible around me. "Let 'em deport me. I don't wanna be here anyway," they might say, though the incomprehension is visible in their frozen stare or nervous smile. Undoubtedly they tell their women not to worry while they struggle alone to make sense of what is happening. It's what men do best under pressure and it's exactly what her husband had told Aracely. "Everything's fine," he'd said to her persuasively when she visted him at the detention facility that afternoon, and those words clearly baffled her now. "How can it be fine if you told him what you have just told me-- that he will be deported?! That there's no solution." she asked me after I told her he'd already been advised about the situation. "He's trying to be strong and not worry you," I answered gently.

At first it was hard for me to understand that a woman might never have been separated from her man. I've been on my own for so long that I maneuver through daily life emotionally and economically, raising two kids, without a man and I seldom have a reason to cry. From the men at the facility I rarely hear about how life will be forever changed for a woman when he's gone. The men seem to talk only about themselves and how deportation will alter their world. I don't often hear about what sacrifices their women will have to make to keep the relationship intact when they are gone. Women always see things more broadly, and we communicate differently. I know that. We know about the domino effect, so it didn't take me long to register Aracely's fear.

I see the resilient women who visit men in detention. They come almost daily for several months, often with young children or infants in tow in the dead of our notorious winter. They drive for hours to this unknown farming town forty miles east of Buffalo where an unassuming, yet state-of-the-art, immigration prison was built. There they wait patiently in the lobby until their names are called just for a thirty minute conversation with the man of their lives, separated from him by a wall of plexiglass. Many of these women have also emptied their modest bank accounts to pay hefty attorneys' fees in a desperate hope of keeping their family together, not realizing that redemption is not a word in the immigration vocabulary. Then one day, I no longer see a familiar woman in the lobby and I know her man is gone, most likely forever.

It's clear that some men stopped playing a pivotal role in their partner's life long ago, and all they bring her is heartache. These women don't have a lot to lose anymore and they tell me so in no uncertain terms. They're fed up with the bullshit. But this sweet woman, Aracely, loved her man. He was probably devoted to her the way a man should be, or at least I hoped so given the tenderness she obviously felt for him. It was in her voice, in her breath, in her tears. I envied her feelings, and was deeply saddened by her predicament, especially since I was the one bringing such bad news to her. But I also felt relieved when I made her giggle by telling her that Marcos was being a typical macho when he confidently told her it would all work out. "You know how men are," I said "he doesn't want to worry you further." I realized it was his way of showing a commitment to her. As the man, he's supposed to ensure her well-being, and he knew instinctively how to handle it. That's how I knew he was devoted to her and she was right in feeling lost without him.

I told Aracely the choices she and Marcos had. They could both go back to El Salvador together, or she could remain in the U.S. for a while since her hearing would not be scheduled as quickly as his. She might be here another six months, and could stay with her family in Denver making plans for whatever came next. I knew the couple wanted to go back to Canada, where'd they'd lived the past few years, and six months might be enough time for her to accomplish that goal. Marcos could join her in Canada from El Salvador when his visa became available. Aracely didn't much like the second option. It meant time apart and she wasn't sure she could be alone for so long. They'd always been together she emphasized to me again. I understood and told her she had a few days to think it through. For now, she needed to get out of the dark motel room near the detention center where she'd holed herself up, sobbing and desperately dialing lawyers who didn't return her phone calls. It was time to go to Denver and surround herself with family. I had no doubt Marcos would be okay, and I could take messages back and forth between them. She seemed calmer and more lucid when she hung up the phone.

I wonder if I will ever hear from Aracely again. Usually I have little idea about the lives people have led in their native countries and during their migration. I'm told bits and pieces, as needed, to prepare a solid case for a defense against deportation. As a lawyer I see facts narrowly and sort through them quickly to find what I deem relevant. Sometimes I fear that knowing too much may overwhelm me in the end. Today though, like other times, I wish I could follow a person's story until the end. Until she reaches that point where everything truly is fine, but that is unlikely. I'm called to solve the problem facing a person in a particular moment, and when the crisis is over, so is our contact. It makes sense, even if it doesn't always sit well with me because I've become invested and am left wondering how someone I've met, even briefly, has sorted out her pain and confusion. Did another door really open when this one cruelly slammed shut behind her? Maybe I'll never really know, but the unknown is one of the hazards of this work.