THE DEPORTEE'S WIFE

Some Quick Questions for Occupy Wall Streeters

2011-11-14T20:24:00.001-08:00

"Supporters of the DREAM Act in Chicago"-December 8, 2010

So with all of this talk about the 99%, I have just a few quick questions for the majority of you:

Where the fuck were you when DREAMers lay their bodies on the line?

Where the fuck were you when DREAMers went on hunger strikes?

Where the fuck were you when DREAMers outed themselves over and over again in the media and public spaces?

What, were you at work?

Did you have a "previous engagement?"

Were you just all tuckered out from your long day as a visible and documented member of U.S. society?

Because here's the thing, my privileged and clueless Occupiers, or at least the majority of you:

While you are fighting tooth and nail to retake things like a public plaza in Oakland, California, DREAMers continue to fight for their literal lives.

Don't you dare tell me that your fight is their fight.

History has shown us many times that the word inclusivity isn't in the Occupier's lexicon, much less intersectionality.

The Diagnosis Within the Diagnosis

2011-10-13T21:17:00.000-07:00

Photo: Idea go

Peeps, I don't even know where to start. But I also know that I've been silent for far too long.

I am no longer at the job that I came to the US for. That ended in August. On my own terms. Don't want to say much more, because I'll say too much.

Right before my insurance ran out, I went to the doctor because 1) My body was behaving in funky ways, and 2) I figured that I might as well go, since I haven't had a full check-up in over ten years. I wasn't prepared for what came next.

My blood tests came back with everything cool, except for one thing. My platelet count was too high. More tests. I started to sit in waiting rooms at the Oncology Department of Kaiser Permanente in San Francisco without R holding my hand, but with a hospital bracelet around my wrist. A good friend of mine who is wise in these ways explained to me that when you hit the Oncology floor, you get those bracelets every time. Because something could happen to you physically at the appointment, and they need to have your medical info at the ready.

Right before I left to go and visit R in Mexico for two weeks, literally the morning of my flight, my Hematologist/Oncologist emails me to let me know that the test results show that I have a genetic mutation-JAK2 V617F for those of you who know what I'm talking about. However, chronic leukemia was ruled out as a result of those tests.

I get on the plane. I'm a little bit of a zombie in Mexico. I see some good friends, and I spend a lot of time simply snuggling with R while watching TV. Our cats sat around us, tails flicking in the heat.

A bone marrow biopsy and aspiration was set of for my second day back from Mexico. The procedure involves lying on your stomach, and the doc cracks out the local anesthetic. A needle goes through the top part of your butt, and across your body into your hip bone. The biopsy involves removing some marrow from the hip bone to study. The bone marrow aspiration involves removing liquid from the bone marrow of the hip bone for analysis. My friend S sent me a package before the procedure. It had many magical and healing things in it, and I'll be forever grateful that she sent that care package to me. My friends C and RM were in the waiting room, to drive me home. I was very grateful for that as well. My doctor was a rock star.

People checked in on me from all over. Thank you.

In September, it was official: My diagnosis is myeloproliferative disease, and my subtype is essential thrombocytosis, sometimes called essential thrombocythemia. You can read more about it here. The quick version is that I'm at a much higher risk for blood clots and strokes. I have a 3% chance of this blowing up into leukemia. 97% that it doesn't. No cure. No definitive cause for why I got it, why I now have this mutation that I didn't have before.

So of course it would make sense that the only type of work that I could find right now in this economy is...working as a server for a catering company. Finding a job in this economy is hard enough, and then I have holes from my time in Mexico, that most potential employers don't see as "International Experience," no matter how hard I sell it. So I'm serving platters full of food at weddings, trays full of drinks. I'm getting in and out of trucks while moving racks heavy with glassware and china. Minimum wage, and yet I'm grateful for the part-time work.

I tell myself that all of this moving, carrying, pushing, and hustling is good for me. But I definitely don't want to drop from a stroke at a young couple's wedding.

I mean, a bridezilla type might try to kill me if the stroke didn't take me under all on its own.

On the whole, between jokes, I veer. I veer between staying strong, and then thinking, "What's the fucking point?" I'm able to be present to the generosity and love that I have in my life, the care of good friends. And then I think that they are wasting their time, that I'm a lost cause. "There she goes again, with more drama."

I've been in shock since this whole process start in July. Not really wanting to accept that I have a diagnosis, capital D and all that. I started to take it in more this week, when I wrote my statement for R's permanent residency application.

And so I fold into myself, like an origami ornament gone wrong. Gone renegade, like my platelets.

Gone silent, because if I talk too much, I'll crack open and howl for days upon end.

One Here, One There

2011-09-05T17:37:00.000-07:00

Hey peeps.

I woke up thinking today how I have one here, one there. One toothbrush here in East Oakland, one in Mexico. One towel hangs here. I only need one of an object here. And yet, when I talk with R on the phone, I want to pull him through the wires. So that his toothbrush can sit next to mine. So that his towel can hang on my same hook.

On a day like today, I am hyper-aware of the fact that I am here, and R is there.

Shots on Goal

2011-08-24T12:43:00.000-07:00

Photo: mack2happy

So, I'm back from Mexico. My heart is blood red and cracked open like the center of a pomegranate.

And right before I left, there was a game between the Mexican soccer teams Santos and Morelia.

At minute 40 of the first half of the game, there was a shootout right outside of the soccer stadium. The real details? Partially lost. Partially hidden, as per usual. Some of the bullets from the automatic weapons hit inside. The stadium is called the Estadio Corona, owned by the beer company, and is in the city of Torreón, in the state of Coahuila.

Soccer is sacred in Mexico. A line has been crossed.

Watch the video. Watch the fear, anguish, rage, sadness in people's faces as they run. As they hunker down in seats. Look into their eyes.

And think about where the majority of the guns used in that gunfight came from.

Peculiar Beauty

2011-08-12T10:38:00.000-07:00

Our cat Bola had two kittens, Nec (short for Necia, "mischevious" ) and Fluffy. Bola died a few years ago. Nec died this past May.

I wasn't here in Mexico when she died. Two days earlier, R gave me the heads up that she wasn't doing well - she was previously diagnosed with feline leukemia. When I got the early morning call in California from R, I knew that Nec was dead.

R sent me pictures. Some pictures of her from before, when she was alive, and then some of her grave. I was at work, tearing up in front of my computer screen. But Nec's death wasn't 100% real for me just yet.

I'm now here in Mexico, visiting R for the first time since she died. Three months later, I'm mourning her in real time. It feels disjointed, off-key. Mourning in reverse.

It's fantastic to see my husband, to spend some quality time with him here. Yes.

But as opposed to last time where I blew in for three days, then blew out, I've got some time and space now to look around. To mourn what I've missed. To note the changes. The plants are bigger, my husband's hair is longer, and we now only put out three cat food dishes instead of four.

The illusion of time with my husband. The peculiar beauty of Nec's grave.

Steel Toe and Waterproof

2011-08-08T11:16:00.000-07:00

I'm on a flight tonight to Mexico to visit R. Since I left Mexico in January, I've been back once, in April of this year. It was three days of visit plus two long days of travel. Not enough time to settle in.

However, now I'm going for two weeks. Some strong settling-in time:)

R needs a pair of workboots, for his job. I can get a good pair for cheaper here in the States.

I was in a Payless yesterday, scoping the options. There were pairs in black, brown, and tan. I called him up, and through the magic of technology, emailed him photos of the workboots, so that he could choose the color he wanted.

I had a giggly moment with myself, where I thought, "This is cool. I like that I can send him photos and I can get him exactly what he wants."

But then it hit me: I don't want to be emailing him photos of workboots. I just want him here.

And then I wanted to buy a pair of those workboots for myself. Steel toe and waterproof.

So that I can kick and cry as I please.

The Waiting Room

2011-08-06T08:48:00.000-07:00

When you get a doctor's appointment that results in this kind of bracelet,
and those kind of blood tests -

Your deported husband should be by your side in the waiting room, holding your hand through it all.

For every single person who disagrees with me -
Come and find me in the waiting room.

I dare you.

Land of the Free, Home of the Ham Sandwich

2011-07-05T19:12:00.000-07:00

Hey peeps. So there was an article this past weekend published in The New York Daily News that featured myself and two other wonderful bloggers. Cue the hate mail in the comments section. The comment that I feature in this video is from that section. The hater's final sentence was,

"A woman will fall in love with a ham sandwich."

lol

So I'm not going to, shall we say, deconstruct the sandwich. However many of the men and women who are in similar immigration situations decided to rise up. Through their blogs, and on facebook, they took up the challenge of writing 25 reasons why they love their ham sandwich:) You can check out some of their posts on my blogroll. Read them. Read them all.

I think that what my fellow bloggers/facebookers did/are doing is great. However, in my situation, I perform a show where my husband is a main feature, and I blog a lot about him. I know that a public list of 25 reasons would make him literally wince in pain. I'm grateful that he lets me speak out as much as I do publicly about his/my/our lives, and I want to respect his comfort levels.

And like all of us who are separated from our partners due to draconian and inane immigration laws, I miss him like the devil. I literally don't think that I could do a list of 25 reasons today without losing it completely.

But I also want to play with my fellow bloggers! So, a little humor. Turn up your speakers:)

A big hug to all of you who also swim in the shark-infested waters.

Post-It Politics

2011-06-19T20:20:00.000-07:00

I walk by day laborers every day on my way to work. They stand. They sit. They wait very close by the building that I enter every day.

By the evening, they're usually gone.

Listen, I'm not going to romanticize these men. Some of them are chumps. Some of those men say things in Spanish that make even my jaded New York City/Mexico City ears burn.

But once in a while, a day laborer will walk right over to me, and hand me a post-it like the one above. They need work. All they want is to work. They walk over to me even if I have my headphones on. Even if I'm giving them a wide berth as I saunter by on a groggy Monday morning.

Those men always ask me if I speak Spanish. They ask me this in a soft voice, with appropriate eyes.

I always say yes.

The man hands me a post-it. Or a small piece of unlined white paper. He gently asks me to please let people know that they work well, and they work cheap. To please give his info to whomever I see fit.

Those men know that I walk into that building every day for my job. I don't tell them this. They just always see me walk by.

The man who gave me the post-it in the picture - his name is Humberto.

The same name as my dead Mexican grandfather.

I don't stand there a while and talk. I never say much. I don't memorize faces. I don't want to open any literal or figurative doors.

Part of that is due to my privilege. Part of that is for my own protection.

Post-It politics, played out on eggshell blue paper.

Holding What Was Taken

2011-05-27T17:26:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: Suat Eman

Holding What Was Taken

What we can, we take.

The taking and the can

depending on the taker.

Could it be that what the we take is what we cannot
hold?

Why must it always fall to who is being

taken

to see if we did what we could?

Many are the ones that suffer.

Many are the ones that take.

Much is always said,

not much is ever held.

As if the holding of what was taken

from the center of our hand

would weigh
as lightly as we lie.

Appropriation Does Not Equal Art

2011-05-24T08:52:00.000-07:00

Photo: James Estrin/The New York Times

So this popped up on my twitter feed yesterday. Lordy Loo.

First of all - when will The New York Times take a stand and not use the term "illegal?" For another day, peeps, for another day.

Nevertheless, the artist Tania Bruguera now lives with undocumented people.

Cue the dramatic music.

And she was given around $85,000 for this artistic foray into the outer borough of Queens, NY.

"She has not fallen on hard times. Ms. Bruguera is performing a yearlong art piece meant to improve the image of immigrants and highlight their plight. And she is bringing her high-concept brand of provocation to a low-wattage precinct of taco stands and auto-body shops, where the neighbors have responded with varying degrees of curiosity, amusement and befuddlement.

...Ms. Bruguera (pronounced brew-GAIR-a) has turned the space, a former beauty supply store, into the headquarters for her new advocacy group-cum-art project, Immigrant Movement International, using about $85,000 from Creative Time, a nonprofit arts group, and the Queens Museum of Art.

She seeks to blend politics and art to empower immigrants through English classes, legal help and impromptu performances. She has held workshops to write slogans — like “I am today what your grandparents were yesterday” — that she plans to print on bumper stickers and T-shirts. And she intends to live like her working-class Latino neighbors; she has vowed not to tap her credit cards, personal bank account or assistants in Italy and Cuba.

“I don’t want to hear things in the office — I want to live them,” said Ms. Bruguera, 43, who is from Cuba but spent the last year in Paris. “I want to have the anxiety.”

She added, “Those are things I have to feel on my skin.”

As someone who also identifies as an artist and performer, I'd like to tell Ms. Bruguera that there are some things that you are never going to feel on your skin. No matter how much you may try.

What is it with the incessant need of US-based artists to suck up the experiences of others like a high-end vacuum cleaner?

Privileges of all kinds are powerful and permanent buffers. Lack of privileges of all kinds creates serious vulnerability to being preyed upon in the name of, "Art."

You either learn those hard lessons as an artist, or you inappropriately appropriate in the name of, "Art."

"Her roommates, especially an out-of-work Ecuadorean laborer, do not know what to make of her. “I explained to them four times what I’m doing already,” she said. “They don’t get it. They’re not very excited.”

You know what? Ms. Bruguera's roommates are right on the money.

And by using "they" and "them" when talking about undocumented immigrants, Ms. Bruguera showed me all that I need to know about her as a person, and as an artist.

How telling the image of that first photo of the article - Ms. Bruguera unnecessarily in the center, literally stepping anywhere she pleases.

Embedded

2011-05-18T11:24:00.000-07:00

When A Wedding Ring Isn't Enough

2011-05-16T07:00:00.000-07:00

Hey peeps.

A very big reason why I'm back in the States right now is due to R's immigration situation. Because we've hit the 10-year point of R's 20-year ban from the U.S., the game changes ever so slightly. R can realistically apply once again for permanent residency to the U.S. The outcome of that application is completely and totally up in the air, but he can apply nonetheless.

A document called the I-212 is a key part of this application process. Long story short, part of the reason why R needs the I-212 is to prove that he's been in Mexico for the past 10 years.

We also have to show evidence of the fact that we've been married and together for the past 10 years.

This is where the wedding ring on my finger isn't enough.

We have to provide a paper trail, documents that prove that we've been together.

And still, we have the "privilege" of filing an I-212 because we're a straight couple, the only type of couple legally recognized by the US government.

U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services wants to see things like rent receipts, and bank statements. They provide a long, long list of what qualifies as, "proof."

I could make a life-size origami elephant out of all of the documents that we will provide.

In an ideal world, I'd simply send U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services the photo that I posted here of my wedding ring, my hand in the shape of a fist.

And in terms of further backup evidence, I'd provide a plate of R's cooking, a group photo of our four cats, and the crimson-colored velour miniskirt that I wore the night that we first met.

Slightly Wrinkled and Crooked

2011-04-03T17:37:00.000-07:00

Hey peeps. Corin in Exile wrote way back in the day that it was hard for her to blog at the time, because she didn't want every post to be about how much she missed her husband.

That's the kind of head space that I've been living in lately. A true challenge for me as a writer, no doubt.

I'm also in the process of creating a blog about San Francisco. This is my first time living on the West Coast. Quite da slap upside da head for this East Coaster/Global Southie. So stay tuned.

In the meanwhile, I was putting away my soccer jersey for Mexico's National Soccer Team last night. One of my besties L gifted it to me during the last World Cup. I love it. Snazzy, subtle, and sleek.

That shirt saw a lot of action lately, because Mexico played two friendlies, (exhibition games) here in California. I like to wear my shirt when El Tri (the nickname for the Mexican national team) is playing.

I watched the first game in a taquería in Oakland, with good friends. El Tri was actually playing in the Oakland Coliseum. Everywhere I turned, people were wearing something in support of Mexico, be it green or black shirts, hats, or bandannas. Waving Mexican flags.

Hours after the game was over, I was back in San Francisco, on my way to meet K and her husband. I still saw supporters of El Tri everywhere. I wondered when was the last time the majority of these fans had been back to Mexico. For some of them, due to their undocumented status, it could easily have been decades. For others, as second generation Latin@s born in the US, they perhaps have never set foot on Mexican soil.

I thought about how California used to belong to Mexico.

Watching Mexico's national soccer team play on land that used to belong to Mexico, while having recently left present-day Mexico myself is quite the mental trip.

Or mental trap, take your pick.

Mexico won in Oakland. They finished with a tie in the following game.

The photo above isn't the greatest, but it'll do. Slightly wrinkled and crooked. Like the country that makes me tear up when I see its flag of red, white, and green.

The country where my abuelita serves me a teacup full of warm milk from the world just beyond this one.

Emergency Contact

2011-02-23T23:31:00.000-08:00

Image: Salvatore Vuono

A million things to blog about lately. But I'm often flat on the blog floor by the sheer weight of all those words.

I've been filling out a lot of forms in this new phase of my life. At my job, at the bank, at the community acupuncture clinic.

On many of these forms, there's often an emergency contact section. I always falter.

My mom helps us out with a phone line in Mexico. So we have a US line through the Internet. If there ever was an emergency, reaching R becomes a national call, as opposed to an international one.

But here's what makes me tear up when I'm dutifully putting in the emergency info: What can R really do in an emergency? He can't enter the US with papers. He's not familiar with San Francisco. He can't demand to speak to whoever is in charge and tell them that his lawyer/doctor/etc...will be there immediately to represent him.

And yet, I put him down as the first contact. Under "Relationship," I write in black or blue pen: Husband.

I won't stand down. I write his full name.

Relationship? Husband.

On my US W-4 tax form, I'm required by law to check off the "single" box when it comes to my marital status. By being married to a man that is not recognized by the eyes of the law in this country, I'm rendered single. There's a specific note next to an asterisk for people like me.

And even at these levels of humiliation, there's an asterisk only for the straight people filling out the W-4. If you're in a LGBTQ marriage, you don't even get an asterisk on that federal form.

The exact language on the W-4 calls R and others like him a "nonresident alien."

When I fill out tax forms for payment of a performance of my show, "The Deportee's Wife," I have to check off the box that says "single."

I don't call R a nonresident alien. I usually call him amorcito, or mi lindo.

Or I call him by his name, my tongue rolling on that first R sound.

Relationship? Husband

Relationship? Husband

Relationship? My husband.

Cutting Through My San Francisco Fog

2011-01-29T12:56:00.000-08:00

Photo: Salvatore Vuono

Greetings from foggy San Francisco!

So I'm just going to do a list form today. Thoughts and impressions after being in San Francisco for 11 days, in no particular order:

1. Rage. I take two MUNI buses, public buses to get to work. Because I've had to focus so hard on making sure that I know where I'm going, I couldn't tune out the emotional energies on the bus. Rage is splattered all over the bus. Not from me, but from others. People yell. People push. People seethe. I feel that the MUNI buses that I take are a microcosm of what's going on in the outside world in the US. Not everyone is being taken care of. Not everyone is getting back on their economic feet. People are falling through the gaps with a loud thud. And the MUNI bus system is woefully underfunded. I'd like to make every politician that makes funding decisions about the MUNI system to ride the buses back and forth for a few days.

2. Product Choices. I walk into a supermarket or a pharmacy like Walgreens, and I'm overwhelmed by the number of products. It feels like there a billion types of things from cheese to black tights. This always happens when I come to the US, but it hits me even harder now, because I'm here on a permanent basis. Honestly? I don't think that I'll ever be able to shake the feeling that it is all just too much.

3. Mexico. In the conversations that I've had with people about Mexico, it is fascinating how the country is often seen as the inappropriate drunk uncle at the Christmas dinner table. However, there's usually no critical analysis about who makes the invitations and serves the drinks, y'all dig?

4. Weather and Walking. I appreciate the fact that I can get where I need to go on my own two legs, like I did in Mexico. If I'd landed in a city where everything is done by car, I'd be one unhappy puppy right now. And while the weather isn't as warm as where I live in Mexico, it ain't snowing. 'Nuff said! lol However, the whole San Francisco is hilly thing? Totally no joke!

5. Race and Class. Every city that I've ever lived in plays these two issues out out in it's own twisted, sometimes well-intentioned, profoundly-missing-the-mark kind of way. San Francisco is no exception.

6. Long Island and Being A New Yorker. One of my roomies and I go way back. She says Gino's Pizzeria, and I know exactly what she's talking about. It's been a long time since I've talked with a fellow Willie Parker about the old hood, the old haunts, our old schools. It's been very healing on a lot of different levels. It's as if she and I click through an old-school version of Google Maps. But the application is in our memories!

Also, San Francisco isn't New York. Sounds obvious, but this is my first time living on the West Coast. There's a whole cultural competency that I need to gain. And it starts with not using the f-bomb unless I'm around fellow East Coasters! lol. My roommates can roll with my New Yorky ham-fisted verbal subtleties. And that's a damn good thing!:)

7. Doggie. I'm also living with a big, beautiful dog. As someone who has anywhere from 4-5 cats, this has been quite the shift! However, we are doing well. I'm learning a lot about myself, and I'm bribing him with bones:)

8. My Sweet Husband. I get sucker-punched. The smallest thing will set me off. An innocent coffee sample table at Whole Foods. The morning news on Univision cheerfully reporting the fact that El Chicharito scored the winning goal for Manchester United. If R is able to enter the US this year, I think that California would be a great place for him as a sommelier. As a sommelier, you're not just a certified wine expert. You also get certified in coffees, cheeses, teas, among other things. California would be purrrrrfect for his career.

I'm still very much in shock about the move, and I think that is protecting me right now. But I also know not to open certain emotional drawers. I don't spend time in the cat supplies section on the supermarket. I miss my kitties. I won't display a picture of R and I on my desk at work. It hurts too much.

R and I have our sweet nothings that we say to each other.

A new one that has sprung up is a simple as this: See you soon.

We always say it in English, and we always say it at the end of every conversation.

It's a mantra for me now that I have tattooed on my heart: See you soon.

San Francisco!:)

2011-01-19T19:16:00.001-08:00

I'm now safe and sound in San Francisco. It is much warmer than New York! lol I'm super grateful to my roomies - you know who you are!:)

A lot more to say, but it'll have to wait - just wanted to let you all know that I'm good:)

Safe and Sound in New York

2011-01-14T10:22:00.000-08:00

More to come soon!

When a Stage is Not Safe Space

2011-01-10T08:41:00.000-08:00

Photo Credit: Salvatore Vuono

This past Saturday, R and I didn't turn on the TV. We didn't get on the Internet. One of my best friends came to spend the day with me before I leave for the States.

Late in the evening, R and I turned on our computers.

Jesus.

The US of 2011 is not the US that I left in 2001.

The Mexico of 2011 is not the Mexico that I arrived to in 2001.

I have a performance tonight of my show, "The Deportee's Wife." The show is controversial. Emotions run high for audience members. I don't provide a feel-good story of how love wins in the end.

The reality is that the location of the show where I am performing tonight here in Mexico is absolutely safe on a physical level.

But when I woke up today, this first thought:

The invisible "third wall" does not protect a performer against a point-blank single gun shot to the head.

During my US tour in 2009, there were two occasions where I feared for my physical safety during a performance. I don't want to go into the details right now. But both situations involved me fighting off the fear during the entire show of being physically attacked.

One show in particular was a real fear of being shot at. My sound during that performance was a little off-balance. The sound person pointed out to me afterward that it was because I had my chin partially pointed down the whole time, as if to protect my chest. I was so deep in the fear that I absolutely did not notice what I did sound-wise for the entire hour and ten minutes of the show.

When I stand and perform tonight, I'll be standing there as a woman with a Jewish paternal last name, and a Latina maternal last name. I'll be standing there as a woman who speaks out strongly about my husband's deportation from the US, and about my views on the state of the present-day immigration system in the US. I stand there as someone with direct ties to LGBTQ issues. I stand there as a person of mixed-race, dual nationalities and multiple identities.

All of us in our own ways take our own versions of those personal and public stands every day.

My wish to all of you today and always is to stay safe.

Please keep sending your thoughts and prayers to Arizona.

Change, California, and Community

2011-01-06T12:49:00.000-08:00

Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco. Photo:Arvind Balarman

Lordy Loo! My last post was November 26 of 2010. 'Nuff said.

So let's jump right to it, shall we?And V - thanks for the check - in email:) I feel like doing a list today, so that I can get through this post without tearing up.

1. I was offered and I accepted a job in San Francisco. I'm definitely a Capricorn in my need to keep my little secret compartments! lol In the interest of privacy and everyone's best interests, I don't want to talk publicly about the job itself on this blog. What I will say is that I'm ready for the challenge that this position throws down! I'm deeply moved by the openness of the organization to bring me onto their team. This job in many ways embodies the intersectionality of the passions and commitments that I have in my life to the areas around LGBTQ issues, race, class, immigration, and finding the funding to bring those conversations in the US more powerfully forward in a positive manner.

2. I'll be leaving for New York on the 13th. Work will start that weekend! :) I'll then be heading out to San Francisco on January 18th.

R won't be coming with me for either of these steps, as he cannot enter the US.

Writing that line is what makes me tear up over the keyboard right now.

R can actually apply again for his US residency in April of this year. April will be the 10-year mark of his deportation back to Mexico. As most of you know, he was ordered out of the US for 20 years.

10 years have passed. A decade. I came to Mexico when I was 31. I'm now 41. A decade of growth, as well as a decade of losses.

Depending on what happens after his appointment, R will either come to live with me in California, or he will continue to be barred from entering the US. If the 20-year-ban still sticks, we will move the Mexican side of our life closer to the border, in either Ensenada or Mexicali. Mexico's wine country is in those areas, and R could hop right in there as a sommelier, as a wine expert. He's completed his studies as a sommelier and knows that this what he wants to do with his life. So his career will either deepen and expand in California, or in Mexico's wine country.

What I want to say is that this decision doesn't come lightly or easily. R and I have given it a lot of thought. We've had a lot of conversations, run the gamut of emotions. We both truly feel that this is the right decision.

I've been to the States before for months at a time. But it's been for touring or temporary work. There was always the knowledge that I'd be coming back after a set period of time. Back to R and our 4 cats, and our life here in this specific part of Mexico.

And while I do plan to come back to visit R, I know in my bones that it is different this time. That by January of next year, how R will physically be by my side is up in the air.

But that's life for most of us in an immigration situation with our partners and the US. Our own personal versions of hope and resignation playing a non-stop game of tag with each other in the playgrounds of our minds.

And yet, what I want to say here is that I know it can be done. Why do I write this with such sureness in my heart? Because of the community that I found online last year. A community of people that are in complicated and painful dance steps with the US government, in one way or another. It all started when one person reached out to me in 2010 after watching a video of me speaking as a deported man's wife. El Sr. Chupacabras opened the door, and I walked into the room:)

A room where people know on a visceral level what it means to sleep alone in a bed that once held two. A room where people on the outside may scream, "Illegal!"or "Criminal!" but we picture our loved one's face. A room where "anchor babies" means our own children, extended family members, and/or close friends. A room where others think that they are helping us, but they sometimes just don't fucking get it. A room where people have sat alone in the dark, wondering if this was all worth it, if love alone was enough to get through this. A room where at other moments, we wouldn't change a thing.

When I get on that plane next week, I'll be carrying all of you in my heart.

Lots more to talk about/share with you. But that's all for today:)

Love,
TDW

The Georgia Lumpkin in My Throat

2010-11-26T20:32:00.000-08:00

Today's post was inspired by Emily's blog post about the protest at the Stewart Detention Center in Lumpkin, Georgia. May her husband come home soon. It is so wonderful to read/watch about all of the support the Guzman family.

You can read Emily's great post about the amazing day here

The Dance Break of This Deportee's Wife

2010-11-23T14:05:00.000-08:00

So I now take a one-song dance break every hour during my freelance work.
Do a dance break with me, and laugh your ass off:)
The deeper the belly laugh, the stronger the activist!;-)

The Cloister Café, New York City

2010-11-18T18:26:00.000-08:00

Photo: R.C.O.

I don't know what it means to be married yet. I'm sitting with a young man who I'd like to kiss. But he's having coffee with me, coffee in big bowl-like cups, nothing more. That's all we'll ever have. Words and different forms of water. Sure, I'll profess my love and lust at some point, but I haven't just yet.

And within all that, he somehow turns the talk to marriage that day at the Cloister Café. He states quite confidently, I know who you're going to marry. This is good. While he doesn't want to date me, it definitely looks like he wants to get married.

I don't understand yet that there's an in between. I flash my best showgirl smile. He says, You're going to marry a foreigner. You're going to marry someone who isn't from the States.

The lights dim in my teeth. Show over. Because the young man that I want to kiss is clearly from the States. Clearly not a foreigner. I sip my coffee quietly.

The spell that boy cast between my quiet sips of coffee at the Cloister Café.

I Told You So

2010-11-16T13:42:00.000-08:00

Bloodlines and borders. What family members say and do not say. Feel free to add others that you've heard in the comments.

The Pistol Under My Pillow

2010-11-11T12:56:00.000-08:00

Last night, I caught up by phone with a good friend. Tinkered with a new video blog post. Put down strong roots with another phone call to a new friend.

I puttered around, getting ready for bed.

While brushing my teeth, I smiled back at my reflection in the mirror.

CRACK! POW! POWPOWPOW! CRACK!

Gunshots. Pistol. After a year of this, I can now differentiate between pistol shots and firecrackers. AK-47 shots versus a pistol. I have a warped sense of pride about this new ability.

The pistol shots were close. I spit out my toothpaste, move quickly into our bedroom. R sits up in bed.

¿Amor,eso fueron balazos, verdad? Balazos de una pistola.

R said yes. Yes, they were pistol shots.

The night is covered again in total silence.

The thing is, you learn to live with this. You move the bed away from the windows. You start to wear bedtime clothes that you could wear standing outside of your house, if you had to.

So I turned over and went to sleep. There was nothing else to do.

The cold brought the cats into our bed.

CRACKPOWPOWPOW! POW!

It starts up again, 20 minutes later. The shots are so close that the cats leap out of our bed and run into closets, under the bed, under tables.

We live on a busy street. The cats hear loud noises day and night. But even they instinctively know that gunshots means run for cover.

The night is covered again in total silence.

I don't shake. I don't cry. This is not new anymore. I focus on my breathing. I call the cats back into the bed. They stay put.

The song that Penny sometimes sings to Sheldon in The Big Bang Theory - "Soft kitty, warm kitty," pops into my head. I laugh a little. I close my eyes.

There is nothing else to do. I turn over and go back to sleep.

POW! POW! CRACKPOWPOWPOW! POW! POW!CRACK!

Almost like an alarm clock, it starts again after another 20 minutes. I feel like the cats snicker at me from their hiding spots.

R goes for some water downstairs.

The night is covered again in total silence.

A horrible space of being completely alert and totally exhausted at the same time.

Is it going to happen again?

Am I really just going to go back to sleep?

I go back to sleep. I wonder who I'm becoming, who R and I are becoming.

Because we are now the kind of people that can turn over and go back to sleep after rounds of gunshots that sound like a news report from a war zone.

At some point, I remember that kids live on our block. They can clearly hear what I clearly hear.

CRACKPOWCRACKPOW! BOOM! BOOM!

Something bigger is now being used. Grenade? What is it? It sounds like a cannon. I know that it can't be a cannon. But it sounds like a cannon.

The night is covered again in total silence.

The 20 minute pattern is a total of two hours.

As of this moment, there's nothing in the local news about what happened.

The violence of the night pushed up against the normalcy of the day.