A Fashion Brief

There is a page on Facebook for just about every collection of people imaginable.  I love how social media has given people the chance to gather and offer support with hundreds or even thousands of miles between them.  The group that has helped me the most in the last year is for people enduring the I-601 (Application for Waiver of Grounds of Inadmissibility) process.  We talk about our hopes and fears knowing that the other people in the group have the ability to understand what we are going through.

I need to be able to talk to someone about how I can’t buy the new shoes that Liliana so desperately needs, without some idiotic response about how they simply can’t buy a new iPad until next week because they’re totally tapped out.  I mean how does the fact that my daughter needs shoes because the old pair finally fell to pieces have to do with your sudden longing for a new iPad?  Maybe I want an iPad too, but I know the difference between wanting something and needing something.

It’s important that I don’t have to explain why I live with my parents and can’t get any state or federal assistance.  We all need someone to lean on that will not make a snap judgment based on what their father’s brother’s nephew’s cousin’s former roommate had to say last Tuesday after such-and-such Politian voiced their opinion on something which they interpreted as gospel.

I was having a horrible day when I tuned into my Facebook support group.  The conversations were interesting, but there was one in particular that caught my attention.  One of the ladies had been looking at the NAMUS website and posed a question to the group about Hispanic men and their apparent love of fashion bikini briefs.  That observation was the start of one of the most entertaining conversations I ever participated in and it pulled me out of my dark mood like nothing else had been able to.  We spoke of plain, colorful, and animal print bikini briefs (particularly the zebra prints bikinis worn by an ‘acquaintance’ of one of the group member from back before she was married).  We debated the reason for the bikini briefs and discovered another thing we all had in common; the introduction of boxer shorts into our men’s wardrobe.  There were several points during that discussion where I laughed until I had tears streaming from my eyes!

I truly appreciate each and every one of you, the I-601 ladies.  I hope that zebra print will live on and make us all smile on our darkest days.

“I asked the Zebra,
are you black with white stripes?
Or white with black stripes?
And the zebra asked me,
Are you good with bad habits?
Or are you bad with good habits?
Are you noisy with quiet times?
Or are you quiet with noisy times?
Are you happy with some sad days?
Or are you sad with some happy days?
Are you neat with some sloppy ways?
Or are you sloppy with some neat ways?
And on and on and on and on and on and on he went.
I’ll never ask a zebra about stripes...again.”

― Shel Silverstein “The Zebra Question”

Ciao

The hits just keep on coming

Saturday arrived with yet another slap to the face.  I had a horrible night with a sick toddler, so I probably slept no more than 3 hours total.  Even so I was up at 7 o’clock to shower and get dressed.  Ashley woke up crying before I had my outfit together, so I turned on some cartoons to keep her occupied while I got ready.  After last minute issues were taken care of, my mom gave us a ride to the jail since parking was so expensive when I was there on Thursday.  I had asked her to do me that favor yesterday and Lizzy was going to pick us up to go to the meeting afterwards.

We arrived at the jail facility and I got our things together so we could go and visit Alberto.  When we walked in the doors I was surprised that the only people in the lobby area were the two uniformed guards.  Feeling more optimistic I approached the desk and stated my business.  The guard who was a county officer replied rather smartly that visiting was closed because there were too many people waiting to visit on the block where Alberto was being held.  I asked her to please double check for me since this would be the first time Alberto would see his daughter it well over a year.  She called the guard on the block in question, and said that there were still too many people waiting so I would have to visit on another day.  I was crushed.  Though I tried my hardest to maintain my composure, I felt a few tears slip past my guard.  I simply have no defense against any setbacks when it comes to Alberto.  Ashley and I settled ourselves in the lobby to wait for Lizzy to arrive since it was still a little chilly outside.

A day of cleansing pain and whirling thoughts

Today was difficult to say the least.  This morning was the meeting of our Support Group for women who are married to Hispanic men, and it was my turn to tell the story of us.  I had prepared a story, thinking that if I could detach myself even a little bit I would be able to stay composed.  I minute I looked at the story typed neatly in my hand, I promptly burst into tears.  I told our story through a torrent of tears and emotional pain that I had no way of controlling.  I felt as though I was exposing my damaged soul for all to see, and for once I was not judged.  These women did not shut off their minds at the mention of undocumented immigration, or the situation that ultimately caused the dominoes to begin to fall.  They saw me as a survivor of a succession of shattering events.  They saw a family separated, a fatherless child.  They saw us, the Mendez family.  The simple kindness I was shown as gone a long way to restore my faith in people, and I have to thank my case manager for leading me to this group.

One of the women brought her son who was only 7 weeks old.  He is such a beautiful little boy with big eyes, and Ashley spent a significant amount of time kneeling and watching him.  Every time I looked over and saw Ashley, I couldn’t help but think to myself that Ashley was that size when Alberto left the United States. 

Preparation involves a trip to the past

Preparing for the support group meeting on Saturday has got me thinking about the journey that led us to where we are today.  It helps me to put thoughts and ideas in writing, so I’ll invite you along on this trip down memory lane.  My story begins with some old journal pages I found this evening which talk about events at McDonalds that I don’t even remember.  It’s interesting to read what I had written 10 years ago.  I realize now just how naïve I was at 16 when I thought I knew everything.

The Mexican crew at McDonalds was essentially composed of two families: the Mendez family and the Bahena family.  From the beginning I gravitated towards the Mendez family, particularly two sisters named Rosa and Yesica.  I was comfortable with them, as they made a sincere effort to teach me Spanish.  During the summer of my first year at McDonalds I started to work the closing shift which gave me more time to immerse myself in the language.  The cultural differences often caught me off guard during this period of time.  For example the Mendez women had a habit of grabbing my hand or arm whenever they walked by me.  I eventually got used to their concept of personal space, but it definitely took a while.

Life goes on

I have begun to realize as the days and weeks march on just how much Alberto means to me. As I compose this post, I am desperately fighting off a rising level of anxiety caused by my inability to talk with my husband. Part of me understands that I am being irrational as my mind fabricates a list of cockamamie reasons why he is not answering his phone. My rational side insists that I should know by now that the cellular service in Mexico is sporadic at best with many dead zones and frequent outages. My irrational side responds that someone could have stolen Alberto’s cell phone again, there could have been an attempted kidnapping where he lost his cell phone, or that a roving brand of miscreants asked Alberto for a ride then abandoned him miles from any towns in the desert. I’m nothing if not creative when anxious.

Setting aside that train of thought, I am so glad that Monday is over. The only problem is that tomorrow happens to be a Tuesday. Just a few weeks ago during a particularly bad Tuesday I said, “It’s Tuesday; the mechanical, electrical, mental, financial, and emotional epic fail day.” I’m sincerely hoping that Murphy’s Law takes pity on me for a few weeks and gives me some peace. This is simply not a good month for the systematic meltdown of law and order.