Yesterday I heard back from my lawyer. I was hoping this whole process would take at most six months and that after half a year I would be flying to Europe to go to Ireland to see the Cliffs of Mohr and the land of Oscar Wilde, or England to visit Platform 9 ¾ or Hawaii to see the sunrise on top of a dormant volcano, or hell Indiana to see my in-laws but as things stand I can’t even legally drive to buy some chimichangas at the Don Ramon Restaurant down the street.
Yours truly has to wait for at least six months for a judge to decide to reopen my case, six months for some overworked middle age man/woman with too much on his plate to care about me, to look at the black and white “facts” and decide if they reopen my case and let me prove to them that DH and I are REALLY married, six months for some stranger who doesn’t know me at all to decide if I am worthy of staying here. I guess in paper I sound good, I have paid my taxes, and I haven’t committed any felonies or misdemeanors or broken ANY law. I speak the language, I have gone native. But until everything is finally done I will not feel at ease. My future rests in (on) the desk of someone stranger who doesn’t know anything about me, or what I’ve been through, or what I have brought and could still bring to this country, my future lays in the hand of someone who doesn’t know my awesomeness. It’s a scary thought to be just one more random, anonymous spic.
Since I refuse to remain quiet about all the hullaballoo that’s going on in the U.S. ever since I stopped writing here I am, back to this beautiful place where I can be myself and express my idea and have total strangers tell me what they think. I’m sorry but the U.S. is going nuts! And it all seemed to explode the moment I said I was going to shut up! Cruel, simply cruel to have such juicy crazies to bite on and find myself with no teeth.
I hope I haven’t lost some of you, those precious few who take some moments out of your lives to listen (read) my drivel and who are not by blood or law, related to me. If I haven't completely lost you, then please stick around because some of my not so smart, sometimes funny rhetoric is back.
Oh if only they (IRS, ICE, UCIS, etc, same entity different acronyms) knew just how native I have gone I think they would let me stay. I am a woman without land, an immigrant without a country. I belong nowhere. I know I have a flare for dramatics but people when I tell you I have no land I mean I have NO LAND. I am an effing pariah!
It’s kind of sad to find oneself at Bruzz Room, they whitest place you could go to, to see the Rays lose like little bitches to the Rangers and find yourself surrounded by Colombians watching a friendly game of football (soccer for those of you who think Football means pigskin and shoulder pads) and have them call you a race traitor because you are not watching the football game but are watching baseball. Baseball? How dare I? Not even Hispanic baseball like the Caribbean Series but American “World” Series Baseball. The offspring of my offspring will feel the shame this ancestor brought upon them.
Never mind that I grew up in Venezuela and baseball is the national pass time. Never mind that in Colombia, Football not Baseball is the national pass time. Are you following my conundrum here? No matter who I root for, no matter who I follow it will be the wrong choice. You were raised in Venezuela, you should follow baseball. Your family and you are all from Colombia: Viva el Pibe y la seleccion. I am living in the U.S. I am supposed to embrace the culture: Bring on the cheese hats, the foam fingers, the expensive cheap beer and all the sports that come with it.
Next year in April I will celebrate my ninth year in the U.S. Six more years than I ever lived in Colombia, more than half the time I spent in Venezuela. How can I have ANY identity at all? I am forgetting some of my Spanish. I no longer read books in my first language. I have almost forgotten who I was back then... I was so young and so damn stupid when I came into this country. I was nineteen but in reality I was younger. I was pampered and silly and spoiled and I did all my growing up here. I became a woman here. Let’s enjoy this Lifefime moment.
This is home. I love Colombia. I love Venezuela. I will never, ever forget that I am a part that, that I came from spicy looks, cumbia smelling heat, coffee smelling sounds and tall those discombobulated senses that make one a Latino. I, however, am becoming something else.
I am not sure if I am happy about it. I am not sure I can belong here. I want to stick seventeen people in a small car before I go to a party (that stereotype is so true) I want to teach my kids (If I have any) to dance as soon as they can walk. I want to eat pig blood and rice and not find it icky (I so do) I want to drink aguardiente and dance gaitas in December. I want to be everything that my race, breed, culture, background demands of me but I can’t. I am a hybrid. I am a mutt within a mutt.
Not to sound all existentialist, but where the fuck do I belong?
