UPDATE No. 6

DH and I, following our lawyer’s instructions to start bitching to the ISAP people, decided to take the letter we had received explaining that my case had been reopened and that even the attorney representing the Department of Homeland Security had signed off and agreed to reopen my case and dismiss my deportation order, meaning that when I finally saw an Immigration Judge to decide my future, both my lawyer and the lawyer representing the DHS would ask to dismiss my removal proceeding so I could continue with my process for legalization.

With that letter I was supposed to approach the people in ISAP and demand my immediate release from the program since the case was to be dismissed (hopefully) once the IJ met with us.  Every Friday morning when I went to the ISAP office with my husband, the receptionist would ask me for the ID they had given me and that I had to carry with me at all times and she would check the status of my case in the DHS phone system. I would listen to the automatic responses the machine would spew out with its robotic voice and listen how everyone else but me got a court date.  Most were in 2013. I sat there despairing about the court dates being so far away and pretending I didn’t give a fuck because I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. I know they probably didn’t care one way or another and I was just one more warm body seating in a chair, but I felt as if they wanted me to fail, they wanted me to feel like dirt.

DH called that Thursday morning to demand to meet with the person in charge of the program, by law there had to be an ICE agent on site. I had been to that infernal place for every Friday of the last three months and I had never seen the infamous ICE agent in charge. They agreed to let us meet him the next day for my appointment. We brought the paper that indicated my case had reopened and told them that our lawyer was confident that my case would be dismissed since even the prosecutor was in favor. The ICE agent seemed unwilling to remove me from the program; of course they don’t want to remove anyone because each free person means less money. 

After twenty minutes of politely but firming arguing with them, he agreed that I should “start the process” of removal from the program. I needed to be weaned off, not taken out cold turkey. Apparently being in the program was like being on heroin. If we had a phone line in our house they would’ve been forced to remove the ankle monitor right away, but since we didn’t, he said to order one for the house and bring proof that we had a land line installed and if his supervisor (which my lawyer insisted was nonexistent) approved of it they could remove the ankle monitor and keep me on less intensified supervision.

As soon as we left their office, DH (who was looking all kinds of sexy after putting his foot down and defending my honor) got on the phone with AT&T to install a land line in the house. By Tuesday we already had the phone installed. I called the ISAP office that Wednesday morning and told them the equipment was installed, she said to bring the receipt, or installation proof or whatever to be able to proof to them that I had a land line. That Friday we showed up earlier than ever and we brought the number and the AT&T paperwork to prove we had it installed. They proceeded to put me in the phone system by having me repeat my name and a series of numbers. They explained that at any given time from 2pm  to 6pm each Friday they may or may not call and I would have to answer the phone, call back and repeat whatever sequence of numbers and words so the system could recognize my voice and confirm I was there, where they meant me to be. It all sounded insanely stupid to me and a waste of time and resources, but I didn’t say anything since nothing ever has made sense during this process.

I mean, I get it. I am not supposed to be here, they don’t owe me anything. But as a logical individual the entire process made no sense to me. It seemed like a waste of money and not really efficient if what they really wanted was to rid the country of us. I really wanted to know who came up with this idea and didn’t see for what it was, a non solution, a waste of money, a waste of resources. Like having a toenail fungus and the solution is to chop the whole foot off. And yes, I just compared all of us immigrants to fungi.

After all the vocal repetitions and recording I could tell they were stalling, trying to figure out a way to keep me on the intense monitoring, I could tell they wanted to argue. The girl who was talking to me said she wasn’t sure I should be out of the program. I said nothing to her. I was too busy repressing the urge not to kick her in the nose when she knelt next to me to remove the monitor. DH tried to take a video and they stopped him. “We wouldn’t want the bad press” I said to him in a whisper they could all hear. She confirmed my comment by admitting that someone had posted something on Facebook before and it had been legally problematic.

It was April 24, four days before my ten year anniversary in the country. Exactly three months and fourteen days after they put the ankle monitor on me when they finally took it off. I would still be supervised. Instead of going every Friday morning I would have to go every other Friday, instead of having people come to my house and confirm I was there every Friday afternoon, I would instead answer a phone and repeat a number or phrase sequence.

We got into the car and I pulled my jeans up. The ankle where the monitor had been was thinner than the other one. I felt so naked, so free, and so weird. I rubbed my feet together, meeting in places they hadn’t met in almost four months.

I was still being monitored, this was still a problem and presented a hindrance to my everyday life, but my ankle was free. I could see it again. I could wear skirts. I could work out without it bothering me; I could jog and jump rope when walking Zoey without fear of it showing. I could go to the beach, lie in the sun, and go in the water.

More importantly, I didn’t look or feel like a criminal anymore.

UPDATE NO. 5

If anything positive came out of this ordeal with the ankle monitor is a lot of self discovery and a lot of new clothes. I realized I am not built for long suffering and martyrdom. There are some people that enjoy victimization, I am sorry to say it but is true. Everyone has one of them in their lives, the coworker/friend/cousin/ex/aunt whatever that enjoys the role and wears it well.  They like the attention their sad situation, whatever it may be, gives them. I see is a milder form of Munchausen by proxy Syndrome.  Some people like it; I know it because there are several people like that in my circle of acquaintances. I respect their choice to live their life like that but I can’t live mine the same way.

Some people might have milked the monitor for all its worth. I wanted the monitor gone and my life back. I wanted to go back to normal. I didn’t have the patience for it. I could imagine myself gnawing my foot off like some feral creature and getting rid of it. I emailed my lawyer constantly, asking him for other avenues we could take that would allow me to remove the bracelet, I gave him hypothetical’s where my monitor would simply fall off without my knowledge, and sent him web articles of people like me who had sued the contractor the INS was using for the monitoring for harassment.

None of it made a difference I was still tethered to that thing and nothing I did would make a difference. That was the problem, I needed to do something about it, I needed to feel like I was somewhat in control of the situation, I needed to feel useful and like I was making strides towards resolution. That wasn’t the case; there wasn’t anything I could do, nothing I could fix, no steps I could take. That, more than anything, was driving me crazy. My fate was in the hands of people who didn’t give a damn about me and didn’t feel my sense of urgency because they weren’t the ones walking around, working out, showering, having sex with an ankle bracelet banging around.

I kept thinking about the promise I had made to myself not to allow another year to go by. This year on April 28, 2012 would be my ten year anniversary in the country and I had promised myself that if everything wasn’t solved by then I would just leave. If things are this hard then maybe they aren’t meant to be. Dear Husband and I had a list of places we would go. Vancouver seemed the most ideal since they are super liberal there (my kind of peeps) and it looked like a gorgeous city and it was close enough to the US that I could still see my sister and brother and mom. I could imagine my mom driving with my brother and sister all the way to the US/Canada border where we would embrace each other, both with our feet in the respective countries, without crossing over, then turn around and go back to our new lives without seeing each other for another year or so.

I felt that I had already betrayed myself by allowing them to put an ankle monitor on me, I couldn’t betray myself even further by breaking that promise. I don’t break promises I make others, why should I break a promise I made to myself?  I tried to think of all that leaving would entail, as grim as everything looked I felt like something I had to do. I researched Vancouver to see if they had a ban of pit bulls since Zoey would be going with us, of course. New Zealand (Dear Husband’s choice of country to flee to) had to be taken off of the list because they have a ban on them. Shame on you Kiwis

DH understood. I don’t know if he was placating me or not, but he seemed willing to leave all he knew behind and go with me. I wasn’t equally willing to uproot him and take him away from all his loved ones, he seemed to see it as an adventure and I felt like I had ruined his life.

I was in my bedroom reading historical romances and waiting for my scheduled visit from ISAP agent one Friday when my lawyer called. “I have good news” he said. “They agreed to reopen your case; by the end of the year if everything keeps going like this you should have your green card”

“At the end of the year?” I repeated numbly. I imagined myself wearing that thing for the rest of the year and I just couldn’t handle it. “Are you out of your mind? I can’t wear this thing for a whole year! I refuse to walk around like a criminal with this fucking thing for a whole fucking year!!” I pretty much screamed at him. “It won’t be a whole year with the monitor” He said calmly, as if speaking to an unruly child. “I will be sending you the letter from the decision to reopen your case, you can take it with you to the ISAP place, and they should take you off the monitor. This is going to take a while; I need to petition the judge for a dismissal of the deportation order, the prosecutor may choose not to agree with it. Remember you have no right to be here, they don’t owe you anything”

He kept talking to me, mentioning another client who that very morning had gotten her petition to reopen her case denied, we had the exact same case and yet mine went well and hers didn’t. I was one of the lucky ones. I could barely hear him over the roaring in my ears.

“They don’t owe you anything” Kept repeating over and over again in my head. I had forgotten that, I had forgotten that I didn’t belong here, that I wasn’t part of this country, that it wasn’t really home, it wasn’t us, it was them and me. I had gotten so used to thinking I was meant to be here, my husband is here, my family is here, my life is here. If I can’t be here, where else would I be? I lived in Colombia for three years of my life, in Venezuela for seventeen and in the U.S. for the last ten. Where exactly is home? I am a combination of these three countries, they’ve made me who I am and it was a slap to be reminded that no matter how much I love this country and how these past ten years have changed me and turned me into this person that doesn’t mean the country feels the same way for me.

Unrequited love is a bitch.

UPDATE NO. 4

After I got my ankle monitor and I stepped out of that stupid ISAP office I called my DH to tell him I was on my way home.  He had to go to work and couldn’t accompany me in my humiliation. My lawyer called right after I hung up with DH and for the first time in the ten years as my lawyer sounded like he gave a damn. “I know this is difficult, but hang tight for me” He asked, talking to me softly.  He then proceeded to explain that in two months or so everything should be in place and I would have the ankle monitor removed.

My former case that ended in the removal proceedings would have to be reopened. Once reopened new evidence would have to be submitted explaining that my circumstances had changed. I was married to a citizen, I didn’t have a criminal records, was an asset to the community, spoke the language, etc. Everything was in place since it had taken so long to get my interview; my lawyer was as prepared as we could be.  The problem was the USCIS office that wins the medal on bureaucracy would be in charge of sending my entire file (all twenty tons of it) to the office in Miami where the Immigration Judge would review my case and decide to reopen or not.

That was a bad strategy of my lawyer’s giving me a date to focus on. I was counting down the days with a fervor Mother Theresa couldn’t have matched.

One random day weeks after the monitoring started I was at home after work when the monitor started beeping. That noise is so annoying. It was charged and within range of whatever fucking imaginary zone I was supposed to remain in (which was the entire fucking area of the state of Florida) and yet it kept on beeping. It would stop for a minute or two, making you believe it was finally over and then resume its incessant high pitch beep. Four hours into it I was ready to take a hammer to it.

The thing is when sonar torture has taken place for a few hours and you are drunk on moderately priced Cabernet, the possibility of being deported gets to be the least of your worries. Maybe number one should’ve been that if I took a hammer to it I could break my fucking ankle in the process and not the monitor but at that point I didn’t care, at that point all I cared about was making the noise stop. That noise that kept reminding me that I had to allow this to be done to my person in order to stay here. The noise that didn’t allow me to fall asleep and more importantly concentrate on my episodes of Downton Abbey.

Cooler heads prevailed. I let out a bloody murder scream that shook the windows and made Max’s tail all puffy, I went up the stairs and launched myself on top of my (amazingly) asleep DH and finally cried my drunken eyes out.

I am sure I made no sense to him; I barely made any sense to myself. I was so exhausted (it was already around 3 am) and full of wine and angry, so damn fucking angry.

 

The next morning we both missed work and showed up bleary eyed and hungover (at least I was) to the ISAP office. The women in the office with whom I had been dealing with since being put in the program looked at each other in horror.

“That has been beeping all night?”

“All night” I confirmed, leaving out the cuss word that wanted to come out. The woman was pregnant after all. What is it about pregnant women, even the ones you aren’t related to make you feel like they need to be treated with kiddy gloves and fawned over?

They apologized and tsk, tsk, making me feel somewhat better. They took the monitor off to give me a new one, apparently the one I was wearing had malfunction. No shit, Sherlock.

I enjoyed that brief minute when my ankle was free again and watched the skin of it disappear under the ugly black plastic once more.