Unos Pinches Papeles: Stories from Mixed-Status Families

By Sandra Hernández Tobón

With the development of the United States, migrants from around the world have made this country what it is today. Legal migration is developing into a more difficult phenomenon each year, with immigration policies constantly being altered, which has created uncertain situations for families of mixed-status. As a daughter of two Mexican immigrants and having family and friends that are in these situations, as well as living through these experiences myself, my goal in this paper is to research the effects of mixed-family status within the Mexican community.

Thus, I wrote a series of vignettes based on my personal experiences with subtopics that relate to mixed-status families. The main focus of my research highlights transnational families and their differing conceptions of immigration, as well as the fear of deportation within families and the long-term effects that these policies may have. I also investigate intermarriages and the struggles undocumented people face with their partners and families, including the confusion surrounding issues of identity. Namely, I examine how mixed-family status and generational differences affect the way individuals identify, given the negative connotations that come with identifying as Mexican or Mexican-American.

Approximately 11.5 million undocumented migrants in the United States received little to no legal assistance from U.S. institutions due to restrictions of their undocumented status. Although I only recently learned about the term “mixed-status family,” I have always been familiar with this phenomenon in my own life. Mixed-status families take many forms, but the most common one we see is of undocumented couples having U.S.-born children. It is also fairly common for undocumented individuals to marry U.S. citizens. In 2010, approximately 16.6 million people lived in a mixed-status family.

Over time, there have been several U.S. immigration policies implemented that have made it more difficult for families to attempt to receive legal status without breaking any criminal laws. The Immigration Reform and Control Act (IRCA) of 1986 and the Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigration Responsibility Act (IIRIRA) of 1996 are two examples. While IRCA established eligibility of legalization for undocumented people in the United States (that is, individuals who had been in the country prior to 1982), it only benefitted employers who continuously hired unauthorized workers, often abusing the labor force, with nothing in return for these workers. The IIRIRA Act implemented new bans for any unauthorized migrants who entered illegally, creating further deportations. This policy also expanded the definitions of felony, creating small insignificant “offenses” such as traffic tickets that would result in a deportation.

“My Dad’s Not Here Anymore” is a vignette that relates to transnational families. This story was a moment in my life when one of our family friends was deported and his family was considering to return to Mexico and rejoin him. Anayeli, who is Gerardo’s wife, is also undocumented. And, while she had struggled to help Gerardo stay in the United States before being deported, it became a daunting and nearly impossible task for her. As noted in past studies of transnational families, mixed-status couples felt that immigration lawyers were very impolite and purposefully looked for reasons to deny their case. It was found that enforced immigration policies often promoted separation of families and displayed how the U.S. legal system constantly reinforces American cultural values while demeaning the experiences of non-Americans. One of the most overwhelming impacts of deportation is when women become the sole-providers for their documented children. The quick shift to a female-headed household on short notice causes a great toll—both physically and emotionally.

Another vignette relates to transnational families and identity: “Not the same.” This vignette portrays Ana, one of my cousins, and how she has been looked down upon compared to her younger sibling due to her legal status. There has been an entanglement of identity of young undocumented Mexicans being raised in the United States. As Leah Donnella recently put it, “living at the intersection of different identities and cultures [was like] stumbling around in a forest in the dark.” Lack of legal status impacts the ability and contributions of these children in and out of the home. Access to education is one of the many challenges undocumented children face. This is the case for Mexican immigrants in general, but it is even more difficult and rare to find undocumented Mexicans pursuing a college degree. The lack of citizenship often deters young people, like Ana, from moving forward. While I am happy that Alina, Ana’s younger sister, has been able to attain these advantages, I think that this makes her feel that she should be put on a pedestal for what she has accomplished. I truly believe that Ana has the capability of accomplishing great things as well. And, while she has, I also believe that as we grew older, she felt as though she hit a roadblock—not being able to pursue everything that she had planned or dreamt of due to her legal status.

The vignette titled “Los Gringos” is my personal experience with intermarriages. This vignette highlights my aunt, an immigrant from Mexico, and her husband, a white man. According to Schueth and Lawston’s research, intermarriages are associated with higher rates of divorce as compared to endogamous couples. This is often due to consequences of inequality and/or social structures that have limited social integration for spouses that are not citizens. Identity is something that I believe is personal to each of us. It is what makes this society so diverse and interesting—being able to fuse cultures together. The reality, however, is that legal status often plays a role in relationships and can suppress certain cultural identities like what my aunt experienced.

In addition to identity issues, legal matters are often used as a weapon of control in intermarriages. This unfolds in various ways: from denying spouses to work as well as not permitting them to be in charge of anything with monetary value. While this may seem like something simple and meaningless, it is deeply important because it engenders a hierarchy and imbalance in power and gender relations, making the undocumented partner vulnerable to mistreatment. As I have observed with my aunt, filing immigration paperwork is not a simple task. Many times, immigration policies do not even allow people in such circumstances to apply for legal residency. Also, it is extremely risky to file immigration paperwork, since individuals can be subjected to harsh penalties like the bans imposed with the 1996 IIRIRA Act. This occurred in my aunt's situation. She had to stay in Mexico for about three months when she was attempting to get her residency, and in turn, her absence greatly affected her children. Fear of deportation has often been linked to long-term effects for these families including depression, anxiety, and social isolation.

My vignette, “Oscar” also portrays the fear of deportation within families and how it especially affects children. In 2013, about one in three undocumented Latinos personally knew someone who had been deported, and one in four legal Latinos echoed the same, showing the worry of deportation that many folks constantly live. Oscar, one of my younger cousins from my mother’s side, and his dad, my favorite uncle, has a special place in my heart. We were roommates the day he moved in, and ever since, we’ve had a special connection. Given that Oscar’s situation was not so long ago, I really wanted to capture in this vignette the true effects that deportation has on families and why there should be more humane and ethical immigration policies. Clearly, Oscar has had psychological complications correlated to his parents’ deportation. Luckily, he still loves to socialize and does well in school, but there are children that struggle with this harsh situation. Furthermore, having undocumented parents can also harm children’s educational development due to communication barriers, lack of information, and minimal resources. Consequently, this can often change children’s perspectives of the meaning of immigrant.

According to Dreby’s 2015 study, most children do not truly understand the concept of immigration, however, they are mindful of social differences based on legal status. Race and/or ethnicity are often correlated with citizenship status, hence my vignette, “Who am I?” Being a Mexican American, I have noticed that the United States is one of the only countries that correlates identity with legal status. In fact, this linkage comes to light with Dreby’s study. Dreby found that most children viewed being Mexican as positive, however, viewed being immigrant as negative across all age groups. I clearly remember the conversation with my god daughter, Karina, which captures this situation. I recall how utterly confused she was about who she was at such a young age, yet truly wanted to understand what she was. Karina always had difficulties communicating, especially when it came to code switching—that is, knowing whether to speak Spanish or English in certain social contexts. Her mom would get frustrated with her because of the lack of communication. While being culturally different was not a problem for children in Dreby’s study, the exclusion that came with the term “immigrant” stood out. Further, nativism demonstrates the complexities of identity, a constant feature in Mexican Americans’ lives. While legal status between children and parents may not be the same, first generation children have experienced and seen the difficulties that immigrant parents face. The multiple challenges include the language barriers to the understanding that at any minute they can be deported. Despite being U.S. citizens, we understand the pain that our undocumented parents have faced; we have watched it unfold in front of our eyes. These experiences, then, make me truly feel like I have a connection with my research.

Though I did not write a vignette about it, I have always felt that the only difference between citizens and undocumented people is where someone is born. We are all human and we should all be treated the same. But, it does not work like that in reality. Something as simple as the color of one’s skin causes people to judge you and your legal status. Seeing my family being discriminated because someone thinks that we are undocumented is preposterous to me. I often have found myself arguing and explaining to people that I actually am a U.S. citizen, and that I deserve to be at this institution because I am capable of it, not because I am “legal.”  And even if I were illegal… so what? Those are my people, and I have always seen it that way. However, I also understand that some Mexicans don’t like that because I have not experienced what they have. I didn’t have to cross the border clandestinely, and I am still able to receive higher education. So, how can I say I am one of them, when I still have these benefits?  Aptly illustrating such sentiments are the words of Tom Jiménez. He states that:

“Mexican Americans experience boundaries particularly when they are mistaken for immigrants they also encounter intragroup boundaries that divide them from their immigrant ethnics further locking them in and in between status many times Mexican Americans have to so that they are white enough for the whites or Mexican enough Mexican and always have to be showing both sides as if they had two different identities.”

In conclusion, mixed-status families have to endure some difficult adversities, and many aspects of these challenges end up affecting people’s identity in the long run. Migration to the United States from Mexico has been extensively studied, but peeling away another layer of this story is also crucial to better understand the nuances of migration processes. Clearly, the effects migration has on families once they settle in the United States is a view that scholars need to investigate. As Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie highlights, no story is the same, and we must see what people truly are, people! While I only illustrate a few stories of my own personal experiences, I hope that the following vignettes elucidate the varying impacts that migration has on multi-status families.

Who am I?

     Sammy and I were sitting on the plush blue couches, the blue couches at Gil’s house. Karina and Jasmine were running down the stairs, an overflowing bowl of popcorn being thrown all over the place, kernels making their way down the crack between the couches. Karina is a girl of few words, often stuttering over the ones she did say. She loves watching movies and makes sure that everyone is paying attention. She knows you care when you react to the movie, smiling when Sammy and I chuckle at certain scenes.

     “Am I Mexican?” Karina suddenly asked. I immediately glanced over at Sammy. It seemed like this was a question she was holding on for a while, but as I look back on it, I understand why this question came up.

     “Of course, you’re Mexican, Karina. Both of your parents are Mexican, so that makes you and your sisters Mexican, but you’re also American because you were born here.”

     “But we live in America, so doesn’t that make us White? And the color of my skin is brown, I . . . I don’t understand.”

     While all these crisp comments were being shot out to Sammy and me, I didn’t know how to organize my thoughts. Why was it so hard to do this? While a little chuckle leaked of Sammy’s mouth, she also was pondering within her thoughts, attempting to spit out words that a nine-year-old could understand.

     “Karina, the color of your skin doesn’t make you who you are. Americans can be any color. You are Mexican because of your ancestors...”

     “What are ancestors?”

     “They are your parents’ parents’ parents’, like your abuelita and abuelito,” said Sammy.

     “Right, our family is from Mexico, so that makes us Mexican. The only difference between us and your parents is that we were born here, but our culture, what we celebrate, is Mexican.”

     While there was a discombobulated look on Karina’s face, she immediately pointed out, “My parents also don’t speak English though. And I speak Spanish and English, too, but not all Americans speak Spanish, so how can I be?”

     I understood all of Karina’s confusion, but I couldn’t find the right words to explain this situation without confusing her more. The clarity with which she asked all these questions surprised me because Karina often stuttered and couldn’t control all her emotions. The c, language does not define if you are American or not. But how do I explain that to her? The only difference between us and our parents is that we have papers and we were born here. However, we are being raised with Mexican morals, and our culture is unique just like every other immigrant that once came to this country. At the same time, though, we are different because we have had the privilege to get an education here, the opportunity to strive for more… but with a more refined palette, people think that you have drifted off from your roots. I am brown, loud, and proud in all aspects of my life, but who am I for others? What should I be? Am I neither?

     While we sat in silence for a few moments, a ravaging anger suffused my body. How do we not know what we are? I couldn’t give Karina the answer she was searching for in that moment. She made me reflect on the identity crisis I have always had with my people. Who am I?

Oscar

Oscar’s dad is in Mexico and so is his mom. We finally got a bunk bed in my room so he doesn’t have to keep sleeping on the dingy, purple carpet. Oscar knows that his parents aren’t here, and he says he misses them sometimes. He knows that his brother is working at night, so he can’t take him to school in the morning, but he knows that it’s okay because he’s going to be moved to a new school, a better school, the one I attended and my sister is going to now. We tell him that he’s smart and needs to be challenged so his brain can grow and be smarter. Oscar agrees and doesn’t mind moving schools again.

Immediately everyone loves him, how could they not? His rosy, red cheeks and contagious laugh warm up any room. He loves everyone, he invites anyone over to play, even the one kid that everyone says is weird. Oscar doesn’t mind because he says that he is actually funny and likes Minecraft, so he’s cool.

He goes to my basketball games, and pretty soon all my teammates know who he is. Oscar is our cheerleader. He sits with the senior boys and tells Sammy to sit with them, even though she is intimidated to sit with older kids. Oscar convinces her and reminds her that he is only nine, so she is closer in age than he is. Pretty soon all the kids are screaming at the top of their lungs, cheering on the Lions with the seniors teaching the famous “peeling bananas” and “go crazy” cheers, Oscar parked right in front of the crowd.

My teammates ask me why he is always with us. Does he live with you now? He’s so cute! I don’t know what to tell them. Do I tell them that his parents got deported, that this isn’t the first time this has happened to my uncle, that Oscar has been staying with us because his 20 year-old brother is working three jobs to get everything in control with debts their parents left behind and how he can’t fully support Oscar. Do I tell them that Oscar has had nightmares screaming and begging for his parents to come back? I don’t tell them any of this, why should I?

I hug Oscar after my game, walking away with him, humming and singing all the chants he learned that night, waiting for him to tell me about the new friend he just met.

Los Gringos

I had been practicing the violin pieces my tía requested for weeks, and finally, the big day had arrived, the wedding. I had never been to a wedding before so the image in my head was of what you see on TV: glamourous, classic, elegant, and with my knowledge of novelas and quinceañeras I had gone to before, a hint of crazy party animal, Mexican style.

While we had been assisting with planning and throwing out ideas to my tía, my mom reminded her to not forget about us, “us” being the Mexican side of her family. My tía was marrying a white man, and while they had already been together for years and had children together, the cultural differences still weighed on us. Joe had never been much of a social person, and while he would always attempt to say hi to everyone, he could never fully communicate with us because he hadn’t learned Spanish yet. Not even his children knew Spanish, often seeing it as unimportant, despite his wife being an immigrant from Mexico herself, struggling to learn English the first few years they started dating. While still having a heavy accent, my aunt always attempted to please Joe and his family, often pursuing more “American” ways of living. This wedding was no different.

As the priest started the mass and opened his mouth, I was shocked to only hear English come out of his mouth, my aunt promising the mass to be bilingual for the family to enjoy as well. Did she forget about us? Checha’s face all scrunched up, disappointed that she was not going to be able to understand the mass. As the vows approached, the trembling of my aunt’s voice crept into the microphone, displaying her exotic accent.

“She doesn’t even know mass in English” whispered someone when the priest asked the couple to pray “Our Father.” They weren’t wrong. When the mass was over, and tensions relieved, we all headed to the reception hall, enthusiastic for food and dancing. As we entered a rustic looking saloon, the food was being served. All I could think about was some carnitas, the classic for Mexican events. But there were none in sight. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw glossy round buns approaching the buffet table. The aroma of barbeque sauce flooded the room as pulled pork came out.

“Could I at least have some salsa?” my uncle hollered.

“Ay, hermana, Petra really went all out for the gringos this time,” Checha whispered to my mother in Spanish. “She usually caters to these people, but man, I don’t even recognize her now. She told me there’s no music because the viejos (the older folks) don’t like loud music. This party was only for Joe’s family, not us and Petra”.

As we all browsed around, looking for a meager smile around the room, there was really no hope anywhere. My tía was no longer the same. While she had been transforming for a while now, she had truly turned into something she was not. For the rest of the night, we all sat in silence picking at our sandwiches, not once seeing my tía celebrate with us.

My Dad’s Not Here Anymore

It was the end of summer and the last few birthday parties were coming to an end. Julian’s third birthday party was the following Saturday, his dad flaunting his skills of making homemade pork grinds. As we went to our go-to present store, Anayeli’s name popped up on the phone. As we kept strolling along, a frightening gasp came out of my mom. “They deported Gerardo.” While the murmuring kept going on the other line, my fingers swept through the shirts on the rack, my mind examining the situation of why this could have happened. Gerardo didn’t have any criminal record that I knew of. What was going to happen to his three kids? His unemployed wife? The party was obviously cancelled, or so I thought.

The next day, we pulled up to the usual complex and headed to the backyard. We were the first to arrive. Anayeli, Julian, Gerardo Jr., and Dylan were surrounded with farm animal balloons, ready to be hung up. As the party was still being set up, we sat down listening to Anayeli explain the situation and what was being done.

“Yeah, we didn’t have pork rinds today because my dad isn’t here. We might live in Mexico now,” explained Dylan. Was this a serious plan? Would they really leave everything they have known here? How would they adjust? “What do you think, Junior, would you leave?” my mom asked curiously. “I don’t want to, but yeah, I miss my dad. Do I have a choice?"

Not the Same

Oh, how I love those blue apartments. They were my first home, and the home to all my cousins and me. While I only lived there for the first three years of my life, I still ran around the small green patch of grass for another eighteen years of my life when I would go visit Checha, my madrina. When my parents first got the house, they kept on insisting Checha move next to us, but her answers were always the same.

“No hermana, you’re rich compared to us, we can’t afford a house. Plus, what name am I even going to use? They might take the house away from us, we don’t have papers.”

This was a constant problem that came up. At the time my cousins were still in elementary school, the oldest in middle school, they couldn’t “use” them yet. In other words, it would take years for any of them to turn 21, an important age for undocumented parents’ dream—the day that their children can file for their parents’ U.S. residency.

It was a crisp November day, Checha and my cousins came over for another carne asada Saturday. Out of nowhere, Alina, my cousin, casually brought up the topic of a loan that they were trying to get approved.

“A loan? For what?” my mom inquired.

“We’re going to get a house, tía. I was looking into it, and I was able to get a loan in my name for a house. Ana is going to co-sign too, but we’re getting it.” I remember the adrenaline running up my body, the enormous smile that came to my face, stretching out my cheeks, cherishing the moment with Checha and Acho, her husband.

In the corner of the table, I glanced at Ana, my older cousin, and while she attempted to smack a grin on her face, her eyes said it all. We always looked up to Ana, she was the oldest girl. From splurging all the chisme from school on who hugged who to being top ranked in her class, we all admired Ana for showing us the way of becoming a woman. She, herself, would proudly flaunt her womanhood at the age of 10. But despite Ana being this role model to us, as we got older, we saw less and less opportunities for her. While she dreamt of giving her parents their first house, she knew the reality.

Ana had graduated at the top of her class, massive bundle of tassels hanging from her neck, but it meant nothing. Alina, Ana’s sister, was the only child born in the United States, and the only one with real opportunities. As time passed, Alina kept flourishing, grabbing all she could, from full ride scholarships to her dream colleges. In contrast, Ana was stumped at the bottom, often being seen as inferior compared to her little sister, not being able to accept the scholarship—she couldn’t, not because she didn’t want to, but because she needed a social security. When she ventured out, every time her foot touched the gas pedal of the car she was in fear, not knowing whether she would be stopped without a driver’s license. Time and time again, though not said out loud, Alina and Ana were being compared, bringing a knot to my stomach each time, especially this moment.

From a young age, Ana was always put on top, but now the roles were changing. How could a meaningless piece of paper mean so much? Unos pinches papeles. The flimsy papers make us different. We are all people, we all have aspirations and goals, but here, we are not all the same.

Sandra Hernández Tobón is a third-year undergraduate student at the University of Denver majoring in Mechanical Engineering. sandra.hernandeztobon@du.edu.