But there is another catch. As soon as the immigrant leaves the United States, he or she is automatically penalized 10 years for having lived here illegally — which means application for legal entry will not be considered until a decade has passed. Even if the immigrant is married to an American citizen, the 10-year penalty stands.
For people like Oscar, only one option remains. If an illegal immigrant is an adult, and married to an American citizen, he or she can return to the country of origin, take the 10-year penalty on the visa application, and apply for a waiver on the basis that the separation creates "extreme hardship" for the applicant's American spouse. If the waiver is not granted, the immigrant is barred from entering the United States for 10 years.
Malia Politzer
Vasquez's ASU backpack.
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This is the first article this year of
New Times' occasional series
"Are Your Papers in Order?" in which we examine the treatment of undocumented aliens, brown-skinned U.S. citizens, and legal residents at the hands of local and U.S. law enforcement.
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The Vasquezes' only hope was to demonstrate to the U.S. Consulate that the separation was more than Karla could endure. Oscar's accomplishments — his engineering degree, his ROTC experience, his awards, and international acclaim — would not be taken into consideration. But "extreme hardship" is a vague term with a definition that varies, depending on which consular officer is reviewing the application. Their lawyer gave them a 50-50 chance. They took the gamble.
They lost. Everyone was stunned.
Oscar's former robotics instructor, Allan Cameron, was outraged.
"Right now, we need engineers. We're importing them from other countries. And here we've educated one — through our school system, in one of our colleges — and we're deporting him to Mexico? How does this make any sense? It's such a waste."
They received no explanation beyond a hastily checked box labeled "Failure to demonstrate 'extreme hardship.'" The Vasquezes have 30 days to submit additional forms to make their case, which will be reviewed after an additional 15 months.
Karla has had to drop out of school. She had intended to transfer to ASU from community college to complete a bachelor's degree in education. Instead, she is working 10-hour shifts at a car-rental agency at Sky Harbor Airport to support two households (here and in Mexico). To help out, her mother has quit her job of 21 years so she can take care of the baby while Karla works.
For Karla, the effect on her daughter, Samy, is the hardest part.
Samy is too young to understand what is happening — some days she wanders around the house, clutching a picture of her father in her small hands. Other days she will walk into his study, calling for him. When she finds he is not there, she will sit on the ash-colored carpet by her father's desk and cry.
"I do not know how much longer I can stand seeing our child confused and distraught by this drastic change in our lives," Karla wrote in her letter to the consulate.
Engineering degree under his belt, Oscar's first job in Mexico was picking beans for $60 a week. He has tried his hand at milking cows. For a while, he helped a butcher. More recently, he moved to Magdalena (Karla has an uncle there), where he landed a job as a manager at a maquiladora (a foreign-owned factory). He earns $100 a week.
These days, he sees his wife and daughter about once a month.
On the night Karla and Samy arrive, they eat a Thanksgiving dinner consisting of thick turkey slices warmed over a camping stove that Oscar plugged into a wall outlet in his small, tiled home. Oscar's apartment is mostly bare — adorned with a small, round table and a single chair, a dorm fridge, and the blue cooler — he sits on the cooler, while Karla takes the chair, holding Samy in her lap. By noon on Thanksgiving Day, Oscar helps Karla buckle Samy back into her car seat, and the two begin the long drive back to Phoenix, because Karla has to be at work Friday morning.
Still, even knowing what he does now, Oscar says he would do it the same way.
"In the United States, I couldn't do anything. That wasn't good for our family, either," he says. "Now, at least, I know where I stand."
Oscar's situation is what immigrating "the right way" can look like for people who grow up illegally in the United States.
For those who choose to stay on this side of the border, there is really only one option: wait for the piece of legislation called the Development, Relief and Education for Alien Minors Act to pass. The DREAM Act has been foundering in Congress, in various forms, for more than eight years.
It would provide a conditional pathway to citizenship for some of the people who came to this country illegally as children. There are a lot of caveats. As written, it is tailored to help only the most highly motivated undocumented people in this situation — the Oscars, Teresas, and Victorias. It would not apply to gang members, petty criminals, or high-school dropouts.
To qualify, they would need to have entered the country before age 16, lived here continually for five years (because he returned to Mexico, Oscar would not qualify), already have graduated high school or obtained a GED, be of "good moral character" (no criminal record), and be under age 35 at the time the bill was signed into law.
