I went to a wedding last night of two DACA immigrants, one from Mexico, the other from El Salvador. I was attending for the bride, the Mexican. I have known her since she was a young teenager. Her mother is the sister of a family member of mine, by marriage.
While her mother and uncle are now respectively a permanent resident alien and a naturalized citizen, I met them when they had no immigration status, what the ignorant call "illegal aliens." One overstayed a visa, the other waded across the Rio Grande, wet back and all.
Neither of them would have qualified for "merit-based" immigration. They are from a small town in the desert region of Coahulla. The arrival of indoor plumbing was something they both remember. The transition from open street sewers to closed underground sewage systems in their home-town happened after they came to the US. Education? Forget about it. Apprenticeship? In what? There was no industry in their hometown.
They came each for their own version of better opportunity. For the mother, she wanted a place to raise children who had a chance at professional success and material comfort. The uncle simply wanted to work for a living wage. They have a profoundly physically-disabled sibling whom they both wanted to help their mother support and pay for his expensive treatments and therapies.
There's nothing particularly sexy about their stories. No feeling political violence or famine. Neither of them would have qualified for asylum or refugee status, and rightly so. They weren't refugees, they were ambitious.
The bride is a no-nonsense tough-as-nails Texan now in her early-20's. I met her when my mother was assisting her DACA application and getting her credentials to enter the local public school system. Even at 13 she was a force of nature. Her family genetic ancestry is strongly influenced by the Spanish component of Mexican nationality. She has fair skin and european features. If she didn't wear her Mexican heritage on her sleeve you might suspect she's from the midwest. Her accent is pure north Texan, and she admits her Spanish is "a little choppy."
I was surprised to receive an invitation to the wedding. I wondered if maybe she didn't have many people to invite. I know she would have preferred my mother be there, so I went as much to represent my mother as to attend myself. I also wanted to visit Texas and see my step-father, the uncle.
When I met her, her family was struggling financially in the US. They were making ends meet, but it was paycheck-to-paycheck and they lived under the threat of an unanticipated $500 emergency making them homeless. So, I resisted the notion, but I did internally congratulate myself for the possible act of charity my attendance and small wedding gift might represent.
Ha! I was one of about 250 impeccably-dressed people at their beautifully catered and decorated wedding in a corporate event space in North Dallas. There was an open bar. I chatted most of the evening with a Mexican consular official while nursing a glass of lemonade, since I had to drive home.
There was nothing particularly Mexican (or El Salvadorian for that matter) about the evening except that every announcement was made in two languages. This was an American wedding right down to the rubber chicken, too-enthusiastic DJ, and yeast rolls. The cake was double-fudge with sparkly marshmallow frosting. I smiled at that, knowing well that the bride's personality was written all over that choice. There was dancing, the tossing of the garter and bouquet, all the usual stuff one sees at a typical American wedding.
These are the people our government is presently endeavoring to exclude from this country because they represent a threat. These are the people in the caravan from Venezuela. They are the pilgrims who landed on Plymouth Rock. These people founded this country, fought for it's independence and handed me, at birth, a home filled with abundance and freedom.
Vote. Please vote.
