The U-visa is available to victims of qualifying crimes who cooperate with the authorities in the investigation of the crime. The overwhelming majority of cases I see are domestic violence victims. I see a lot of sexual assault of a minor as well. The purpose is to strengthen the relationship between law enforcement and immigrant communities, who are often afraid to report crimes for fear of being put in deportation.
The U-visa is relatively new, and regulations were only released a few years back. Only this year did the government begin to actually issue the visas. So we have had a wave of U-visa approvals coming into our office since about late July. It's amazing to watch the faces of these (often) women and children as they realize they are finally legally permitted to work, legally permitted to stay here, and given an opportunity to one day apply for residency. Sometimes, in my horrible Spanish, I say "Es el plan de Dios, de que a veces de algo malo viene algo bueno." It is God's plan, that sometimes, from something bad comes something good. The overwhelming majority of the time, the clients are overjoyed. They cry; they hug; they walk out of our doors clasping their permits as though they aren't real.
It is one of the great ironies of immigration law that from a legal perspective, a client's personal misfortune is our winning argument. Take a 601 waiver, where you are trying to prove extreme hardship to a USC or LPR. "Does your wife have any major health problems? No? Damnit." It's the awkward part of a U-visa approval as well. "See, aren't you glad now that your stepfather molested you?"
We had a family of four the other day that was approved. I asked the caseworker who saw them if they were happy. She paused and said, "No, actually. Not at all." For a moment I felt dismayed,that narcississtic part of me that loves the clients to love us feeling let down. But, the thing is, I realized, they used to be a family of five. On Christmas Day a few years ago, a drunk driver hit them and killed the baby boy. How did that mother feel, holding that approval notice that she only got because her baby was killed?
What has happened has happened. I know that them having legal permission to stay here will make their lives easier now. Maybe that's all I will ever know. It's just, like I said, bittersweet indeed.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Perspective from an Incoming Refugee to the U.S.
I work at Catholic Charities of Dallas in the Immigration and Legal Services Division. At our Staff Day recently, each division had a presentation to describe its work. The Refugee and Empowerment Services used the perspective of one of their clients to demonstrate what it is they do. I thought it was really interesting, so I asked for a copy:
It’s 10 o’clock on Tuesday night. Me, my wife, and our 4 children have just arrived at the Dallas airport.
We are scared, and we are very tired.
It’s been one whole day since we got on the airplane in Thailand
It’s been three days since we left the United Nations refugee camp on the border of Thailand and Burma.
It’s been fifteen years since we ran from our home in Burma to escape the war.
We all have a big white tag around our necks in case we get lost. But our case manager from Catholic Charities sees us and greets us and helps us get our bags. He takes us in a big van to our new apartment. There are beds, chairs, dishes and many other things in the apartment. There is rice and chicken already cooked, and we are hungry. After we eat, the case manager tells us all about the apartment. He shows us how to use the toilet, how to turn on the lights, and how to lock the door. He leaves and we go to bed
On Wednesday morning, our case manager knocks on the door and wakes us up. He takes us in the van to apply for Social Security cards. Then we go to the Catholic Charities office. Our case manager asks us lots of questions about our lives, what kind of work we know how to do, are we are healthy, what languages do we speak, and we fill out a lot of papers. He tells us that some of the papers will help us get Food Stamps and Medicaid. He gives us a check for pocket money, then we go to the bank and get real money. Our case manager takes us back home, we eat and take a nap
On Thursday, our case manager knocks on the door again. He asks us Is everything OK? Do we need any food? Is everybody feeling OK? He stays for a while, and shows us more things about the apartment. It’s hard to understand the thermostat but we try. He takes us next door to meet some other Burmese people. They are from a different township in Burma, but we are happy to meet some neighbors from our own country.Our case manager takes us to the Catholic Charities World of Goods store to get some clothes, and we pick out something for everyone
On Friday morning, a different case manager knocks on the door. She brings us back to the office and teaches us a class about American life. We ask her lots of questions. She tells us about our rights and our responsibilities, what Catholic Charities will do for us, and what we need to learn to do for ourselves.
After the class we meet our own case manager again to make a plan for our future. We talk about our budget and about getting a job. Our case manager takes us to the grocery store, then we go home again
On Monday morning, our case manager knocks on the door. He walks with us to English class, it’s very close. We meet the teacher and some other students from Burma, and some from Iraq, Bhutan, Somalia, Eritrea and other countries. We take a test so the teacher will know how much English we can speak and what we understand. I go back to English class every Monday and Wednesday morning for 2 months
On Tuesday morning we go to the Refugee Clinic. It’s very close, so we walk there by ourselves. We see a lot of other refugees there from many countries. The doctor examines us and asks us questions. The nurse give us many shots
We’ve been in Dallas for one week, and we’re not scared much any more
On Friday the Orientation teacher knocks on our door. We tell her what things we would like to learn about this country – how to ride the bus, how to get to the hospital, how to use the bank, and how to enroll in college. The teacher talks with us for two hours. Each week, she comes back and we learn more. Sometimes we take a trip on the bus to one of the places we asked about. Every two or three days, our case manager or somebody else from Catholic Charities comes to check on us
2 weeks later our case manager knocks on the door. He takes my wife and the 2 oldest children in the van to register the children for school. It takes all morning for the children to be tested and all the paperwork to be filled out. Then the case manager takes them to the school and introduces them to the teacher
The next day the van driver knocks on the door. My wife and the two younger children ride in the van to class. My wife goes to English class, and the babies have a teacher too. This is a different English class than the one I go to. My wife learns how to speak English, and how to read and write too. She also learns a lot of other things, like how to get ready for a job, how to count money, and how to tell time on the clock. She goes to this class 4 days every week for 4 months
Every month, Catholic Charities pays our rent, and gives us a check for pocket money. I know how to cash a check, and we can walk or ride the bus to the grocery store and buy our own food with Food Stamps. We have a TV and a telephone now.
Now two or three days every week, my case manager picks me up or I ride the bus to the office to meet him. Then we go out to look for a job. My case manager helps me fill out the paperwork every time and tells me what to say in the interview. I can speak a little English now, and I say “Pleased to meet you” and “I am a hard worker”.
One day I get a job interview and I talk to the boss. I am nervous but she likes me and I get the job. My case manager is very happy, and he takes me to Wal-Mart to buy me some work shoes. We go back to my apartment, and then we ride the bus together to my new job and back home again so I know where to go
The next day, I go to work by myself on the bus. It’s very exciting.
One month later, I get a letter from my case manager. It says congratulations, now you are working and you don’t need money from Catholic Charities any more. I’m a little scared about paying my bills by myself, but my case manager has told me many times when this day would come, and so I’m ready for it.
One year after we arrived in this country, we go to the Catholic Charities office on Maple Avenue to apply for our Green Cards. I am happy that we don’t have to pay anything for this.
Another year passes, and we go back to Catholic Charities.
We want to sponsor my brother and his family. They are still living in the refugee camp in Thailand. A nice lady helps me fill out the paperwork that asks the US government to bring my brother to Dallas so we can be together again. I’m sad when she tells me that it could take several years, but that’s up to the government and not to Catholic Charities.
Two more years pass, and my wife and I go back to Catholic Charities
We sign up to take classes to help us become citizens
The class is hard, and it’s all in English. But we come every week to learn everything we need to know to pass the test and be citizens.
Six months later, we go back to Maple Avenue to apply for citizenship. This time we have to pay a lot of money to the government for the paperwork. But my wife and I have good jobs, so I guess it’s OK.
And now it’s more than twenty years since we left our home in Burma and went to the refugee camp. It’s been six years since we first came to this country. But today we are very happy, because today we got the letter that says we are now citizens. We give our thanks to God.
It’s 10 o’clock on Tuesday night. Me, my wife, and our 4 children have just arrived at the Dallas airport.
We are scared, and we are very tired.
It’s been one whole day since we got on the airplane in Thailand
It’s been three days since we left the United Nations refugee camp on the border of Thailand and Burma.
It’s been fifteen years since we ran from our home in Burma to escape the war.
We all have a big white tag around our necks in case we get lost. But our case manager from Catholic Charities sees us and greets us and helps us get our bags. He takes us in a big van to our new apartment. There are beds, chairs, dishes and many other things in the apartment. There is rice and chicken already cooked, and we are hungry. After we eat, the case manager tells us all about the apartment. He shows us how to use the toilet, how to turn on the lights, and how to lock the door. He leaves and we go to bed
On Wednesday morning, our case manager knocks on the door and wakes us up. He takes us in the van to apply for Social Security cards. Then we go to the Catholic Charities office. Our case manager asks us lots of questions about our lives, what kind of work we know how to do, are we are healthy, what languages do we speak, and we fill out a lot of papers. He tells us that some of the papers will help us get Food Stamps and Medicaid. He gives us a check for pocket money, then we go to the bank and get real money. Our case manager takes us back home, we eat and take a nap
On Thursday, our case manager knocks on the door again. He asks us Is everything OK? Do we need any food? Is everybody feeling OK? He stays for a while, and shows us more things about the apartment. It’s hard to understand the thermostat but we try. He takes us next door to meet some other Burmese people. They are from a different township in Burma, but we are happy to meet some neighbors from our own country.Our case manager takes us to the Catholic Charities World of Goods store to get some clothes, and we pick out something for everyone
On Friday morning, a different case manager knocks on the door. She brings us back to the office and teaches us a class about American life. We ask her lots of questions. She tells us about our rights and our responsibilities, what Catholic Charities will do for us, and what we need to learn to do for ourselves.
After the class we meet our own case manager again to make a plan for our future. We talk about our budget and about getting a job. Our case manager takes us to the grocery store, then we go home again
On Monday morning, our case manager knocks on the door. He walks with us to English class, it’s very close. We meet the teacher and some other students from Burma, and some from Iraq, Bhutan, Somalia, Eritrea and other countries. We take a test so the teacher will know how much English we can speak and what we understand. I go back to English class every Monday and Wednesday morning for 2 months
On Tuesday morning we go to the Refugee Clinic. It’s very close, so we walk there by ourselves. We see a lot of other refugees there from many countries. The doctor examines us and asks us questions. The nurse give us many shots
We’ve been in Dallas for one week, and we’re not scared much any more
On Friday the Orientation teacher knocks on our door. We tell her what things we would like to learn about this country – how to ride the bus, how to get to the hospital, how to use the bank, and how to enroll in college. The teacher talks with us for two hours. Each week, she comes back and we learn more. Sometimes we take a trip on the bus to one of the places we asked about. Every two or three days, our case manager or somebody else from Catholic Charities comes to check on us
2 weeks later our case manager knocks on the door. He takes my wife and the 2 oldest children in the van to register the children for school. It takes all morning for the children to be tested and all the paperwork to be filled out. Then the case manager takes them to the school and introduces them to the teacher
The next day the van driver knocks on the door. My wife and the two younger children ride in the van to class. My wife goes to English class, and the babies have a teacher too. This is a different English class than the one I go to. My wife learns how to speak English, and how to read and write too. She also learns a lot of other things, like how to get ready for a job, how to count money, and how to tell time on the clock. She goes to this class 4 days every week for 4 months
Every month, Catholic Charities pays our rent, and gives us a check for pocket money. I know how to cash a check, and we can walk or ride the bus to the grocery store and buy our own food with Food Stamps. We have a TV and a telephone now.
Now two or three days every week, my case manager picks me up or I ride the bus to the office to meet him. Then we go out to look for a job. My case manager helps me fill out the paperwork every time and tells me what to say in the interview. I can speak a little English now, and I say “Pleased to meet you” and “I am a hard worker”.
One day I get a job interview and I talk to the boss. I am nervous but she likes me and I get the job. My case manager is very happy, and he takes me to Wal-Mart to buy me some work shoes. We go back to my apartment, and then we ride the bus together to my new job and back home again so I know where to go
The next day, I go to work by myself on the bus. It’s very exciting.
One month later, I get a letter from my case manager. It says congratulations, now you are working and you don’t need money from Catholic Charities any more. I’m a little scared about paying my bills by myself, but my case manager has told me many times when this day would come, and so I’m ready for it.
One year after we arrived in this country, we go to the Catholic Charities office on Maple Avenue to apply for our Green Cards. I am happy that we don’t have to pay anything for this.
Another year passes, and we go back to Catholic Charities.
We want to sponsor my brother and his family. They are still living in the refugee camp in Thailand. A nice lady helps me fill out the paperwork that asks the US government to bring my brother to Dallas so we can be together again. I’m sad when she tells me that it could take several years, but that’s up to the government and not to Catholic Charities.
Two more years pass, and my wife and I go back to Catholic Charities
We sign up to take classes to help us become citizens
The class is hard, and it’s all in English. But we come every week to learn everything we need to know to pass the test and be citizens.
Six months later, we go back to Maple Avenue to apply for citizenship. This time we have to pay a lot of money to the government for the paperwork. But my wife and I have good jobs, so I guess it’s OK.
And now it’s more than twenty years since we left our home in Burma and went to the refugee camp. It’s been six years since we first came to this country. But today we are very happy, because today we got the letter that says we are now citizens. We give our thanks to God.
Monday, August 10, 2009
My book has more bookmarks than pages
I was at a little bar in downtown Plano this weekend with a girlfriend when an older man, leaning on a crutch, wearing a sweaty, stained T-shirt, and rocking some seriously uncombed hair, jerkily walked over to us and told my girlfriend that she needs to stop listening to Rush Limbaugh. She was spouting off her opinions on healthcare, particularly how the government should play no role in it (“You got to understand, I’m from Philadelphia. I grew up learning exactly what our founding fathers meant for this country to be. I am a true patriot at heart.”) I hadn’t really said anything, because honestly, I figure I don’t really know shit about healthcare and what the government should do about it. I understand her viewpoint, which is likely shared by the solid majority of my family, and I know that it is rooted in an unwavering belief that free-market systems are the best choice for the people, sometimes because of the results, sometimes because of the principle of the thing, and sometimes because of both. Anyway, this man told us that he got healthcare in France and in Costa Rica to help him with his disability that he could not have gotten here, and that it had in his mind shot a hole in the entire theory my girlfriend was espousing. I could tell that not only did my girlfriend disagree with him, she was creeped out by him. So when he pulled out a pack of French cigarettes (“what Sartre smoked”) and asked if we wanted one, she said, “No, thanks, I’ve got to get back inside.” But me? Well, I respected that my friend wasn’t interested in hanging out with some strange older clearly-unwashed man, but sometimes you just have this instinct or lack thereof- I don’t know, something- that says to you, “No. I want to hear what this man has to say.” So he lit up a cigarette as my friend walked inside (giving me a bit of an eye as if to say, are you sure, girl? A good friend worries about you), and he began to tell me a story.
He was traveling with his girlfriend in the south of France, and they were going to Spain to meet up with some good friends of theirs. He described to me some of the places and people he met, his anticipation of things to come in Spain. And when he returned to France, he was going to study art and architecture. But as they were driving, another car hit them, killing his girlfriend and leaving him paralyzed in a French hospital for months. He was devastated, he said. Devastated. “But what helped me was when I went to go get this special treatment they had in Costa Rica.” He pulled down the collar of his shirt just a bit to show me a deep scar running across his neck and collarbone. “Yeah, I felt really sorry for myself, and then one day I saw this young woman, and she had a limp, too. And you know, you know how, man, that culture is just so patriarchal. It’s terrible, how some of the women there are treated. So I figure maybe her husband or someone beat her, and that’s why she was hurt. So I went up to her and I told her,’ you know, I understand what it’s like to be disabled now and how horrible it feels, and no pressure or anything untoward, but if you ever want to talk about it, I want you to know you could talk to me.’ And she looked at me and she said, ‘When I was eight years old, a group of men broke into my house one night and killed my mother. Then they gang-raped me.’ And my face went like this-” As he acted it out, his eyes widened and his jaw went slack with the look of someone who has just realized that they don’t know shit. “And twenty years later, here I am with my face still like that.” He took the last draw on his cigarette and put it out. “So now I send her $100 a month, but she doesn’t know who it’s from. I told her cousin to just say she’d won a contest or something. It’s just, man, most of us don’t even know how horrible it could be.”
There was along pause, and then I felt like I wanted him to know that I at least sort of understood what he meant, so I told him that sometimes I work with crime victims getting special visas, and sometimes the stories I hear are just so sad that it makes me feel so lucky no matter how upset with my life I was before. “Yeah,” he said, but I don’t think he really heard me. There was another pause, and he went to sit down on the bench (“Sorry, I can’t stand for very long”) and told some joke about Jesus. My friend came out looking for me, so I said goodbye to the man and went back inside. At the table, my girlfriend said, “I was getting a little worried about you out there. Sorry, but he just seemed really creepy.” “No,” I said. “He was actually pretty cool.”
And I think that the reason why I’m posting this after having abandoned my blog for a few months is that it somehow (oh, I can’t quite explain it, but I’ll try) sums up exactly how I’ve been feeling lately and why I haven’t been writing at all. I just have been overwhelmed, basically, with the process of trying to figure out what I think about the world. And what I want to do. And like, who I want to be and shit. I think one thing one day and a few months later I’ve learned that it’s all been naïveté, ignorance, immaturity, or just a phase. I can’t commit to any ideologies or theories about anything, because I’m scared I’ll just find out it was all wrong a few months later- so why make any decisions based on it now? But life is life, which means decisions have to be made along the way. So I’ve been trying to just go off instinct.
When I was little (and I’m sure I’m certainly not the only one), I wanted to fly. I mean, I really, really wanted it. I drew some wings- they looked like angels’ wings- and cut them out. I asked my aunt to tape them onto my back. I went outside, climbed to the top of our slide, and oh my goodness, the exhilaration I felt in that moment, knowing that I was about to fly. But it turned out, it didn’t really seem to matter how badly I wanted it. No matter how earnest I was, how heart-wrenching it was to think there was this thing I wanted so much that I could simply never have… Well, at some point, I must have come to terms with that. So I have some hope, maybe a sliver, that this urge I have - to conquer all the things I want to think and do and see, the thousands of books to read, the thousands of things and places to visit, the emotions and experiences to have, man there is just SO MUCH TO LEARN AND UNDERSTAND AND EMPATHIZE WITH- will be an urge I can one day come to terms with. Or, I don't know, maybe not. Maybe I shouldn't. It's just another something to figure out.
And in the meantime, I can just remember how lucky I am to have what I do have.
He was traveling with his girlfriend in the south of France, and they were going to Spain to meet up with some good friends of theirs. He described to me some of the places and people he met, his anticipation of things to come in Spain. And when he returned to France, he was going to study art and architecture. But as they were driving, another car hit them, killing his girlfriend and leaving him paralyzed in a French hospital for months. He was devastated, he said. Devastated. “But what helped me was when I went to go get this special treatment they had in Costa Rica.” He pulled down the collar of his shirt just a bit to show me a deep scar running across his neck and collarbone. “Yeah, I felt really sorry for myself, and then one day I saw this young woman, and she had a limp, too. And you know, you know how, man, that culture is just so patriarchal. It’s terrible, how some of the women there are treated. So I figure maybe her husband or someone beat her, and that’s why she was hurt. So I went up to her and I told her,’ you know, I understand what it’s like to be disabled now and how horrible it feels, and no pressure or anything untoward, but if you ever want to talk about it, I want you to know you could talk to me.’ And she looked at me and she said, ‘When I was eight years old, a group of men broke into my house one night and killed my mother. Then they gang-raped me.’ And my face went like this-” As he acted it out, his eyes widened and his jaw went slack with the look of someone who has just realized that they don’t know shit. “And twenty years later, here I am with my face still like that.” He took the last draw on his cigarette and put it out. “So now I send her $100 a month, but she doesn’t know who it’s from. I told her cousin to just say she’d won a contest or something. It’s just, man, most of us don’t even know how horrible it could be.”
There was along pause, and then I felt like I wanted him to know that I at least sort of understood what he meant, so I told him that sometimes I work with crime victims getting special visas, and sometimes the stories I hear are just so sad that it makes me feel so lucky no matter how upset with my life I was before. “Yeah,” he said, but I don’t think he really heard me. There was another pause, and he went to sit down on the bench (“Sorry, I can’t stand for very long”) and told some joke about Jesus. My friend came out looking for me, so I said goodbye to the man and went back inside. At the table, my girlfriend said, “I was getting a little worried about you out there. Sorry, but he just seemed really creepy.” “No,” I said. “He was actually pretty cool.”
And I think that the reason why I’m posting this after having abandoned my blog for a few months is that it somehow (oh, I can’t quite explain it, but I’ll try) sums up exactly how I’ve been feeling lately and why I haven’t been writing at all. I just have been overwhelmed, basically, with the process of trying to figure out what I think about the world. And what I want to do. And like, who I want to be and shit. I think one thing one day and a few months later I’ve learned that it’s all been naïveté, ignorance, immaturity, or just a phase. I can’t commit to any ideologies or theories about anything, because I’m scared I’ll just find out it was all wrong a few months later- so why make any decisions based on it now? But life is life, which means decisions have to be made along the way. So I’ve been trying to just go off instinct.
When I was little (and I’m sure I’m certainly not the only one), I wanted to fly. I mean, I really, really wanted it. I drew some wings- they looked like angels’ wings- and cut them out. I asked my aunt to tape them onto my back. I went outside, climbed to the top of our slide, and oh my goodness, the exhilaration I felt in that moment, knowing that I was about to fly. But it turned out, it didn’t really seem to matter how badly I wanted it. No matter how earnest I was, how heart-wrenching it was to think there was this thing I wanted so much that I could simply never have… Well, at some point, I must have come to terms with that. So I have some hope, maybe a sliver, that this urge I have - to conquer all the things I want to think and do and see, the thousands of books to read, the thousands of things and places to visit, the emotions and experiences to have, man there is just SO MUCH TO LEARN AND UNDERSTAND AND EMPATHIZE WITH- will be an urge I can one day come to terms with. Or, I don't know, maybe not. Maybe I shouldn't. It's just another something to figure out.
And in the meantime, I can just remember how lucky I am to have what I do have.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Keepin' It Classy with Michelle Obama
I hope I, too, can be a classy, intelligent, compassionate woman.
At Anacostia High, where children walk through metal detectors every day and only 21 percent of students read proficiently last year, Tiara Chance, 18, was surprised that Mrs. Obama had decided to visit.
“We don’t deserve it,” she said. “People are fighting and cussing all the time around here. Who would want to be around that?”
At Mary’s Center, a health clinic that serves a predominantly immigrant community, Akrem Muzemil, 16, who dreams of becoming an engineer, asked the first lady flat out, “Like, why did you want to come out here to meet us?”
Mrs. Obama told him, “I think it’s real important for young kids, particularly kids from communities without resources, to see me.” ...
At a school’s celebration of Cinco de Mayo this month, the first lady urged students to get to know the Capitol and the White House.
“That space is your space,” Mrs. Obama said. “It’s your democracy, as much as it is anyone else’s.”
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
a kiss in Paris
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