Could our story be any more cliché? Foreigner falls for American
girl. He’s in a pickle, she wants to help. They marry before they’re
ready but it’s cool because, you know, happily ever after and all that.
Only this wasn’t a romantic comedy, this was my life.
We met at a
coffee shop through mutual friends and exchanged clumsy hellos while our
friends did the flirting. I was wearing borrowed clothes that day, so I
didn’t exactly own up to the belly shirt and low-rise jeans I was
wearing. I had never been comfortable around boys, so I scrambled to
hide my shy midsection while he pretended not to notice. Just as I began
to console myself with the thought that love would probably find me in
college, I mustered just enough confidence to glance in his direction –-
and that was when he smiled. Oh my god, that smile. It was energy and
passion and electricity and magic and in that moment I felt strangely
drawn to him. Stranger still was the suspicion that things would never
be the same again.
We fell quickly and easily for each other.
Whispery late night phone calls, make-out sessions in my Toyota, and a
new appreciation for sappy love songs sustained us that summer. He was
kind to me, attentive, and even though he was guarded and even careful
at times not to reveal too much, that mystery only drew me closer.
Beautiful days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, and months, I
secretly hoped, would turn to forever.
Little did I know as this
17-year-old girl enjoying her last summer before college, that I’d go on
to marry this beautiful 18-year-old boy who housed a very personal
secret.
A few weeks into my freshman year, with no signs of our
romance slowing down, my boyfriend revealed he was living in the United
States illegally on an expired visa. To be honest, I didn’t really
understand what that meant. The only "visa" I ever knew about was a
credit card and I didn’t even have one of those. He told me he’d
traveled to the States from the Philippines with his family in his early
teens and only recently discovered his expired legal status upon
applying to college. I suppose I should have been shocked, but I wasn’t.
For the first time, his guarded nature started to make sense. So that’s
why he didn’t have a driver’s license. So that’s why he wasn’t going to
school.
Unable to work, drive, or seek higher education without
proper documentation, he attempted to find odd jobs, self-educate, and
find a solution. "How could this happen?" I’d ask over and over. "What
does this mean?" my parents worried. The answer was always the same: he
didn’t know –- and uncovering answers to even the simplest immigration
questions wasn’t easy. His father was a proud and private man, offering
only the occasional "I’m working on it" when pressed.
A year later
and no closer to a solution, I suggested we meet with his father’s
immigration attorney. "You have two choices," the lawyer said, "Go back
to the Philippines and re-apply for a visa that you’ll probably never
get, or get married."
On our drive home from the meeting, he said
what we’d both been thinking. "Maybe it’s time I go home. This isn’t
fair to you." He was right, but there was also this little matter to
consider: we were in love.
For a hot second I considered taking
route 60 to I-15. In four hours we could be in Vegas. I was 18, he was
19; it could work! I imagined standing in a chapel, me in my Levi’s, he
in his worn Doc Martens. We’d commit to forever in one breath and blame
the bravado of young love in the next.
But there would be no
Vegas, for being foolish in love was different than being foolish with
love. Sure, a quickie marriage could have solved one big problem, but it
was almost guaranteed to create about a million more. First, there were
my parents: would they forgive me? Would they forgive HIM? Perhaps in
time, but things might never be the same following a stunt like that.
Then there were logistics: how would we support ourselves? How would we
pay for an immigration lawyer? As an 18-year-old college sophomore
living at home, I’d be forced to quit school to attempt to support us.
And on top of all that, immigration was a lengthy process. Who knew how
long it would be before he was granted authorization to work? The idea
of our well-intentioned "I do" had a big, fat "DON’T" written all over
it –- even for him. "It’s not supposed to be this way." he said, "You
deserve to have a wedding with your parents there and you really need to
finish school first. We can’t do this right now, not this way." He was
right, so for the next three years I devoted my life to two singular
things: loving him and finishing college as quickly as possible. Only
then would he agree to marry me.
So at 22 years old, newly
graduated and all waited out, I married my boyfriend for a green card,
yes, but also for love and a little more than a hunch that his
circumstances didn’t define him.
Of course, there were raised
eyebrows. "Do you ever worry he only married you for a green card?"
folks would oh-so-carefully ask. But I didn't worry, because even in his
most desperate moments, when depression threatened to destroy the few
hopes he ever had, he never pushed me. Then again, only a life newly
unstuck from pause would tell.
Our honeymoon phase began with
attorney appointments and immigration notices. As his shifting
immigration status began to allow for more freedoms, I unwittingly
assumed the role of parent, teaching him how to drive, apply for a job,
register for college, and open his very first bank account. (It was as
romantic as it sounds.)
And at a time when I should have been
celebrating the culmination of everything we’d spent the last five years
hoping, praying, and paying for, I couldn’t bring myself to share in
the joy. Everything was changing too quickly, including him. He
immediately threw himself into working, going to school, and attempting
to make all that time wasted worth something. Best and worst of all, he
was doing it all without me.
Don't get me wrong, I was proud of
him — so proud — but at the same time I couldn’t shake the insecurities
all his newfound independence brought. Since the beginning of our
relationship, his dependence had been MY purpose. I thrived on helping
him as only I could (co-dependent much?) and it made me feel needed and
important, and now suddenly, that need was gone. I wasn’t practiced in
the art of being one of his many priorities; up to this point, I’d been
the only one! I wasn’t used to sharing his time, receiving his help, or
trusting him in all the healthy ways partners do. So yes, readers, at
the tender age of 23, I found myself unraveling as though I was an empty
nester — and it was scary as hell.
Maybe we loved too hard too
fast, I thought. Maybe this love was an "eff you" to insurmountable odds
and shitty circumstances. Sure, idyllic young love made us soldiers to
the cause and slaves to the passion, but was it enough to keep us
together now that his newfound independence threatened to drive us
apart? I didn’t know. And as fear began to cast a shadow over my heart, I
chose to do the only thing I could: I held tight to uncertain love.
Only
then, by trusting our love, could I begin the quiet and gentle process
of falling in love all over again, this time in reverse roles. Now that I
was one who needed hand-holding, my husband took it upon himself to
court me in all the ways he’d never been able. We dated like young
lovers, taking long drives to nowhere as I rode as a passenger in his
car. He showered me with thoughtful gifts he was proud to purchase from
money he earned. We took our time learning each other all over again —
he as a strong, independent man and me as a trusting partner and loving
equal.
From our first attorney appointment to our wedding day, our
green card interview to the birth of our two beautiful sons, love had
always been the answer. It was braver than we could ever be, bolder than
our deepest unspoken fears, and always, always bigger than the two of
us.
Lori and her husband, now a naturalized citizen, have been married for 15 years.
This article originally appeared on YourTango.com
No comments:
Post a Comment