Born the third youngest of fourteen children, my husband was raised in poverty and at age 15 began planning a move to the United States. He knew that a life in Honduras would never be what he dreamed for himself or the wife and children he hoped to one day have.
In 1998, Honduras was left ravaged by the effects of Hurricane Mitch. My husband knew that life as he knew it was as good as it was going to get. And so, at age sixteen, be began a journey through Honduras, Guatemala and Mexico to cross the US border and begin a new (and hopefully more promising) chapter of his life in California. He had left his mother and several siblings in Honduras knowing that there was no guarantee he’d ever see them again.
Between 2003 and 2004 we met, fell in love, married and had a daughter. When accepting his marriage proposal, I knew that he was in the United States illegally but I had no idea what struggles we would have to go through to gain permanent residency for him. During the first year of marriage, it quickly became apparent that raising a family as an illegal immigrant was void of any long term security or peace in knowing that your family unit is safe and protected.
By our first anniversary he had had seven jobs and we had moved four times. Each job would last until the employer had grown tired of waiting for a valid social security number or was unable to provide enough “under the table” work to provide a steady income. And so, in June 2005 we relocated to Texas with the hope of starting the process of petitioning for a visa, work permit, social security number and ultimately permanent residency for my husband. This is where my life became more tumultuous and distressing than I could have ever imagined.
We arrived in Fort Worth, Texas, on June 10, 2005. My sister and her husband had offered to let us stay with them until the immigration process had been completed. They were very helpful and understanding of the situation that we were in. Within two weeks we had begun our research on the process of petitioning for an alien relative. According to all of the government resources, the process was estimated to take between 60 and 90 days to complete. This was great news for us! However, because he was in the United States illegally, he would have to return to his country to await the process. We figured by Thanksgiving we would be reunited and on the road to a very promising future.
On July 16, 2005, my husband boarded a plane destined for Tegucigalpa, Honduras. He was so excited at the prospect of seeing his mother after nearly a decade apart. Watching him disappear beyond the gate, I wondered what was in store for both of us and if his freedom could truly be as simple as submitting a few forms, fees and applications.
Within a week, I had mailed all forms and applications to the appropriate governmental offices. By the end of the first month, I was ecstatic to receive a letter from the US Department of Homeland Security. As I anxiously opened the envelope, my joy turned to devastation. The letter was a confirmation of receipt of the petition with an estimated processing time of nine hundred ninety nine days! That’s almost three years. Our daughter was only 10 months old and according to Homeland Security, she stood a good chance of not seeing her father until she was three years old! I cried for a long time as I stared at the letter wondering how this could be right. In all my research, time and time again, the estimated processing time was a mere 90 days. How could I be expected to live without my husband, raise our child and take on all household and financial obligations for nine hundred and ninety nine days?
I decided to take things one day at a time. As I made phone calls, sent emails and did continued research, I found that while the process could take more than two and a half years, it usually takes less than two years. That was a little relief.
As the months dragged on, I did what I had to in order to give my daughter the closest thing to a normal life. Seven months later, in February 2006 we were still living with my sister and her husband. I felt extremely guilty for becoming this extra burden to them. Deep inside, I couldn’t help but consider myself a considerable burden on their finances and family unit because they deserved the privacy and monetary support that I couldn’t offer them. We had gone from a two income family with little to no disposable income to a single income family who had to cancel accounts, cut back and accept help from family to make ends meet. In the beginning I couldn’t even afford to buy diapers for my daughter. But slowly, with faith and perseverance, I learned to accept what my life had become.
During that time, my husband was notified of an interview with the US Embassy in Honduras to decide on his case. I was more excited and optimistic than words could describe. I thought my nightmare would soon be over. I dreamed of the day I’d watch him return down the same corridor of the Airport as he had left so many months earlier.
On Feb 17, 2006, my husband called to tell me the outcome of his appointment. His voice was shaking to the point where I couldn’t tell if it was good or bad news hanging on the tip of his tongue. He stuttered and stammered threw a few sentences until I couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer and said “Just tell me what happened!” At that moment he went silent before saying “I was denied.” Denied? How could he be denied? He had a wife, a child, no criminal record outside of a traffic violation; he came to the US as a teenager who didn’t understand the consequences that his decision would later have. It just didn’t make sense.
He went on to explain that US law mandates that if a person has been in the United States illegally for more than nine months, he or she is automatically denied and their spouse has to submit other forms, letters and fees to petition the US to waive their decision of denial. I took a second to fight back the tears and gain my composure. I said “It’s ok, we can do this. It’s probably just a technicality. We’ll just submit the paperwork they are requesting and wait a little longer.” He said, “Heather, the waiting period is eight to nine months.” So having waited seven months and spent more than two thousand dollars, I now knew that our struggle was only half over – if we were lucky.
I got right to work on filling out the forms and saving money for the fees. One of the items that the Embassy required was a “hardship letter.” This is a letter written by the petitioner to explain why the United States should waive their decision to deny a visa. In the letter, I had to explain why I couldn’t completely uproot myself and my daughter to move to Honduras in an attempt to preserve our family unit. The reasons seemed endless and so obvious that I couldn’t believe they actually wanted to hear me explain why I didn’t want to move from the United States to a third world country.
My hardship letter was sixteen pages long! I explained that 30% of the children in Honduras don’t live to see their eighteenth birthday. Of those who do reach adulthood, most drop out of school by third grade to work in fields and plantations. Only about 8% of all children who reach adulthood actually finish high school. I went on to explain that the Lempira (Honduran currency) is so worthless, that one US dollar is equal to twenty Lempiras. Further, the average annual per capita income is about $4000. Between school loans, vehicle loans, credit card debt and other contracted debt I was barely able to keep my head above water making $21,000 a year. How was I supposed to remain in good standing with an income decrease like that? Another point of concern was that I went to college and graduated with honors in Graphic Communications. There is virtually no market for print technology, marketing or advertising in a poverty stricken country like Honduras. I was almost guaranteed no chance at a promising career. The most shocking discovery for me was that the most common cause of death is infection. Think about that for a second. A healthy adult cuts his finger and it becomes infected. He can’t afford to visit a doctor or fill prescriptions for medication so he treats himself the best he can but in the end dies from an infection. That is simply unacceptable.
I was very happy with the outcome of my letter. I felt it was well researched and prepared. What’s more, I just knew that after reading my letter the interviewer couldn’t possibly deny my petition again.
At this point, I decided that not seeing my husband for another nine months wasn’t an option. I used my tax return to get passports for myself and our daughter. I then made arrangements to visit him in Honduras for a week in June 2006. I had never left the United States, nor had I ever intended to. I felt safe and secure in the country of my birth. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Our daughter was now on the verge of her second birthday. She hadn’t seen her father since she was ten months old. She needed to see him as much as he needed to see her.
As we boarded the plane, I was a little nervous not knowing what lay ahead. I couldn’t speak Spanish, I wasn’t familiar with Honduras and I had never gone through customs. After several hours of boarding flights, experiencing layovers and changing flights we finally arrived in Honduras. It was such a surreal experience.
Before I left, my father had told me that they would herd us like cattle through the airport and if I am not sure where to go, stay with the crowd. That was a great piece of advice because it led me right to baggage claim. A short time later, I walked through the doors of baggage claim and saw my husband standing there waiting for me. We both looked at each other feeling like we were in a dream. We embraced each other and didn’t even speak for at least five minutes. There was too much to say, yet nothing worth saying because we just wanted to look at each other. Our daughter had no clue who he was. When he hugged her she turned her head away from him. It was pretty hard to see and made us both feel awful. But with time, over the course of the week she softened up to him and began to cling to him.
Overall, it was a wonderful vacation because I got to see how beautiful Honduras is. I got to meet a lot of my in-laws, including my husband’s parents, aunts, cousins and cousin’s children. I didn’t experience culture shock until the third day when we went to visit his cousins at their coffee plantation. One of his cousins was twenty five years old and had five children already. The children were wearing tattered clothes, their teeth were covered in cavities, and their hairlines were receding from malnourishment. It broke my heart the way they looked at me in awe and amazement. They loitered in my shadow through the whole visit not saying a word but simply giggling every time I looked at them.
All less than 8 years old, every child was already used to working full time, barefoot, in the hot sun day in and day out picking coffee beans to support the family. Their little clay style shack had no doors or windows, but rather large pieces of fabric to protect them from the elements. There was no electricity or running water, not even for a sink or bathroom. As the sun began to set and my husband and I got in the car to head back to his mother’s house, I realized that as our car disappeared over the horizon, these children would also disappear into the darkness of night, lit only by candles. It completely broke my heart.
I lost sleep thinking about all the kids who grow up like that, my husband having been one of them. My husband was awoken by my crying. I told him I didn’t have anything to offer but I wanted to give them something, I couldn’t just let them live like that. He told me that there is nothing I can do except love them and offer what I could. He’s right, but somehow, that just seems so unjust. I felt a tremendous amount of guilt knowing that in a few short days I’d be back in the United States shifting paper in an air conditioned office while these little children were barefoot and sweating in temperatures exceeding 90 degrees. I knew I’d be sitting down to a plate full of food while they ate a piece of bread or a small cup of rice. I’d be showering and using the bathroom inside the privacy of our home while they each used a hole in the ground and rinsed their hands in rain water. No child should experience a life like that.
When I returned home, I felt surprisingly reassured that my husband would be returned to us. After seeing Honduras first hand, I knew that the United States and all it stood for couldn’t possibly prefer to send two natural born citizens to live in the poverty and crime of a third world country.
Each day became a little easier to get through because I knew it brought me that much closer to being reunited with my husband. My life wouldn’t be in limbo, I would have certainty in knowing my family would not be torn apart again.
Soon, the nine month waiting period had expired. I called and emailed the embassy weekly asking why I was still waiting for an answer. They informed me that there was a backlog of petitioners whose relative had been denied for the same reasons that my husband was denied and because of this, the waiting period could be as much as a year.
A year it was! Almost to the date. On February 3, 2007 my husband was ordered to come to another interview to decide if they would waive their decision to deny him a visa. I waited anxiously knowing that his freedom hung in the balance. He drove three hours to the capital, got a hotel and was ready for his appointment the following day. After spending the entire day waiting to be heard, he was finally seen. In many ways that was the best day of our lives. Not only was he granted a visa but he was told that he had 5 days to leave the country! After nineteen months my husband was finally coming home. The Embassy agreed to give him a two year K-3 visa, which meant he had two years to get his permanent residency or he’d have to return to Honduras to renew his visa.
On February 7, 2007, my dream finally came true and I got to see my husband come around the corner of the baggage claim at the airport. We hugged and just completely indulged in the excitement of the moment. What a huge sigh of relief knowing that he was on US soil with permission and no one could take that away from us.
Over the next six months he quickly acquired a work permit, social security number (without limitations) and eventually, in October 2007 a permanent resident card. Finally, my husband couldn’t be taken away from me. He was free to finish school, work without fear of being caught and most importantly, pursue his dreams without the possibility of losing everything without warning.
It was a long, emotionally charged experience but in the end I do not regret the decision to send him to his homeland. No one ever said the right way is easy but it’s certainly the most rewarding!
