Travieso y Valiente

Today, the boys and I hopped into the back of a moto with a flatbed attached. Our neighbor gave four kids a lift to school, including me and my two boys. It was so much fun—definitely not something we could do legally in the U.S.

Because we got to school so quickly, I took Enzo to Leif’s classroom. Leif was excited to introduce Enzo to his classmates as his little brother. I saw my chance and left—Enzo was happy to be with Leif. I secretly hoped Professora would let him stay. When he got home, Enzo told me he had gone to his own classroom. He had a smile on his face, so I was satisfied.

In the afternoon, Leifer sat in the sun with Lucca and tore open a pacay. It’s long, almost banana-shaped. He showed Lucca how to pull out a white segment, dig out the black seed, and eat what was left. I took pictures. I hope my writing and photos will mean something to Lucca one day, since he’s too little to remember this. I record moments of him with Abuelita; they are so tender with each other. Language isn’t a barrier between them—they communicate easily through gestures, facial expressions, play, laughter, and food. Lucca loves being at Abuelita’s side. He follows her out the door. I think he could be dynamite at the market—he’d make top sales. He sits at the table with her. “Travieso,” she says as he grabs for everything and grins at her. “Valiente,” she encourages him when he teeters on the dining chair.

At dinner, Lucca ate some cheese. I was so happy—he stopped drinking milk when we arrived. A bit later, I noticed a few red spots around his eyes. I wondered if his body was adjusting to the dairy here. I calculated in my head, comparing it to the last time. Was it worse? It scared me, and I felt the urge to book plane tickets back to California. But Lucca was unbothered, so I forced myself to move past my worry.

A worker comes about once a week to help Abuelita with the harvest. He chews coca leaves throughout the day while working—he says they give him energy. Leifer asked him for a few. We each put one in our bottom lip and chewed. Within minutes, my head was spinning, and I felt nauseous. Leifer said my reaction was psychosomatic—he only felt parts of his mouth go numb. I Googled it. “Cocaine comes from coca leaves.” Thanks, Google. That’s not helping. I spit it out. People swear by coca leaves for altitude sickness. I think some just like the way they feel. I did not.

Abuelita was amused that we tried them. “Do you use them?” I asked. “No,” she said. She doesn’t have any vices—I wasn’t surprised. We still have a few coca leaves left. Leifer wants to make tea. No thanks. I’m not touching another one. I tried it, and now it’s forever checked off my to-do list. If nothing else, my in-laws were entertained.

Today marks one month since we arrived in Peru. The days can feel long here. I have time to sit and think. Lately, I’ve been wondering: What is an immigrant?

Artificial intelligence gives me this:

"Legally, it refers to someone who moves to a new nation with the intention to stay, following various formal pathways. Personally, it can mean becoming a stranger in a strange land, learning new languages and customs, carrying one place inside you while building a life in another."

I am married to an immigrant. An immigrant is the father of my children. For most of our relationship, we lived in my native country. Now, I live in my husband’s. I feel on the periphery of the immigrant identity, yet my story is intertwined with one.

I don’t plan to stay in Peru permanently, but I relate to parts of the immigrant journey—leaving home due to hardship, adapting to a new life. It’s not the same journey my husband took 25 years ago, but I’ve left so much behind. Now, I’m the one adjusting while he is back in his homeland. Our roles are reversed. My children and I are displaced from our home.

Leifer and I have always shared our struggles—at the very least, as a nonjudgmental ear for each other. I’ve always empathized with his journey of making a life in the U.S. Now, I am doing the same, trying to match the quiet strength he’s always shown. In many ways, knowing him and his family has made this experience life-sustaining. I heal little by little, getting more strength each day to face my struggles. I had no idea the life I was choosing when I married Leifer, but I would choose it all over again.

I tell everyone we’ll be here for up to a year—because that’s what my lawyer says. But I hold a small space of uncertainty. Will our application ever be approved? And if not, then what? I try not to get ahead of myself. I only share hopeful perspectives with friends and family. But after everything we’ve been through, doubt lingers.

Even at home, language barriers still trip us up in small ways. A friend left her car in our driveway back home, and I mentioned it to Leifer a few times. He thought she had lost her credit card in our driveway. We mostly laugh at our misunderstandings. Early in our relationship, I worried about how we’d build a life together with my limited Spanish. “Patience, we must have patience,” Leifer told me. And he has lived by that. Most days, I know we are so much stronger because we come from different cultures and speak different native languages. Our experience here would be much less rich, if not for Leifer’s ability to speak easily and fluently. I notice leaps in Leif’s Spanish vocabulary.

For me, immigration is our love story. It’s also Leifer’s culture and family. And wrapped inside those things are heartache and uncertainty. Will we ever be free from this? I now understand that our immigrant status will always follow us in the U.S. It will never be behind us.

Peru has given us safety. The U.S. did not. Even when Leifer returns with his green card, I fear he’ll still be hassled at entry while we breeze through. Warren Buffett always said he was lucky to be born in the U.S. If you weren’t, it’s a mark that never fades.

Last night, I dreamt that people were telling me I had choices. I could go back to California if I wanted. I argued with them—I felt there was no choice. How do I have a choice when my husband is legally barred from entering? I was angry. They didn’t understand.

I don’t know who “they” were. Maybe the government? It feels like the decision about Leifer’s case was made without any regard for us. My children and I were just as much a part of his application as he was—how could they not consider us? I still don’t understand.

I always tell my boys that we make decisions as a family, considering what’s best for all of us rather than just one person. But in this case, the immigration system operates on an entirely different logic, disregarding the very values I teach my children. Even so, we have to hold onto those values and stand by them—no matter what obstacles threaten to undermine them.