Many undocumented immigrants live with hardship, fear

Citizenship issues can cause stress on families, diocesan immigration director says

Published: February 21, 2013

By Alesia Schaefer
Rogers Correspondent

Paul Dufford

Most Hispanic children, like these girls at their first Communion Mass at St. Vincent de Paul Church in Rogers May 19, 2012, are born in the United States, but often one or both of their parents were born in Latin America.

Paul Dufford

ROGERS — The first time Carmen tried to cross the Rio Grande River into the United States she was a newly married 16-year-old.

She was the youngest of the dozen or so who were attempting to leave their homeland for a future of uncertainties. Her husband had already made the crossing and she was relying on her “coyote” (a person paid to help individuals get across the border), who also happened to be her father-in-law, to get her to the promised land of Texas.

“We were crossing through a drainage pipe but were caught,” she remembers of that harrowing night in 1993.

The four women in the group were put up in a hotel, with no food until the next afternoon, she recalled. When they were released, they waited until dark, this time with the understanding that a few individuals would sacrifice and be caught, the distraction giving the others in the group a chance to disappear quietly into the darkness.

Now 35 and living in northwest Arkansas with her husband and four American-born children, Carmen (not her real name) can still recall the memory of her first crossing. She is not alone. Countless others of the estimated 11 million undocumented immigrants living in the U.S. have similar tales to tell of a risky, if not, life-threatening escape to America.

Carmen’s reasons for leaving Mexico still resound with the voices of a million others who have chosen to flee.

“In my small town, there was no hospital, the school had only two or three teachers because the children are all here and there are no jobs, no food and no prospects,” she said. “We wanted better for our family.”

Twenty years later, the stakes remain high for Carmen and her family. She and her husband keep the family afloat doing construction jobs and housekeeping. But, the real and imminent threat of deportation of her husband keeps her awake at night.

“When someone knocks at the door, I am afraid they have come for him. I worry about my children and I want them to stay here where there is food and they can get an education,” she said.

These heartfelt desires echoed true for Carmen’s siblings in Mexico as well. Out of the five, four of them are living in the United States, but only two are legal residents.

This type of mixed documentation in families is not uncommon, according to Frank Head, director of Catholic Charities Immigration Services-Springdale. Head, who has been working in immigration for 15 years, said he has seen how the varying stages of gaining citizenship, or lack of, causes families a great deal of stress.

“The traditional fabric of a family gets torn apart,” Head said. “Families can’t grow together living under a cloud of fear, when you have some that have opportunities to get degrees and work and others that are working but are in fear of being deported can break up the family unit.”

Jesus Gomez understands this better than anyone. He left Mexico in 1989 with his wife and two young children. A few years after arriving in the United States, the couple had twins. Those twins, soon to be 21, are citizens, but their parents and brother are not. For Gomez, who has his own landscaping business, it’s a waiting game.

“The day they turn 21, we have been told we can fill out the papers to apply for citizenship,” Gomez said.

In the meantime, he is holding his breath, watching the clock tick. His older son, at one time, had been threatened with deportation and Gomez, a parishioner at St. Vincent de Paul Church in Rogers, said it was frightening for all of them.

“It was a hard time, we were so worried he would have to go back, but he has never known anything but here,” he said, “I know Mexico, but he does not.”

Undocumented immigrants like Gomez and Rodriguez are examples of the approximately 65,000 living in the shadows in the state of Arkansas. Head said he prefers people says “undocumented” versus “illegal” when referring to immigrants. He said the distinction is important and is more than a nuance.

“There is power in words,” Head said, “and using the word ‘illegal’ classifies them as breaking the law and, until recently, there were no criminal charges on being an immigrant, just civil charges.”

A study recently commissioned by the Winthrop Rockefeller Foundation reported that about four in 10 immigrants in the state of Arkansas were undocumented and that two-thirds of them are from Latin America, mostly from Mexico. Researchers estimate that since 2000, the immigrant population has grown by 82 percent.

The ongoing national conversation on overhauling immigration has captured the attention of people on both sides of the border. A new proposal set forth by a bipartisan group of senators offers what is hailed as a “pathway to citizenship” for immigrants. Changes in the system would give skilled — both high and low — workers access to visas, create a system for employers to check status of immigrants seeking employment, all while Congress works to secure national borders.

If the “comprehensive immigration reform” passes, all undocumented immigrants passing a criminal background check could live and work in the United States. Once assured of border control, Congress would allow these immigrants to file for legal status following payment of back taxes, English and civic lessons and a few other requirements. And if these stipulations are met, individuals could apply for citizenship.

For some immigrants, their story has come full circle. Soledad Hernandez, currently the religious education assistant at St. Vincent de Paul Church in Rogers, is one of the lucky ones. A victim of domestic abuse, she was left to support herself and her two children 23 years ago. Her people skills earned her a managerial position at a bank but not having proper documents led to her arrest.

“The church was my refuge,” Hernandez said. “A Vincentian priest at the parish stood in for me as a witness when I became a resident. With the help of several people in the church I got my work permit and became a citizen.”

Now, she is 47 years old and pursuing a degree in social work so she can continue to help others. Her story of success inspires those who have walked in her shoes.

“I have the opportunity every week in our parish to talk to people going through this and direct them on their journey. I encourage them to pray, to keep their faith and to be strong,” she said. “I know and feel for them because I have been there.”