border Archives - Amor & Exile

January 31, 2026February 2, 2026

The Fall of our Neighbors – and the Rise of Collective Sight

Brutality continues to rain down on U.S communities, at the hands of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and Customs and Border Patrol (CBP), and millions of people, for the first time, are grappling with the prospect of becoming targets of state sponsored violence for simply walking down the street.

People cry, “this isn’t us!” or, “these aren’t the values we were raised with!” Their confusion seems genuine. But what did they think before? And why are they feeling this fear just now? The flood of outrage came when, in the last two weeks, a white woman, and then, a white man, were shot down in cold blood – martyred by our government. Prior to Renee Good’s and Alex Pretti’s tragic deaths, many Americans didn’t realize what their country was capable of.

I see the storm of anger and calls on social media. The mainstream media coverage of the crisis in Minnesota surpasses that in Charlotte, North Carolina; Los Angeles, California; even Chicago, Illinois. I welcome how thoroughly Americans are rejecting the violence perpetrated by ICE & CBP. But although our collective eyes are opening, I’m concerned we may still have a blind spot.

A common exchange I see unfold: White people rightfully express shock, disgust, terror – the stark emotions that come with seeing their fallen neighbors – innocent bystanders, attacked seemingly for the entertainment of armed federal agents, whose superiors absolve them of their crimes and deny observable facts. Department of Homeland Security (DHS) leaders even compel them to violence by calling peaceful bystanders domestic terrorists. People correctly rage that this is sheer madness, law enforcement gone off the rails – emerging totalitarianism.

Almost in lockstep, Black Americans remind us that this outrage, this spine chilling fear, is nothing new, but something Black people have long endured in America. They ask, “Are you listening now,” since people have not always heard, much less protected them from, all the discrimination, neglect, setups, slander, smears, or horrors they’ve been subjected to by authorities. The same can be said for most indigenous peoples.

Their point is an important one – it shouldn’t take the murder of whites to shatter our collective silence on state-sponsored violence. If we learned anything from movements for Black lives, the callous disregard for human life by those entrusted as protectors should not come as a shock. And yet, as true and painful as this refrain is, it only reveals one part of our blind spot.

In the very center of the tornado of hate ripping through American cities since 45 first ascended, then again last year, all too often, we neglect to see and say the names of the very people being targeted – immigrants, asylum seekers, and refugees.* It’s almost as if our blind spot renders them invisible.

But I can’t unsee it. Because my husband of nearly 25 years was previously ‘undocumented’ in the U.S., I have lived almost every national news cycle related to ‘immigration’ since 2001 by his side. Ironically, our relationship began a few weeks after 9/11, and the actions taken by the federal government in the wake of that crisis literally led us to where we currently stand.

The Patriot Act, passed in the aftermath of 9/11, resulted in the creation of DHS, parent to various agencies. Some were new, like ICE, others were repurposed, like CBP, and U.S. Customs and Immigration Services (USCIS), the functions of which originated with the INS – Immigration and Naturalization Service. Their budgets ballooned, under both GOP and Democratic leadership, and as politics are fueled by increasingly polarized and financially motivated campaigns, these agencies have only grown more powerful.

Throughout this entire onslaught of federal agents in our communities, it is rare to hear from the people targeted. Cases are mentioned on social media, now even in the mainstream. But directly hearing migrant voices has not been the norm. In their path to a better life and contributing to American society like all immigrant communities before them, the immigrants themselves — the lived experiences of the actual people under siege — are poorly represented in our discourse.

There are clearly many reasons for this, primarily their own safety. But the shadows that shield migrants also isolates them from the national narrative. Invisibility breeds unfamiliarity, and neighbors struggle to identify with them. When migrants’ voices are not central to the stories told about them – we risk objectifying them, making the perception of their humanity at even greater risk. This becomes dangerous when language is weaponized against them.

Migrant is a confusing term, because it’s used to describe both peoples who’ve emigrated from all over the world, as well as people native to the regions they move within, whether their home or destination countries’ racial, ethnic, or cultural purity tests recognize them as such. How the first peoples of a continent are called “aliens” in their own lands is a paradox of our time.

Whether we keep using the terms given us, or whether we create a better lexicon for this longstanding debate about the border, we must always remember the targets of immigration policy, laws, racial and national quotas, DHS, ICE, CBP, and their abuses. They are our neighbors, our coworkers, our friends. In many cases, they are our own family members, or our partners.

Our migrant neighbors may be new to our local community, or maybe we are just newly aware of their presence. Their cultures or ancestors’ histories may predate our own, or carry even more ancient legacies of conquest and oppression than those of our relatively young nation. To more accurately represent reality, we must avoid a U.S.-centric black / white dichotomy, and strive for multicultural fluency. Local mutual aid groups and national coalitions embody this principle on the daily, and when their efforts bear fruit, communities become truly safer.

Those who agree that America is so much more than white, black, and Main Street USA, even those of us working at ground zero, still have room to grow. What if we (safely) centered the voices and experiences of the most vulnerable among us? Is it naive to think that we could better identify with them, and there would be equal outrage for their deaths or displacement as well? Could we be more effective at preventing more tragedies?

Once we clearly see how much immigrants are targeted by law enforcement, how disproportionate this is to actual crime statistics, how much funding and infrastructure has been earmarked for this (far beyond our domestic carceral system), it is hard to look away. Our surprise dissolves, and we can even propose solutions. We can decriminalize migration and embrace it as a human right, disincentivize detention, do away with bloated enforcement agencies and their budgets, or more.

I fear that the tendency to exclude migrants’ faces and voices for so long has led us to an even more precariously vulnerable position, now that the criminalization of migration and the detainment machine has grown to a scale near impossible to tame – a sort of Frankenstein that’s escaped mainstream concern as long as the violence was directed at the border, in detention centers, or abroad. Now, its insatiable hunger has set its sights on its own sponsors.

But once we’ve seen through the tear in the veil concealing the monstrosities, what will we do? Will we simply allow it to be stitched it back up again? Or will we remove the veil, confront the nightmares our beloved country is causing, and get to work righting these injustices and giving the world’s children a future worth hoping for?

*For purposes of this essay, I use the term migrants, when referring to immigrants, asylum seekers, and refugees.

Sunlight shining through a forest, onto an icy pond and snowbank

September 6, 2022September 9, 2022

A Journey North, Amidst the Rhizosphere

Girl pictured in pink circle, crowned by monarchs and flowers

I’ve had an announcement I’ve been trying to make for some time now, one of those once in a lifetime kind of bits of news that deserve a proper time, place, and style. BUT since this new reality is hurtling toward us with a seemingly daily accelerating pace, unforgivingly preventing me from doing things “as imagined” and obliging the precedence of a raw “get ‘er done” mindset, the time has come to reveal this new chapter:

Our little trio is simultaneously thrilled, terrified, and appreciative to announce that after 16 years of life south of the border, and almost 3 years since we finally became free to choose which of our two countries of origin we could all legally reside in, we will be departing our lovely home in querido Queretaro and heading northward in relocation to the DC/MD/VA area, where I have accepted and been cleared to take on a new role with my agency (Peace Corps) headquarters in our nation’s capital, starting early October.

The irony is not lost on us that we will be moving north in the same exact month as we first migrated south 16 years ago, we may even cross paths with some southbound Monarchs on the way. As much as I would like to write for hours about what this opportunity means and will mean to our family (immediate, extended, friends, colleagues, and collaborators, plants, and animals), the truth is that despite an initially slow burning process that began several months ago, the nature of the move has abruptly accelerated in a way that is already affecting the way we will be able to say hasta luego. I hope that our friends near and far can forgive us when I say that if there were another way we would, but our process of outbound transition may end up ongoing, remotely, once we’re settled safely in the northlands (as heard somewhere – winter is coming).

There are countless places and people to whom I/we are eternally grateful for their role in making Queretaro a home and safe haven for the last 16 years. From the sanctuary of our home, to the dry forests and sky islands of Amealco, Zamorano, and the Sierra Gorda, to the friends’ homes and communities that bejewel these lovely highland slopes, there were always endless new horizons to discover, foods to try, cultural traditions to learn, friendly faces and conversation, and those are the things that we will always keep close in our hearts. In fact, the necessary process of letting go in order to make way for the new has been particularly more challenging, than I ever, ever could have imagined, even at the time when I correctly predicted, over 17 years ago, that “if I could last 10 years in Mexico, perhaps by then I might not even need to go back.”

And the truth is, I was right after all. As a result of needing to make things work for at least the 10 years we had to reside here in order to apply for Margo’s U.S. legal residency, we found ways to be happy during most of that time. But now, for the first time, more than a need or an obligation, it’s a choice, which is what we were ultimately looking for. We can’t say yet if it it will be the right choice, or what the future will hold, but as we did back in 2006, we can say for sure that we are following our hearts.

In the last few weeks the “hasta luego” process has gotten underway, and despite how mixed my feelings still remain about it, yesterday in the company of my coworkers at Peace Corps Mexico, a place where I’ve been blessed with gifts of subsistence, shared mission, solidarity, and friendships, I was able to crystallize some thought around this process. It is hard to capture the level to which I have been both honored and humbled by the words, kindness, and experiences that have been afforded to me in the nearly 13 years that I have collaborated with the organization, which I hope to represent well in my new role at a global level.

Despite the challenge of putting these complex feelings and thoughts into words, I tried my hardest to invoke the spirit of what I want to convey, and this is what I said:

“The Rhizosphere” by Nicole Salgado, Sep 2, 2022

This past weekend’s mushroom walk in Xajay (led by a local ethnomycologist), gave me unexpected inspiration that still permeated my imagination for days after we returned from the several mile hike under the forested canopy of a communal property in the indigenous community of Amealco. The term that stuck with me and wove itself into my thoughts, much like the subterranean universe of threadlike roots and mycelia that it refers to, was “rizósfera,” or rhizosphere.

In the days since the walk, my mind’s been searching for a way to integrate the multitude of thoughts and feelings about our imminent new adventure we are embarking on in a matter of weeks, but was continually unable to do so. I had tried to follow the advice of a good friend who once said, “write what you want to know,” but when I asked myself that, I just drew blanks. The night before the “hasta luego activity,” I had written a whole speech, but as I was getting ready to leave for work, a new idea began to coalesce, not unlike rock candy, around an apt metaphor for the complex nature of our current situation. And by the time we were on our way to the office, it occurred to me why it had been so hard for me to wrap my head around and make sense of the conflicted feelings I’ve been having about “moving north.”

It’s the rhizosphere.

You see, the roots I’ve grown did not begin with Peace Corps Mexico, although they certainly flourished there. The roots did not begin with raising a child here in Querétaro, nor even with building a home by hand here, though those are certainly massive taproots that have sunk pretty deeply and have anchored us tightly. They didn’t begin back in the SF Bay Area in the early 2000s when I met and fell in love with my Querétaro born husband and began creating community with Mexican paisanos who were also living in “el extranjero.”

They didn’t begin when I traveled to Latin America during college, or had Chicano professors, or when I read bird books with maps detailing habitat ranges extending into Mexico, though that often inspired me to think southward. They didn’t even start when I was born, in NY, to a mom whose family had deep roots of their own – a long line of farmers of German-Irish ancestry, and to my Dad, a San Diego born Chicano northern forest transplant in his own right. My Mexican roots didn’t even start with my Mexican grandparents, from the northwest border region.

My roots, and a great deal of roots for those of us born or who’ve ever lived in North America, have at least some origin in the Mexican rhizosphere. The same earth that gave life to fungi under the ancestral oak and pine forests of Central Mexico, later gave rise to oaks radiating out into all of North America. These oaks formed part of the subsistence diet of future generations of many first peoples. The Mexican rhizosphere also gave rise to teosinte, which, along with the other two sisters calabaza y frijoles, also in the care of generations of first peoples, gave rise to maize, becoming the dietary center and veritable radiating sun of Mesoamerica and even south – a place once called Turtle Island, which we now call North America, or simply, home.

Mexico, and my country of origin, are now considered separate nations, but they were once one. And in a way, through the rhizosphere and all its brethren, they still are. I can share more of my Mexico and PCM story later, and I guarantee it will be filled with praise, admiration, and appreciation for the trust placed in me by colleagues, Volunteers and collaborating communities, with whom I’ve worked for the last 13 years. I have learned and shared so much.

But for now, I understand, and I can say out loud, why my soul struggles so fiercely with imminent departure. It’s because my deepest instincts, the ones that go beyond my five senses, have experienced and connected with the homeland of all homelands – the Mexican rhizosphere, the birthplace and center of North American civilization. So I will resolve to carry and tell the beauty of Mexico with me wherever I go, but in actuality, it won’t be too hard, because although I didn’t fully realize it, or how, it was always already a part of me.

Note: Views expressed are those of the author and not of the U.S. Peace Corps.

February 1, 2017

Walls we have crossed

The trumpist barrage of immigration-related executive orders has come to resemble a wall of its own accord. Between the Muslim ban, halting refugee resettlement, expanding deportation criteria and ICE ranks and threats to cities that seek to protect their own residents, who needs border walls?

But border walls, at least, are porous, unlike the dense xenophobia emanating from 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. The Israeli “Separation Barrier” or “Apartheid Wall” pictured above and below, which Trump loves, to be sure, is, as you can see, porous. I also crossed the line between East and West Jerusalem many times in the back of a work truck.

Border walls are porous. Even Trump’s favorite apartheid walls in Jerusalem.

We know the border below, but does Trump have any idea how many people cross this border every hour? Does he have any notion of the interchange that happens between Juarez and El Paso — the culture and ideas and commerce and research that sustains the border region?

Does he know that walls are death sentences, that send migrants deeper into the desert? Or that walls are mere inconveniences, to be surmounted.

Juarez El Paso border walls — You mean this border wall? Existing wall between Juarez and El Paso, shot from the highway in Juarez (2011).

What is missing in Trump’s life that he wants to build more walls?

Bad parenting. — Why didn’t Trump’s parents take him travelling?

The people making these new policies for the U.S. — the band of white nationalists surrounding Trump and heading up his bureaucracies — choose walls, which is to say, they choose fear and isolation.

Walls, fences, barriers are symbols of failure. When we fail, we put up walls. Or land mines. Or drop cluster bombs. Is that the future we want for the southern U.S. Border?

mined border — Red triangle indicates unexploded ordinance in Southern Lebanon, near border with Israel. Is this the border we desire?

We are about bridges. Building bridges between languages, cultures, nations and people. Because the whole world is just one narrow bridge. At least it was two weeks ago. But don’t be afraid.

“All the world is a very narrow bridge, and the most important thing is not to be overwhelmed by fear.” — Rev Nachman of Breslov (1772-1810)

October 4, 2016October 4, 2016

The tenth year – II

The big day finally arrived, almost two weeks ago. September 18, 2016. Marking ten years since we drove across the border in Nogales, AZ. It now feels like ancient history.

Jalisco, Mexico, September 2006 — Highway in Jalisco, Mexico, 2006

I think I sort of imagined back then that on September 18, 2016, we would be hovering over a sheaf of papers, ready and waiting to urgently send in the famous waiver application that would pave the way for Margo (and our family) to return to the U.S., soon after to be whisked back to the U.S. to reestablish our interrupted lives there. In reality, the scene at present is much more complicated, and just plain different than what I had first pictured.

The actual September 18th, 2016 went more like this for us:

Back in the spring of this year, we finally submitted Margo’s I-130 application, which I wrote about in my first “the tenth year” post. Rather unceremoniously, our lawyer submitted the files to USCIS, USCIS acknowledged their receipt of the application, and we haven’t heard anything back since.

Rather than sitting around biting our nails, basically, life just went on. I still work at Peace Corps Mexico, and Margo still builds thing for local folks who have requests for custom furniture. Our daughter is still attending a little Montessori school that lets us bring cupcakes in to celebrate her birthday with her classmates, complete with a lovely circle around the sun ritual that marks every year since her birth.

In fact, the only reason why September 18 is normally celebrated in this house is not because it marks the day we crossed into Mexico, nor the anniversary of my Mexican naturalization (it really does share that date) – but rather that it’s our daughter’s birthday. Why fate would have chose to combine 3 such event all into one date is beyond my comprehension, but it did make for a rather pleasant celebration opportunity this year, especially given that we have more reasons to be grateful for our life here than we have complaints – leading to a profound lack of urgency to return to the States.

Being a plant person, I’ll use a botanical metaphor. After 10 years, favorable conditions have led to our growth as a family, and we’ve put down deep roots. In the plant world, transplanting can be risky business. If the plant and its roots have been neatly contained in a smooth, enclosed container, it’s fairly straightforward to move it to a larger container or plant it out into the ground. In fact, it’ll probably be happy for you to do so, especially if it was cramped before. But if a plant has been growing freely in the ground, its roots spreading deep and wide into the rich soil, intertwining with rocks and other plants’ roots, drawing up plenty of fresh water and nutrients and leafing broadly into the bright sunshine, it’s not going to take so kindly to your digging under it, pulling it up, and severing its roots. Often, the plant dies back considerably before taking off again in another place. Sometimes it never quite survives the transplant, and just withers. In other words, if the plant is flourishing, there’s got to be a really good reason for you to go for the transplant.

I’ve pulled up roots a few times now in my life, first when I left NY to go to CA, where I met Margo; and again when Margo and I left CA. Each time the pulling up roots itself was not so traumatic – perhaps the previous conditions left my roots feeling cramped or limited somehow, and so they were ready for an upgrade. But the transplant to Mexico was complex. At first, it felt like I’d gone from fertile to rocky soil, and I wilted a bit – for a couple years. But like the mesquite trees here who slowly, but surely send their roots deep down to the subsoil to find water after which they pull it up for others nearby to share, I dug deep down inside and found inner reserves that I wasn’t previously aware of – in the form of resolve, patience, and commitment. I also discovered nourishment all around me in México, in the form of a home of our own, friends, culture, a growing family, future colleagues, and the vast beauty of the natural environment.

Considering what’s been invested into my flourishing again, I probably shouldn’t be surprised at my own hesitation at visualizing such a big move again, especially when there are no guarantees as to the outcome.

So when everyone asks, “are you going back up to the States?” (now that the 10 year waiting period has passed), the first thought in my mind is honestly “why?” and then, “flojera” (Spanish for an almost self-indulgent laziness). I have to confess, there are a few other external factors that don’t help us chomp at the bit for a return bid; namely the cost (>$5,000 USD), this year’s Presidential race ( I definitely won’t make ANY moves until after we see the outcome on Nov. 8), and the police brutality situation (my family members are brown-skinned).

Still, the main pull to return has always been, and will continue to be, the distance from family. We make it work through visits, and when they happen they are truly enjoyable. My daughter seeing her grandparents (my parents) only twice a year and me seeing my brother on average only once a year is getting old fast. But a few conditions for a move that I’ve conjured up haven’t presented themselves yet, namely, forward movement on the visa application (it’s a matter of time and then money), getting the title to our home so we can sell before a move (it’s taking forever), and me finding a really amazing job that would make a move worthwhile (I haven’t been looking, since the visa piece takes longer).

If this is painting a convoluted, circular picture as to what logic I may or may not be applying to a move northward, it’s not accidental. An unseen force seems to be holding those roots fast in place for now.

10yrparty-pinata1 — Piñata top and garambullo

I am acutely aware that a factor in my being able to stay ten years in Mexico was an initial Herculean effort to find contentment within the confines of a limited situation. Therefore, I want to inject a heathy dose of suspicion into my complacency (I’ve noticed it in myself in other areas of my life besides my thoughts on moving north), and keep it present to make sure I am not selling myself or my family short – but I haven’t quite figured out how to make sure that I’m not letting the difficult years here or the U.S. media cloud what hasn’t yet but might emerge as a dream of a life in the north.

Writing and reflecting on this question definitely helps a bit, but then when one who is prone to plant metaphors tries to type out a coherent explanation as to why she just might not know what she wants yet (in terms of where she sees herself in 5 years), and then her husband of 12 years sends her 6 year old into the house holding the first mature avocado that’s fruited from the 12″ sapling from the Sierra Gorda that she planted her yard 8 years ago, where in the background orange butterflies flit among dozens of wild sunflowers under the bright blue sky, well, answers to elusive questions seem just as hard to find as they’ve been for the last 10 years.

February 10, 2014February 10, 2014

Amor and exile in the eyes of a fourth-grader

As a follow-up to my post about our visit to ITJ Campus Queretaro to talk about Amor and Exile, I thought I would post a couple of lovely reports from fourth-graders at ITJ from the closing ceremonies of their unit on migration. I had to work this morning but a friend who has a child at ITJ sent me the photos of the reports via Facebook message.

ITJ_kids_writeup_blog_amorandexile2 — Report on Amor and Exile from fourth-graders at ITJ Queretaro. c. 2014 by the report authors

It was interesting for me to see how our story is viewed from the eyes of 10 or 11 year olds. It’s cool how they picked up on things that we didn’t even say. And even cooler how they were able to inspire me back with their reflections on our story.

ITJ_kids_writeup_blog_amorandexile — Another report on Amor and Exile from fourth-graders at ITJ Queretaro. c. 2014 by the report authors

Thanks again to the teachers at ITJ Queretaro for including us in your great, reality-based education model. And thanks to the students for your great reviews. Now if only you could export your learnings up north…

**Errata noted since publication: the students are fourth-graders, not third-graders as originally posted. My apologies!

January 29, 2014January 29, 2014

Migration Talk at ITJ Campus, Querétaro

Margo and I visited the Instituto Thomas Jefferson, an American school in Querétaro, on Monday, January 27th. We went to discuss our experiences migrating between the United States and Mexico and the Amor and Exile project. Our talk was part of a bigger cross-curricular unit for the fourth graders at ITJ, headed up by my friend and colleague Heather Ruark.

Some stats on the talk:

104 4th grade students
Throughout the migration unit, students are asked the following driving question: What is it like to move to another country?
The unit includes the following topics:
- Geography, specifically Mexicans who move to the States, and human migration in general;
- Writing – non fiction, biographical essays;
- Reading – The Circuit, a juvenile autobiography by a former migrant worker in the fields of California.
At the end of the unit, students create a final project consisting of a photo essay gallery of Migration Stories to and from Querétaro

Margo and I had given a similar talk to high school students at the PrepaTec de Monterrey (ITESM Campus Queretaro) prior to the publication of Amor and Exile. But I was particularly impressed by these young students’ level of interest and thoughtful reflection on the topic, particularly considering their age—ten and eleven years old. The kids really enjoyed the book trailer, and had dozens of questions for us, ranging from what our favorite foods and colors are, to what the name of the law that prevented Margo from legalizing in the U.S. was—we had a field day spelling out the IIRIRA of 1996. 🙂

Heather commented that it was a really great experience to be able to get into the subject in such depth. By inviting many speakers from different countries who live in Querétaro and by allowing the students to explore both sides of the issue, they enable students to analyze the complex reasons for illegal immigration and the societal impact of migration in both directions. She also mentioned that the unit is well received by parents, even to a extent greater than she imagines it might be received in the United States.

We were glad to have this opportunity to share our story on a personal level with the students at ITJ, and help foster awareness of this complex issues amidst our next generation of global leaders.

ITJ 1 27 2014 — Nicole and family after ITJ Talk, January 2014

January 18, 2014January 29, 2014

Where Exile Grows

Seven years ago, two women’s lives were changing forever. They both had just made commitments with men who were a persona non gratas, undocumented and unwelcome in the United States, the women’s own nation. One of the women stayed in her home country in the hopes of finding a path to stability, to live without fear. The other left and moved south, into “exile,” with the same hopes as the first. They did not know each other at the time, nor that the life paths on which they’d embarked would eventually cross.

Seven years later, they know each other. Paths have now crossed. The first woman finally moved south, just as the second one was considering when she’d ever possibly return North. Seven years have passed and not much has changed, except for the birth and growth of their daughters, and some deaths — not the least of them the passing of many hopes from those early days.

This past week, we welcomed Krystal and her family into our home. Krystal is a longtime blogger (currently posting at LoveMyHusbandMoreThanTheUSA, previously at A Year in the Life of Krystal) now newly fellow “exile wife,” to use the term she coined the night of our first meeting in person. It was a quick stop for them on the way to their own new home in the Central Mexican Highlands, not too far for where we live.

Our meeting was surreal in many ways — first because Krystal is someone I have only “known” virtually for just over a couple years, since around the time when we began writing Amor and Exile. Secondly, Krystal’s arrival to exile is something that I’ve been “watching” her prepare for for some time now — via her public postings of her family’s struggles. As a U.S. Iraqi war veteran and mother dedicated to justice for her family, she long resisted and tried very hard to make it work for them to stay together in the United States. And so it felt somewhat monumental that one of the warriors, a legendary character from our loosely organized but broadly cast net of immigration-affected families was finally “surrendering,” and making the move into exile.

A few days ago I hadn’t actually expected to meet her. I was aware of her family’s impending move south, the vague details of the approach, and where she’d be arriving. But I know how these trips go, having done one myself. When you have your whole life riding on four wheels plus the emotional momentum of a spouse only a few hours’ drive from reuniting with a family he hasn’t seen for years, your forward motion is unstoppable. Side trips beyond a brief foray at the beach seem frivolous, unreasonable even, given the main purpose of your viaje. I also assumed she’d be taking a more southerly route given her destination. So I expected to continue to wish Krystal well virtually, and mourn the inability of yet another one of us to obtain the rights to stay back home with our entire family intact.

But as fast as data flies in the interworld, another member of the network tagged me in a comment that Krystal would be driving through Querétaro. Suddenly, my virtual propriety dissolved and social pressure tactics emerged. I commented that I’d be hurt not to see her — half joking, but also aware of the unique opportunity her drive through our town posed. After a flurry of Facebook messages throughout the day and finding the geographic coordinates of my house so she could locate us (we have no physical address), I discovered I would have house guests that evening after all. I quickly set about making sure that Krystal’s family’s stay would be a moment of comfort in what can be a emotionally grueling journey, having left behind everything they knew and held dear.

The truth was, I needed Krystal’s visit probably as much as she needed a safe place to stay. Despite my abundant blessings, I’d become somewhat depressed recently about the lack of progress in many things I deem important in my life — all related in some way to my state of exile. Combined with a cold winter and my family being sick during the holidays, my mood was worse than blase prior to my friend’s arrival. I was trying hard to pull myself out of my funk, but it wasn’t quite working.

Part of me doubted they’d actually arrive. I surmised they might either get held up in traffic a state away, or decide to push through and make it to their destination by that evening. Later Krystal confessed that her own husband had his doubts, compounded by the fact that I couldn’t give them a house address. We laughed about it once they’d arrived safely, but my husband probably would also have questioned his wife’s wisdom for taking a winding rural route on the outskirts of an unknown city in the dark night, trying to find the town of a friend she’d met on the Internet and who she was Facebook messaging with to find.

But every message I received showed a location a few kilometers closer to my house, and my own husband had offered for their girls to stay in our daughter’s room so they could be comfortable (a rare move of generosity on his part, as he is often more reserved than I), an offer which I extended through the cyberwaves to her. I added that our property was gated and safe and that their dogs were welcome, after intuiting the stress that builds at the end of a ten-hour drive across a foreign country.

Suddenly “they were here,” i.e. in my town, but I was still at work, and the cell phone connections weren’t working. She had thought she was lost but I told her she did better than most local friends at finding the place. I got home as fast as possible and found them at the local convenience store and they followed me home. Luckily, they’d found a taco stand across the street to grab a bite while they waited.

Nicole with Krystal and her family upon their arrival.

Meeting someone you’ve only known virtually, I’m starting to realize, is a really amazing experience. I remember when it first happened for me last summer when we went to D.C. to deliver our book and I met another Crystal, from PA, who’s also part of our network. So many dimensions emerge that are impossible to ascertain via Internet — and a knowledge of someone, and their heart, becomes whole. My first impression was to be deeply impressed that she found my place in the middle of nowhere in the dark, with only a pair of GPS coordinates to go on. Next, I saw a couple that was tired, but still propelled by the weight of their journey. I then saw the two young girls who were along for the ride, and loved and cared for very much. And then the four of them walked up our driveway, across our doorstep and into our home.[/caption]

At one point, Krystal and I were sitting at the dining room table chatting a mile a minute. She had mentioned that her younger daughter understood Spanish but refused to speak it, and I responded that it’d happen naturally, eventually. As her elder daughter, who had thought I was named “Michelle” at first, sat with us sipping Lipton cup-a-soup, she asked her mom a telling question. We’d been spilling terms like “retired” and “exile,” and the eleven year old wanted to know what the e-word meant. I smiled, and let Krystal take that one. “It’s when someone has to leave their home against their will,” she explained. End of the discussion. It hit me then that the girls were aware of the journey but not fully aware of the implications of what was happening — but how could they be? Even though they were every bit a part of the collateral damage of a policy that’s in effect declared war on immigrants, these two precious, displaced souls were happy just being my daughter’s playmates for a night. And that was just fine, because in my opinion, the less you understand of the reasons behind this nonsensical forcible exodus, the better. Afterward, the girls were playing board games, reading picture books, and running joyfully about the house until bedtime could be extended no longer.

After catching each other up on the various latest details of legal laments, family feuds and professional pinings, the parts that don’t get shared in Facebook statuses, we soaked in a moment to just be. Two sovereign women who, despite a lot of fear for having to leave behind something so integral to our identity — our home country — and despite having to become a part of a machisto culture that often fails to nourish our souls about us as much as our own cultures under-appreciated our partners, were still in this for the long haul, come hell or high water.

Her approach to exile will be different than mine — less bound to one location, and will take a proactive stance to try and make the most of it by traveling. It’s an admirable approach, and I truly hope it brings even more satisfaction than we have found in our situation — we are truly lucky to have the house and land we do, but we are essentially bound to it until we have the means again to loosen the legal/economic ties that bind us to this location.

Aside from the simply lovely aspects of having our families meet and hang out, I was struck by the nature of our reunion. How we ran to take the Facebook picture and what an achievement it felt like. How we recounted the meetings among “our kind.” When I met Crystal, when Krystal met Jennifer, when Raquel met Giselle, and so on. It’s as if every meeting is special — and it is — as we know, without articulating it, that we’re a burgeoning demographic, a movement without a leader, a spontaneous organization, allied without really wanting it — who asks for a sisterhood that is defined by a loss of autonomy? — but also absolutely needing it, growing bonds where they’ve been forcibly severed, by our own country.

This kind of alliance is the kind that reminds me of spontaneous healing, where the body patches up a scratch or a cut, where positivity takes over pain without thought or intention. I saw this in my daughter’s total welcoming of strangers in her happy Spanglish and when I heard the younger one finally responding in her own adopted tongue as naturally as I assumed she would. I saw this in my daughter’s stuffed animals I found among the bedding where the girls stayed, the ones she’d lent them so they could feel a little more “home” along their journey.

It was a positive force that brought our families together in the first place, the urge and instinct to unite with love rather than ostracize with hate. It’s what I wish more for our daughters’ world when we are no longer. This kind of encounter helped renew my faith that I’ve done the right things in a time when the results are sometimes so hard to live with, it’s so easy to question my own wisdom, question what the hell kind of world we are exactly living in, anyways.

*Krystal and her family on their way to their new home in exile*

So thanks for stopping by, Krystal. Blessed be your journey.

June 6, 2013June 7, 2013

Countdown to D.C.

Seven days until we go to Washington to deliver Amor and Exile to Congress. Even though we’ve already bought plane tickets and are thick into planning trip logistics, part of me still “no le ha caido el veinte.” That’s what they say here when something still hasn’t hit you yet.

Maybe it’s because I’m still so far away, in Mexico. I haven’t been to Washington in decades, but its policies affect me daily.

Maybe it’s because I’m still incredulous—and not only that we surpassed our campaign goal to raise $11,000 to send a copy of our book to every member of Congress. It’s still sinking in that we are finally done with our book, something that took over 3 years to complete and that’s required some serious trials of endurance to accomplish as a team.

There are times when this whole ride still seems somewhat dream-like (sometimes nightmarish). I got on this roller coaster nearly 12 years ago, when I met my husband, who is Mexican, in San Francisco in 2001. That’s when everything began to change for me. I discovered that our country has an undocumented class. I discovered that in many cases, marriage makes no difference any more. I had to decide whether to leave my country to keep my marriage together. I had to say goodbye to my friends, my family, my career as a science teacher. I moved to Mexico.

I’m currently sitting in the office of the Secretary of Exterior Relations. I took the bus here in the scorching, pre-rainy season Querétaro heat to get a Mexican passport. I need it in addition to my U.S. passport because I’ve been naturalized here since 2011. Becoming a Mexican citizen isn’t something I set out in life to do, but it was something that made economic and practical sense since my husband and I have to be here at least 10 years until he is eligible to apply for an I-212 waiver of his permanent bar from legally immigrating to the U.S. I am getting a Mexican passport so I can legally leave this country to go to my home country’s capital next week to ask that my husband, my family and millions of others like us might someday have a chance at getting a passport too.

They are very kind to me here, but of course, they are just as much about the rules as they are in the U.S. When I had to pay an unexpected $90 for a passport that I would really prefer to not purchase given my bank account’s precipitously low level, I tried to remember why I am doing this. It’s all for the long run—for my family’s well-being, to travel in good international stead, so I can claim my rightful spot among the many voices asking for legislative redress of a decades-long difficult situation—in person—no longer from afar.

n and m sf march 2006 — Nicole Salgado and her husband in San Francisco in 2006

When I was 23 and fell in love with my husband, I soon found out how much we were up against, and my world turned upside down. A long-time activist, I became silenced by fear, by disempowerment, for many more years than I could have imagined. I came close to losing faith in the system. But little by little, once in Mexico, as my cynicism about returning someday converted to self-reliance and survival (and sometimes thriving) in a developing country, I very slowly began to find my voice again. And then came Amor and Exile, after several years in it. I’ve regained some guarded hope in 2013—not just because of my own strength, but also with the support of others. I didn’t know it when I was 23, but I know now that I was never alone—that millions would experience my fate. Their stories, their struggles, are part of what propels me forward.

Perhaps what’s become clearer than ever as a result of this labor of bringing light to the very dark debate over immigration is the following: for every negative commentary or political prediction I hear about this issue, I observe something really positive. Not only is every single one of us who’s separated from our spouses, in exile, or living undocumented in the U.S. not alone—there are millions—but we all have families and friends who want us back safe in our communities. And they have friends too. We have friends and family who are willing to close the distance on thousands of miles and the seemingly similar distances in political rhetoric between where we are and where we want to be. That is the difference between what I knew at 23 and what I know now, and that is what I will try to remember every moment that I’m making it known while in Washington, D.C. next week.