My Undocumented Neighbor

• This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

I was checking my mail, when she passed by and gave my sidewalk patch a disapproving look.  “You should pull up those weeds.  They’re going to invade my side.” I give her an apologetic smile and say, “I know, I know.”

I’m used to her grouchiness.  One day she is mad at me, and the next day, she comes over with a bowl of albóndiga soup.  “How’s your mom, after all?”

Her eyes light up, “She’s good.  They sent her home!”

“Where is she again?”

“Michoacan! I told her, Mamá, you have to wait until I come and visit you to die.”

“When is the last time you were there?”

“Seven years ago.”

“That’s a long time ago.  How often do you visit?”

“In twenty-five years, I’ve only been there 4 times. You know, with the kids being small and my husband working, it wasn’t easy going back and forth. I was able to go seven years ago, and my kids tell me to go and visit, but if I do, I don’t think I’ll ever come back.”

“I understand.  Life here isn’t the same. I’m sure you live with nostalgia for the lifestyle there. I’m sure it would be wonderful for you to retire there.”

“Oh. I wouldn’t come back because it is so hard to cross the border now without documents.”

“¿En serio Doña Magdalena? ¿No tienes documentos? ¿Pero desde cuando estás aquí?”

“I’ve been here 25 years.”

I was floored.  I’ve known Doña Magdalena for 15 years.  She is an active member of our chamber of commerce and our neighborhood council.  She has two children who are homeowners in the neighborhood. I had no idea she was undocumented.    

It turns out she didn’t get into the amnesty program of the 1980s, but remained in the country.  Her children, who are now college graduates and homeowners, crossed the border with her as toddlers, and were able to obtain their documents through immigration legislation enacted during the Obama administration.  They have had their documents for five years now. 

We stood at my chain link fence, as the sun was setting over our ever-gentrifying barrio, her sharing about being undocumented and probably not seeing her mother before she passes away, and what that means to her.  She shared how conflicted she was, feeling like she had to choose between her own children here, and her own mother.  Who needed her more?  And she had to make her decision based on the fact that she knew she could never manage to get back across the border without her papers this time around. 

We were officially at dusk when she looked back at my sidewalk patch and said, “Pull up those weeds m’ija.  Don’t make more work for me, on my side.” 

“Ok. Doña Magdalena.  I will. “

I still haven’t done it.