‘I kept going’
It was the middle of the night when she left San Salvador, that stained Salvadoran city she called home. Daisy Perla saw the fading lights of the Parque Libertad, where 13 years earlier the Massacre of 1977 happened. The images of soldiers descending on the crowd would never leave her. The cries of women and children at the foot of the El Rosario Church begging to be let in by the friars would stay with her always.
As the bus trundled on through the dust-caked road, making its way north into Mexico, Perla thought of her boy. Francisco Perla was 8 in 1990, the year his mother left for the United States. Born two years after the Salvadoran Civil War broke out, he learned about the world through the lens of violence and danger. She would not let him come with her. He was sent to live with his grandmother in La Union.
“I never wanted to put my child in danger,” Perla said. “I didn’t want to show him any of this.”
Perla arrived in Mexico City days later. Hawkers and peddlers swarmed the streets. She soon found out that unlike Hondurans or Guatemalans, she and other Salvadorans could pass for Mexicans from Veracruz due to their similar accents, called “jaracho.” But her luck didn’t last. Just moments before she was to re-board her route to the border, a man approached her at a public telephone, shouting indiscernible questions. She waved him off and he left. When she looked down at her hand, Perla realized the ticket she had been holding was gone.
It was May and the sun beat down in the Federal District, by far the biggest city she had seen. She was alone.
Her trip would get more arduous but she found inspiration elsewhere.
“I have faith in God and in good people.” Perla said. “And I met someone who told me I could stay in their house. They gave me a bed. They gave me food. I worked there for a little while, and afterwards, I kept going.”
Eventually she found herself on a different bus, but her destination was the same: The United States. However, she still wasn’t there. When the bus finally stopped, a man toward the front ordered everyone out. He told them to run. She can’t recall the images from that night, or even when she crossed the border, just the heavy falling of breath in the desert night. Somewhere in south Texas, they reached a bus station.
Finding a new start
In the center conference room of the Central American Resource Center of Washington, D.C., or CARECEN, a Columbia Heights nonprofit, she wears the years with a smile. Before her sits a stack of fliers and a call list. Perla began volunteering for CARECEN shortly after arriving in the city in the early 1990s. For the past few days she’s been rallying the local community for the immigration reform march set to take place the following week on the National Mall. But by the fourth day of the government shutdown, the event’s organizers are on high alert. Around the country, news agencies are breaking stories about closed monuments and the wrath of visitors. The Mall is a ghost town.
Return to El Salvador
Three months after emigrating, in September 1990, she found a job as a nanny for a well-to-do Chevy Chase family. The pregnant wife was due before the end of the year and needed the help that her working husband couldn’t give her. The wife went back to work after giving birth to her daughter, and Perla stayed. She stayed with the family for eight years, through the birth of another baby girl and the kids’ days in elementary school. She cooked for them and bathed them, even taught them Spanish.
“I took care of them like they were my children,” she remembers.
But they weren’t hers. Her child came to her once a month, materialized on a postcard with the pencil scratching’s of a young boy, or a distant voice crackling through the phone. She remembers the ache:
“It was really hard when I couldn’t come and he would tell me, ‘Mommy, it’s Christmas and you’re not with me. Mommy, it’s Mother’s Day and you’re not with me. Mommy, I don’t remember what you look like.’ ”
Years after arriving, she risked everything and returned to El Salvador to tend to her sick mother in La Union, the fishing port city where her family lived. But what she thought would be an emotional homecoming, a filial reunion, ended in a bitter realization. Francisco now stood at equal height to Daisy. His frame was bigger than that of the small child she had cradled under her bed when government forces besieged San Salvador for three days and she had to shield him from stray bullets. Now, he wouldn’t meet her eyes. He resisted her touch, the 2,000 miles still present even as she stood within arms length of him. Perla flew back to Washington, wrought with grief.
“I’m paying a very big price to be her,” she remembered telling herself in the days after her return. “I’m losing my child.
It was time to leave the family that employed her. The girls were older. They no longer needed her. But again, she felt the pang of departure, of leaving.
“It wasn’t the way I wanted it to be, but it was necessary. I spoke with the oldest and asked for her forgiveness. Their entire lives were with me, and all of a sudden I wasn’t there,” she said.
After bouncing around jobs in the kitchens of different Washington businesses, Perla graduated from Carlos Rosario charter school with a certification in culinary arts. She went to work for Teen Bridges, a program of the Latin American Youth Center, where she remains today, teaching basic life skills such as cooking and grocery shopping to underprivileged and formerly abused adolescents of the District’s child welfare agency. But she still volunteers for CARECEN when she finds time.
Waiting on Washington
Perla said that in some ways it’s her duty to rally support for the upcoming march.
“I think it’s important that while the Congressmen are fighting, the Latin American community takes to the streets, so that they know we are here and we aren’t leaving,” she explained.
She also has personal impetus for wanting change on the immigration front: she’s waited for Francisco for 23 years.
In 1990, Perla applied for Temporary Protected Status, a new provision of the Immigration and Nationality Act that guaranteed amnesty for immigrants hailing from war-torn and disaster-struck regions. When Temporary Protected Status ended for Salvadorans in 1992 during the Clinton administration, so did her son’s hope for residency. But Perla, grandfathered into the system, was granted asylum in 1996 under the Nicaraguan Adjustment and Central American Relief Act. By the time she finally got her green card in 2003, her son was no longer a minor so was considered a low priority for the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services.
“I’m still waiting to find out if my son will get his residency status… He has always been waiting, to come legally,’’ she said. “He has never wanted to come the way the majority of them come to this country. He never wanted that.”
A dream deferred
In April of this year, not far from Perla’s 14th street apartment, a group of senators gathered on Capitol Hill to “hash out” a solution to the crisis of 11.7 million undocumented immigrants and backlogged visa queues. The so-called “Gang of Eight” drafted an immigration reform act that would grant those 11 million the opportunity, or “pathway” for American citizenship.
Marcy Campos, the director of the Center for Community Engagement and Service at American University, and professor of a course called “The Latino Community of the DC Metropolitan Area,” describes the recent hubbub surrounding the debate.
“It’s the timing, it’s the demographics, it’s Obama, and it’s also all the organizations that are playing an active roll in organizing,” she said. “There’s a lot more unity. There’s a lot more activism.”
The Border Security, Economic Opportunity and Immigration Modernization Act would make near impossible the 1990 trip Perla took across the border. The act calls for the installation of 350 new miles of fencing, armed security personnel, new towers, all at a $46 billion price tag. But it would also bring the immigration quotas for visas up to date, and do away with the cap on numbers from certain countries like El Salvador.
But to the dismay of millions, the bill is languishing in the House of Representatives, where the once fiery debate for reform has been sequestered by a swath of political issues, from the use of chemical weapons in Syria to, most recently, the shutdown of the federal government.
Campos, who said that in the spring she couldn’t go a day without reading about the debate, said the once-bubbling media attention has fizzled.
“A lot of things have happened in between then, and it’s slowed down a lot,” she said.
Kristen Williamson, a spokeswoman for the Federation of American Immigration Reform (FAIR), a political nonprofit organization, opposes the bill. She said giving a pathway to citizenship to the country’s nearly 12 million undocumented residents would be giving “amnesty” to criminal behavior.
“At a time when our country is facing unemployment and underemployment, we think that congressmen and women should be focusing on Americans and not illegal and legal immigrants,” she said.
Though a supporter of systemic reform, her suggestion for change is a different beast. Even though President Obama set a record deportation number of 1.5 million undocumented immigrants in his first term, Williamson still decries what she considers the failure of “interior enforcement.”
She supports the increase of programs like Secure Communities that mandate the collaboration of local and federal law enforcement agencies with Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the deportation enforcement agency of the Department of Homeland Security. Williamson said FAIR would also like to see a nationwide implementation of the E-Verify program, which is designed to weed out undocumented immigrants from the workplace.
Williamson said that visas and other legal avenues for immigrants should be reduced as well. Once the incoming numbers are lowered, she said that sending people back to their countries after their statuses expire is the next step. She suggests “biometrics,” a strategy embraced by various House Republicans that calls for the fingerprinting and database indexing so to track all legal newcomers to the country.
“The most important aspect of entry-exit is the exit portion,” she said.
A price too high
Though safeguarding American jobs for Americans is an imperative, all to often tax-paying workers are estranged from their families as a result of dated policy.
After he turned 21, Francisco Perla idled in the backwaters of the immigration pool. Now 31, his best chance at coming to the United States is through employer-based preference, a tightly bound system where supply at the current quota rate has no chance, nor intention, of meeting demand.
The U.S.’s quota for H1 visas, or visas for highly skilled workers, capped out after five days last fiscal year. H2B visas, which Francisco could be eligible for, have had similar outcomes in four of the last 10 years. But the nonagricultural workers covered by H2B visas face an interesting challenge. Not only must an American employer sponsor them, but the sponsor must also prove that “there are not enough U.S. workers who are able, willing, qualified, and available to do the temporary work.” Less than 4,000 applications were certified in 2012.
The years have taken their toll on Perla and her son. Francisco, now a father, spouse and ornithologist for a reforesting organization, has put immigrating to the U.S on the back burner.
“He’s not going to come stay. He’s coming to get his residency and leave.” Perla said, her tone weary.
“I know that I have a very fragile relationship with my son,” she added sadly. “I failed being with him, seeing him grow… This is the price I’ve paid. He doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him.”
A march in October
Tuesday, Oct 8th, the day of the immigration march. Earlier that week, the Obama administration announced it would open the occasion. Perla takes the 11:15 bus to 12th Street and Independence Avenue. She walks passed the rows of American elm trees, past the bearded men wielding signs equating immigrants with sin and toward a collage of flags, colors and smiling faces. In the otherwise quiet morning on the National Mall, the swell of chants in Spanish and English break the morning air.
In her CARECEN shirt she scans the crowd. All around her are the logos and signs of organizations. But the CARECEN shirts passed out in the center one week before are nowhere to be found. The clock strikes noon and Nancy Pelosi takes the stage, a miniscule figure under the “Camino Americano” banner.
“The blood of immigrants runs through all our veins,” Pelosi yells into the microphone, stoking cheers and whistles from the crowd.
Perla makes her way past TV reporters and cameramen, toward the left side of the stage. Still, no one.
But then, just as Pelosi descends in time for a photo-op and as the host announces the next band, she spots them: a small group of white shirts with bright orange letters behind the Jumbotron. There in the middle, a sign reads “CARECEN.” She sees the smiling faces of the center’s staffers, volunteers, and community members. As the Mexican band, Los Tigres del Norte, bellow out their famous ballad “De Paisano a Paisano,” she joins them.
Como el águila en vuelo
como la fiera en celo
defendiendo el honor
he pasado la vida
explorando otras tierras
para darles a mis hijos
un mañana mejor.
Like the eagle in flight
Like the beast in heat
Exploring new lands
To give to my sons,
A better tomorrow.