I always felt that one of the worst ways I was wronged as a child was by my parents' choice to illegally immigrate to the United States, although I've always been scared to talk about it. I didn't want to get into a highly political topic. I didn't want people looking down on my for my parents' choice. I didn't want to come off like I was passing judgment onto people in a similar situation to us, because I don't know every single illegal immigrant and their reasons for doing what they did... but from my experience, it's usually no good.
That being said, a lot of my parents' abuse towards me has been incredibly difficult to describe. Some of it is too disturbing to comfortably write about or even try to put into words, and I feel like some of it is just too unusual and difficult for others to really understand. This issue is in the latter camp, but I have to talk about it. When I made this blog, I made it my mission to record as much of what my parents did to wrong me as I possibly could, to help others understand what abuse can look like and to help myself keep grounded if I ever consider resuming contact or start to miss my mom. And so far, it's helped. When I was tempted to reach out to my mom a couple of weeks ago, I reread a few of my posts, and the feelings went away.
I was 5 years old when my parents decided to illegally immigrate to the United States. My mom spent months carefully transferring money from account to account, to prove to the US embassy that we had the funds to get a tourist visa. Back then, the bank just printed a receipt with how much money you had, so it was reasonably easy to commit fraud by transferring your money between accounts, to make it seem like you had more than you really did. We weren't actually going to be tourists, but they wanted to illegally work here to make a bit more money for a couple of months, or so they say. My maternal grandma was already in the United States, illegally cleaning stores for money.
One night, my parents had someone drive us all to our country's capital city to get on a plane and go to the US. I didn't know what was going on, and I remember sleeping through most of it, until I threw up. I was weirded out by the experience, but I didn't think much of it. When we got to the US, I barely understood that we were in another country, partly because my parents mostly associated with other people from our country here.
For the first couple of months, we lived with several strange and dodgy roommates. I felt like we moved to a different apartment every month or so. The apartment was always in someone else's name, usually a part of an illegal business scheme involving an American citizen of Eastern European extraction trying to fit as many people as possible in one apartment, so that they could illegally work for him. If you didn't know, that's how these illegal immigration schemes often work. My parents were desperately looking for someone to illegally hire them in the long term and give them a place to live. Eventually, we settled in a major Southern city, where we'd stay for the next 20 years. We lived there with my maternal grandma until she moved back to our country when I was in 3rd grade. For nearly the entirety of those 20 years, we lived in a dingy little one-bedroom apartment, which often made the abuse inescapable, because my parents weren't legally able to get another apartment in their names.
Anyway, it wasn't until many years later that I figured out that we were here "without papers", and all of the different implications that this had. It scared me a lot to find out that I was literally not legally allowed to be in the place that I've been in since the age of 5. I think I started to figure out how serious this all was by the end of elementary school. Over time, the United States became my home and the only place in the world that I was really comfortable living in. How could they do this to me? Did it not matter to them that I'd grow up to feel like I belonged here, but could be deported to a country that was basically alien to me at any time?
Whenever I asked her why we came here, she couldn't really give me an answer. Sometimes, she'd say something about how "I read a book about slaves who lived in New Orleans, and I fell in love with America". I always felt like that was just something she thought normal people wanted to hear. It struck me as odd. Who moves to another country because they read one book?
Around the time that DACA was created and illegal immigration started to really get media attention, my parents really ate up all of the "illegal immigrants are hard-working, wonderful people who sacrificed everything to give their children a better life" narratives. I'm sure that it's true for a few illegal immigrants, but it wasn't true for my parents or any other illegal immigrant that I knew. Out of nowhere, my mom started concocting all sorts of weird stories about my country of birth being a terrible place to live, and how we just had to move here to avoid certain peril... and none of them were true. Our country of birth is one of the most developed in Eastern Europe, offering free healthcare and free university education to all citizens, with a fairly low crime rate.
One of my mom's strangest ideas was that the American government owed us American citizenship, because they sent secret agents to our country to infiltrate us and instill a democratic government, which lowered the quality of life so severely that we had no choice but to move to the United States. More on my mom's bizarre attachment to communism later, but the important thing is that this isn't true. It never happened. That's not why communism ended in our country, and even if it was, it wouldn't entitle her to American citizenship. Plus, our lives back in our country weren't bad at all - all of our needs were met, my parents just weren't as wealthy as they would have liked. I think that deep down inside, my mom knew that she screwed up, and was trying to come up with anything to make her decision seem justifiable.
When I was in middle school, my mom was really eating the consequences of her actions. By this point, I was thoroughly integrated into American culture. I'm still Eastern European, and proudly so, but I was very comfortable here. I fluently spoke English, I had many American friends, and the American way of life was my default. Yet, my mom couldn't secure a future for me here. The slightest mistake would mean being sent back to a country I hardly remembered. Of course, this was never her fault. She followed the news surrounding the possible immigration reform religiously, and would have me translate every article she could find about it. I spent my teenage years worried to death about the possibility of being deported, and riding an emotional roller coaster with my mom about the possibility of maybe being here legally one day.
It felt like every other week that she'd change our plan on which country we were going to live in. "That's it, we're moving back home, I can't take it anymore!" one week, and then "I don't care, I'm staying here, I've earned it!" the next week. The instability was certainly not good for my mental health. I didn't know if I'd be saying goodbye to everything I knew and loved or if I'd be able to stay here and go on like everything was normal. I can't even put into words how much of my time and energy the constant drama around our lack of papers ate up. My mom blamed me for having American friends, crushes on American boys, or any attachments to the United States - "great, that's just what I needed you to do, fall in love with an American so that I can never get you to leave this place". As if that wasn't just part and parcel of growing up somewhere, and as if it wouldn't have been her fault if I was torn from this place. Was I just supposed to stop experiencing life at all, because of her decision to illegally immigrate to the United States?
On a slightly political note (it's unavoidable with this topic), I feel like a lot of the young activists for illegal immigration misplace the blame for their problems. The vast majority of the illegal immigrants I've known, of various ethnicities, weren't running from war or extreme poverty. Most of them just wanted a little bit more money, and were willing to risk their children having to grow up in another country illegally to achieve that, because they didn't care. The sheer amount of instability and uncertainty that they force upon their children is beyond abusive in my eyes. Besides, what opportunities do you have if you're here illegally? It's not like you can go to college or get a real job. And it's quite taboo to blame your parents for anything in most cultures - thus, they blame the terrible American government for not accommodating millions of people who came here illegally to have fancy, nice things. For a long time, I fell for this line of thinking too.
My parents nearly fell for all sorts of stupid immigration scams. One day, my dad brought home the idea that there was a lawyer in our city that was able to get people green cards if their children attended American schools. My mom was smart enough to shoot that one down quick. There was also a mysterious Russian lawyer whose existence I really doubt, who was supposedly setting people up for green card marriages for a hefty price. Everyone claimed that he existed, but no one had his contact information. One of my mom's affairs lead to her divorcing my dad briefly so that she could marry a serial felon, in hopes of getting a green card. Needless to say, it didn't work out.
When I was in high school, my grades were really low and I skipped class all of the time. I'd just hang out in the bathroom when I was supposed to be in class. The one I skipped the most was AP European History, approximately 140 times - the class my mom insisted I take because we're proud Europeans. But I just didn't care. If I'm here illegally, why even bother? I can't use these grades to go to college. Not even my high school diploma mattered because it wasn't like I'd ever be able to have a job. My parents didn't see how not providing me with a safe study environment or the ability to do anything with my education was going to make me stop caring, and of course, I was blamed for this. They kept telling me that they wanted me to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or a banker, with no regard to what I wanted or whether this was even possible for me. I was expected to try my hardest in AP classes just so I could scrub toilets for $7.50/hr under a stolen social security number for the rest of my life. I didn't see the point, so I didn't do it.
I spent all of my free time playing video games or acting out on the internet. I barely showered and I ate crappy food. I did all sorts of things for attention. I cut myself and I ran a blog online where I posted purposely inflammatory content. Life felt completely and utterly pointless if my parents put me in a position where the most I could accomplish was illegally cleaning stores for the rest of my life and hoping I didn't get caught. If I ever told my mom that I was depressed, she told me "all of your needs are met, what do you have to be depressed about?", as if merely keeping me alive was enough, and as if I didn't have the right to feel upset by the fact that they put me in this position. I had nothing to look forward to or any hope of this ever getting better.
Eventually, I became a DACA recipient, around the age of 17. I was happy, because this meant that I could go to college, albeit as an out-of-state student because DACA recipients weren't considered residents, and I could get a driver's license and a job. But suddenly, my parents started pressuring me to put everything in my name. Their utility bills, their cars, their apartment, everything. They tried to convince me that this was for my own good, because "it would build up a history of those things in my name", but really, they were placing an unfair burden on me that I personally think no child should have to take on for their parents, even if they're all citizens of the country they live in. Due to my upbringing, I felt like I didn't really have a choice. Previously, those things were all in my aunt's name, who was just as personality disordered as my parents, and they were tired of her holding it over their heads.
This part is particularly difficult for me to talk about, but my mom pressured me into an abusive marriage with a man I met online. He waited until my 18th birthday to talk to me, and I didn't see how strange this was at the time. I was aware of many of the difficulties in my family life, and he made me feel really special and listened to me about my problems. He promised me a good life in accordance to our religion and made himself out to be everything I looked for in a man, and as soon as he felt like I didn't have a way out, he became the opposite. Because he had something to gain, he joined my parents in manipulating me into a very swift courtship. Needless to say, the marriage eventually failed, but I did become an American citizen during this time. This isn't how I wanted it to happen. I always believed that marriage was a very special, eternal covenant to be taken very seriously.
Admittedly, if it wasn't for that situation, I don't know how my life would have turned out. I don't even think I'd be in the United States anymore. My parents insist that despite the extreme abuse, I should be thankful to him for the rest of my life for giving me papers. My mom once said that he should be canonized as a Saint (not something she even believes in), because he indirectly gave her the opportunity to get papers, which is all it took for her to think he was a wonderful person. And they also think I was abusing him by expecting him to stop abusing me - similar logic was always applied to my relationship with them, typical DARVO. You have to keep in mind that they have consistently sided with those who hurt me and hated those who treated me well as long as I've been alive. It was always "what you did to that poor boy", and not "gee, it sure is weird how a much older man moved into our house, didn't pay a dime for years, made you to work 60 hour weeks to pay for his hobbies, and even had his friends threaten your life at one point". Absolutely devoid of any empathy.
There was a point where I hated my life so much that I lived out of my car to avoid him and my parents. I remember regularly standing on top of the parking garage at my university and contemplating jumping off. I developed the habit of smoking at least one pack of Newport cigarettes every day. When I decided that the relationship got too abusive to continue, my parents shamed me into staying because they had a lot to gain from me being with him. I could go on, but this is one thing I try to keep in the past - I'm in a happy and successful marriage now, and my life did eventually turn around, no thanks to my parents. It still wasn't fair to be set up for failure the way I was, despite the fact that I did end up beating the odds. My parents absolved themselves of any blame because things ended up "working out" in the end.
Trump got elected when I was about 19 years old, weeks after I married the abuser. I knew it would be hard to avoid politics in this post, but my parents fell for all of the insane fear mongering about how he's trying to deport the millions of hard-working illegal immigrants who are keeping the country together. My mom decided that driving was too risky for her, because she could get deported - and I became her personal driver for the next 5 years of my life. There's a post incoming about that, too, since it was such a lengthy and complex situation - but I really felt like it robbed me of my youth more than most other things that they did. I had to sacrifice jobs, college classes, friendships, and a plethora of other things to placate my mom. If I ever suggested that it was too much for me, she put on a manipulative show about "I guess I'll just buy a car and drive... and if I get deported, oh well...", which worked to put me back in line. She'd brag to people about how her daughter loves her so much that she drives her around everywhere, and how she bets their kids would never do that for them.
My mom was a huge fan of the Dreamer movement, which was a movement for young people whose parents were illegal immigrants. Their symbol was a monarch butterfly, because it migrates throughout the year. She convinced me to get matching tattoos with her of a monarch butterfly - probably the only tattoo I have that I thoroughly regret. I hate everything that movement stands for, but like I said, my parents really clung to all of the propaganda so that they could feel better about the mess they had created. She made me promise to always fight for illegal immigrants, because they're my people, and we've been wronged so much. Today, she couldn't give a rat's ass about the movement, because she eventually got what she wanted and decided that she hates Hispanics too much to care anymore.
On a side note, around this time, I read a book by actress Diane Guerrero about her upbringing with illegal immigrant parents. Looking back, her book described extreme levels of abuse at the hands of her highly dysfunctional parents, who were definitely just looking for more money, and not running from certain death like the media would have you believe illegal immigrants are doing. The book was written in a way that really manipulated you to feel bad for them, and not angry that they were willing to do this to their child. My mom loved Jose Antonio Vargas, a Filipino illegal immigrant whose parents set him up for failure by falsifying legal documents to get him into the United States. I feel like even the "best" stories of people who grew up in these circumstances still paint a very grim picture of their parents' morality and ability to raise a child. Much of the "activism" at this time involved things like suicide threats, in the form of "I'll commit suicide if I'm deported" - does that sound familiar to anyone who knows anything about narcissistic abuse?
Both of my parents would frequently mope about how hard it is to be an illegal immigrant. One time, my dad struggled to find work - because no one in their right mind would hire an illegal immigrant if they can just hire an American citizen and not get in trouble for it. "They just don't want to hire people... like us...", the "like us" being said as if he was a black man living under Jim Crow who was being discriminated against for something outside of his control. Absolutely zero awareness of the fact that the world doesn't owe them anything, and that they brought this situation upon themselves.
And after I became an American citizen, there was immense pressure on me to sponsor them. I remember one time where I expressed to my mom that I won't maintain contact with my dad once I move out. "What, so you won't even sponsor us? You won't get us green cards? Will you still talk to me?". She didn't care about why I didn't want to talk to him anymore, just about whether or not it would affect her material well-being.
For context, there are some rules for sponsoring an immigrant, namely that they're an immediate relative and that you're able to financially provide for them so that they don't use welfare services intended for American citizens. This agreement is for 10 years or until the person dies, becomes a citizen, or permanently leaves the country. You agree to pay for all of their expenses if they are in a dire situation where the only other alternative is a welfare program. I couldn't make enough money, so the search for a co-sponsor commenced. Obviously, this is something you should only agree to for a person you know intimately and trust not to abuse it... because you could be on the hook for a lot of money if something goes wrong.
My parents had no shame. They asked random people they knew through work, and they were deeply offended when these people told them no. My mom had the audacity to ask me to ask my priest if anyone at my church would be willing to sponsor them - a church she detested and made fun of regularly, might I add. One time after picking her up from work, I wanted to get a burger, and she cried in the drive-thru so much about how this is so unfair and everyone is being so mean to her, because "sponsorship is just a signature on a piece of paper, it doesn't mean anything!", that I just pulled out and went back home... I just wanted a damn burger, and I didn't have the energy to explain to her that taking on the responsibility of another person's financial decisions for a decade isn't "just a meaningless signature". I suppose it's meaningless if you're not the one who would owe the government money if a person you hardly know decided to go on food stamps when they weren't supposed to. There were multiple times where she threatened suicide if she didn't get a co-sponsor soon.
Eventually, a distant relative who was an American citizen bit. I spent months being yelled at that I wasn't filling out the 100+ page packets of immigration paperwork quickly enough - work that a lawyer would charge approximately $5000 for. I was made to schedule unnecessary legal appointments, redo entire packets because she didn't think my handwriting was neat enough, and translate and put together all supporting documentation that was required... and it was mailed off. She asked me to ask my priest to bless the paperwork... which isn't how blessings work, she literally doesn't believe in God, and she looks down on my religion, but I had enough sense to not embarrass myself in front of him about this issue for a second time. And after a couple of months, they got their stupid fucking green cards. To which my mom said, "I thought I'd feel a lot more excited when I finally got a green card".
My mom eventually admitted that all of this was a mistake... I'm sure it was just another fleeting emotion, though. The woman couldn't hold a consistent opinion for more than a week to save her life. It wasn't a mistake because of how much it hurt me, though. It was a mistake because she was upset at how "American" I turned out. This was around the time I told her that I'm moving out and will not be her personal driver anymore. She convinced herself that the reason I developed a sense of self-respect, started saying "no" to them, and wanted better for myself is because "the Americans brainwashed me". She had pretty much always had negative feelings about Americans. American women weren't domestic enough, American men were useless and not handy, American culture was vapid, Americans didn't eat real food... no shortage of criticism towards the people she believed unequivocally owed her citizenship, money, and luxuries.
Today, we don't speak to each other. I had enough. Every time that I'd try to bring up to them that this maybe wasn't the best course of action to take, I'd be met with all sorts of dismissal and guilt tripping. "Oh, so why don't you just move back if what we did was so wrong?". Because I grew up here, and it wasn't my fault that you made a poor decision. "You don't appreciate what we did for you!". You forced me to grow up in absolute uncertainty of my future because you wanted to be able to buy more fancy, shiny things. No one keeps up with the Joneses like an illegal immigrant. My grandma called it "moving to another country so you could own one more pair of jeans" - which is true. That's why they do it. I've yet to meet an exception. It wasn't the first or last time my parents traded my dignity and my safety for material things.
A part of why I was always terrified to report the abuse I grew up with was because I knew that I could get deported if I did. There were other reasons, but this was probably the biggest one. Or even my parents could get deported - and then I wouldn't have any way to survive here, as a minor who was dependent on them. I was utterly and completely stuck. By the time I figured out that I was being abused and that something like CPS existed to help people like me, I had also figured out that if I ever reported my parents, my entire life would be uprooted forever. Their immigration status was used to manipulate me into things I would have never considered if the threat of being taken away from everything I knew wasn't constantly looming over my head - and this was not the government's fault, it wasn't the fault of conservative Americans, it was only my parents' fault. They chose this for me, and no one forced them to.
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