We are a family of immigrants. Not in the traditional sense, however. We migrated to Denver from the East Coast when my wife got a job in a community health clinic in order to pay off a debt to the National Health Service Corps., which paid for her grad school.
Two weeks after arriving, we found out my wife was pregnant. We were living with a friend while looking for our own place and knew very few people here.
So what do you do when you’re alone in a city? Many of us seek out someone who’s in the same boat as we are, another displaced person who’s left family behind. And we build a new family, together.
Family is central to the immigration debate. Thinking first of family helps me stop talking about immigrants – “them” – as if they are really that different from “us.” It moves me beyond the issue of immigration. It helps me remember that they, and we, are family, friends and neighbors caught up by forces and dynamics beyond the control of any one person, but forces we can influence if we work together.
After moving to Denver, we needed someone to care for our daughter, Linea, because my wife was required to return to full-time work as part of her federal contract. Ana was referred to us by a co-worker after two other caregivers fell through.
Ana was an immigrant, a single mom, a breast-cancer survivor, a college graduate from Peru, living in a small two-bedroom apartment in Thornton. She was in the country without the the necessary papers. But when you’re looking for someone to take care of your firstborn, skill, trust and communication matter far more than immigration status.
Over time, a relationship developed with Ana. Our family became part of hers. We shared Christmas and birthday celebrations. Though our daughter has grandparents scattered around the world, Ana became her grandma in Denver.
“Abuela Ana” did better than we did in that first year of transition and new-baby chaos, establishing a routine, teaching Linea rhymes and songs, getting her to take her dishes to the kitchen after eating and even to pray before meals.
Linea was soon the one reminding us to pause and give thanks before our meals. Because of Ana, Linea’s first words were in Spanish. Ana was there to listen as Amy struggled with the difficulties of being a new parent in an unfamiliar place.
In late December 2004, a few days before our second daughter was born, Ana went into the hospital for nebulous stomach problems. Doctors spent the next two months trying to figure out what was wrong. Ana finally was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She held on as long as she could, hoping to see her oldest son graduate from college. But she didn’t make it, dying on Nov. 17 last year.
The immigration conflict in our society reflects the global rending of families and communities. The transience of people is nothing new; it’s been happening since humans set foot on the Earth. Yet often, the reasons we start out on a journey are not the ones we give thanks for at the end. The debate polarizes those who call immigrants “undocumented” and those who call them “illegal.”
I would just like to call them “family” and give thanks.
By the conventional measures of our society, Ana didn’t amount to much: She was not rich, powerful or influential. She was not even able to vote in the country she’d lived in for years. But to her family, friends and church, she was rich in love. To the infants and toddlers she took under her wing in that tiny Thornton apartment, she was the center of the universe. To the adults in her life, she held the power of a listening ear and loyal friendship.
So, as an American migrant, I want to thank the people of Peru, and Ana’s family members still struggling in this immigrant land. Most of you don’t even know what you missed when Ana moved to the inner suburbs of Denver, but we gained an abuela Peruana. Some would call her illegal, but to us she simply proved that compassion and love have no border or boundary. It takes no green card or visa to find a family home. Gracias, a Peru for sending us your best.
Jeremy Simons (jasimons@gmail.com) is a restorative justice facilitator for Denver Public Schools and lives in inner-city Denver with his wife and two daughters.
