Next, Maria got a job working in a Denver Public Schools kitchen. From there, she stepped up to a janitorial job with better pay and benefits.
If Maria can stay out of trouble for the next couple of years, she may manage to avoid being deported. Someone who came to this country on a visa, who's been here ten years and has two anchor babies who were born here, who has a sister who's a citizen and whose parents are legal residents -- someone like Maria -- has a chance of becoming legal.
Anthony Camera
Anthony Camera
Family plan: Lilian is at home in America with her son,
husband and mother.
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Maria's in better shape than her husband, who snuck across the border, or another woman who showed up in Lilian's office, crying that immigration officials took her husband and child. Cases like those appeal to Lilian. But she also wants clients like Ricardo Estrada Dardón.
Lilian always asks potential clients the same two things: how they entered the country and whether they're married to a U.S. citizen. Those two factors can be the saving grace -- or damning detail -- of any immigration case. Ricardo is a Guatemalan attorney who's been bouncing back and forth between the U.S. and his homeland since 1971, always legally. Now he wants a green card, "like everybody else," Lilian says. And he's got a good shot, because he wants to start a business here, a business that would create jobs for U.S. citizens.
The two met at a French restaurant for lunch. Lilian took about three minutes' worth of notes, and then the conversation warmed up. They both ordered steak, and when a bottle of red wine arrived, Ricardo insisted that Lilian approve it. The lunch was filled with laughter and memories of Latin America, even a few verses of classic Spanish tunes. They reminisced about the first time they heard the Beatles, and contemplated the differences between their home cultures and life here, where everything is so rushed.
Dictionaries translate the Spanish word amableinto "kind" or "good." But those definitions don't do the word justice. There's a warmth to amable, a respect, love and admiration unique to Latino cultures. Ricardo and Lilian see each other as muy amable.
"I live for that," Lilian says, after lunch with her new friend and possible client.
Lilian is feeling optimistic about her practice these days. "I think whoever hires me has a sense of confidence," she says. "I do tell them everything that I think, and I do tell them that although I cannot give them any advice on anything illegal, I can give them all the scenarios, like most attorneys do."
She warns undocumented immigrants to live smart, stay out of trouble. She tells them not to drive drunk, to follow the speed limit and to make sure their cars are in working order. Don't break any laws, she tells them.
She doesn't understand how some people could hate her for advising illegal immigrants to stay out of trouble if they want to stay in this country. And she understands why so many people want to come here.
Lilian hates it that the Mexican government is living large while the people starve -- but she knows it's not the U.S.'s fault. "In the Third World, in countries like mine, we do suffer more," she says. "But unfortunately, we cannot send the invoice to America and have America be in charge of everything." She wishes that immigrants could come work here legally and avoid a life in the shadows, a life where they're taken advantage of or stand to lose everything if their deportation day comes.
In February, Lilian was invited by Citizenship and Immigration Services to share her story with about sixty new citizens at a naturalization ceremony. Nervous, she faced the crowd. "I was one of you," she told them. "A few years ago, I was sitting in that chair being sworn in myself.
"In the Third World, people talk about the American dream, and I'm living it. I'm very fortunate."
