We got married in my parents’ living room in Boulder, the day after Trump was sworn in on January 21, 2017. This was no accident. You may remember his “American carnage” speech, and we were worried about what would happen next.
Because of my father’s illness, our wedding was just for immediate family, including my parents, my brother, my wife’s cousin, and her husband. Halfway through the ceremony, my father vomited. We didn’t talk about politics. We didn’t turn on the TV or watch the Women’s March, although we learned about it later.
We filed our immigration papers that Monday.
At our first immigration interview, we revealed all the embarrassing facts of our relationship under oath, exploring our personal depths to prove our love. Yes, we met on Tinder. Yes, when we went on a road trip to Las Vegas, we stayed at a cheap Super 8 motel (it was dog-friendly), choosing to spend our money on the buffet and the roller coaster. Yes, she sleeps on the right side of the bed.
The interviewer took notes. Detailed notes.
We used an interpreter for her part of the interview, not because she couldn’t speak English, but because she was so nervous that she feared she would say something wrong and be denied (or deported – that was our mindset at the time). Instead, it was her interpreter who messed up, signaling through miscommunication that she had willingly participated in a social-security scam. We were told she would have to come back the next day. Nervous. Sweating. Scared.
Somewhere on record with our federal government is a record that my wife has never been, nor has she tried to be, a terrorist, a communist, a human trafficker or a prostitute. She has never tried to overthrow a government. She has never dealt drugs.
The government knows her hair and eyes are brown, though I don’t think they know how beautiful her eyes are. They know she’s 5 foot 3 inches, but they don’t know, and they’ve never asked, how perfectly her body matches mine, question marks curled up and splayed on our shared bed at home.