Driving Ms. Jaime

I thought I'd be at least fifty years old before I found myself nervously waiting for my baby to finish his driver's test.

But there I was, sitting next to a middle-aged man and his tiny granddaughter while my thirty-year-old husband, who's been driving since the age of 18, circled downtown with a smokin' examiner.

He was waiting for his wife, so we felt each other. The conversation eventually turned to the detention center across the street. "Man, that's a bad, bad place," he said. My white privilege answered, "Yeah, I wouldn't want to work there!" I'm no fool, I watch OTNB. "Well, I wouldn't want to be there again." Dammit. I'm a fool.

Jaime pulled up right as a bunch of former guests were being released out onto the sidewalk. I guess one could describe the atmosphere as euphoric. Jaime's hot cop assumed that he was afraid of them, but he explained to her that he was just startled by the excitement. I think it was because his nerves were totally shot.

For months, we'd been talking about his license, and for weeks, he'd been driving me crazy about it.
"How exactly would you describe this sign?"
Stop.
"Mmm-hmm. And what exactly are they going to ask me at all times?" 
I don't remember. I was 15.
"Unacceptable."

I'd been doing most of the driving for months. He has a Spanish liscense, as well as an international driving permit, but the United States is better than every country combined, so we were worried about him being pulled over with foreign documents.

I was so proud of my giant baby when he happily bounded out of our giant Buick, though I really shouldn't have been because of course the man can drive a damn car. I was also excited that he was going to stop peppering me with questions he already knew the answers to, but I was mostly excited that he'd be driving a lot more.

False.

Now it's, "Oh god! We're in his blind spot! Pass! Pass!" or "This guy is not giving me the proper three seconds! He's eating my ass right up!"

My husband might be a neurotic driver, but he's also a great one. Therefore, I'm happy to splay out in the passenger seat when he lets me because we still argue over who has to drive much to my chagrin.

I am a passenger.  (link)

Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition

In Barcelona, I had been accidentally sleeping with someone for weeks when he mistakenly came over one night.

"That was fast," I said. "I came on a bike."
"I didn't know you had a bike." "It is my wife's."
"Mmhmm...Come again?"

That was my first real run in with what we call a green card marriage, and I had a lot more after that.

Of course, I would have married a girl friend because they have a lot more staying power, though at that time, it would only have been valid in Spain. I never really considered it, but it appealed to me way more than getting real married. Might as well get something out of it, right?

Fast forward to asking my boyfriend of three months to marry me.

Like Charles Manson, I had to marry the person I wanted to stay close to, but unlike Charles Manson, I had to prove the legitimacy of my relationship.

And please let me assure you all that our relationship is Le.Git.I.Mate. We do things in front of each other of which I should be very ashamed, though I am not...especially Jaime.

So, it would have been devastating if after we had submitted clean background checks, proven we could financially support ourselves and completed months of expensive paperwork, one person behind a desk decided that we were faking our quite frankly excessive love for each other.

Jaime and I cope with stressful situations in very different ways. He frets for days beforehand like he's a really tall Jewish mother while I tend to remain creepily calm until the car ride there. They're both great coping mechanisms.

Therefore, preparing for our immigration interview was extremely enjoyable. Mi marido spent hours combing through our old messages and photos. Turns out, I cuss a lot. It took me ages to copy all the documents we thought we needed, and copying is my favorite activity! However, when it came to going over the questions the inquisitioner might ask, I just couldn't bring myself to practice very hard. How could I not know nearly everything about the person I'd been popping the pimples of, pooping near and sleeping against for more than a year? I knew we had this.

On the morning of the most important day of our marriage thus far, we reviewed each others' tattoos then completely covered our tattoos with eerily matching oufits. We decided not to change because we had this.

Then I silently freaked out during the drive because that's how I handle my shit. A week before, Jaime had discovered that a question they sometimes ask is, "Which side of the bed does your partner sleep on?"

I immediately imagined our bed as if one was looking at if from our doorway while he answered as if the immigration official was lying in bed between us. I say that he sleeps on the left, and he says that I sleep on the left. We both can't sleep on the left! We didn't have this!

I don't get nervous often, but I'll admit that I was a little antsy while raising my right hand and repeating an oath after a woman even though she did have a nose ring. Don't fuck this up, Jaime is what I silently transmitted to him, but what I was really worried about was fucking it up myself.

She asked some pretty basic questions about our birth dates, parents' names, phone numbers and address. I believe we got them all right before she turned to Jaime and asked only him quite a long list of questions including:

Have you ever raped anyone?
Are you a communist?
Do you smoke? 
Do you plan to lead an armed rebellion against the United States?
Are you a drug trafficker?
Do you plan to practice polygamy? 
Do you love your wife?

                     I'm kidding. She never asked if he loved me. 

I felt bad for him, but it was also nice to know that information about my husband. I mean, I have never once asked him if he's raped anyone, and now I know for sure he hasn't because he raised his hand and promised. 

What she didn't ask was what side of the bed we sleep on or does your partner have any unusual birthmarks or tattoos? I was disappointed.

Furthermore, she took very few of the copies documenting the legitimacy of our relationship. She didn't even want to see the Shutterfly book of the wedding pictures we made for 50% off! It was like she believed us from the moment we walked through the door.

She told us it would be two to five weeks before we received her decision, but we got the letter in the mail less than a week later. 

I want to think that she could immediately pick up on our lovers' chemistry. That we just oozed compatibility and we were clearly made for one another.

But what she really picked up on is probably a couple of first time married white people, European passport, English fluency and advanced degrees. I doubt she cared that we love each other, and why should she? Is marriage really about love or legal rights? I suppose it's no one's business.

Maybe we should ask our partners if they rape people? 

Just saying.