There is no exercise better for the heart than reaching down and lifting people up.
—JOHN HOLMES
“WHEN MARIA’S VISA EXPIRED,” Mrs. Blakely says, “we had to help her get an extension, which is much harder to do once the date has passed. The government tends to frown on that, but we were able to make it happen.”
I’m at a coffeehouse with Royce and his mom. She’s meeting with us after her hair appointment. Her hair looks perfect. She’s listened to my story quietly and without judgment. For the first time, I feel a glimmer of hope, although there’s still more than a hint of desperation mixed with it.
She stirs some sugar substitute into her coffee. “These things can be a real headache, but in Maria’s case we were able to extend her stay for another five years.”
“Only five years?” Royce says, alarmed. “That’s not enough time for Jasmine to get a degree and go to grad school too. There has to be a solution that wouldn’t mean she’d need to get approvals through the immigration and American court system for the rest of her life.”
“And I can’t stay here without my family,” I say. “We all need to be able to stay.” I’m adamant about that point.
“Wait, Maria’s leaving after five years?” Royce asks.
Mrs. Blakely nods. “She wants to move back to the Philippines and be with her family.” She takes a drink. “Your father had to pull some strings to get her a new work visa.” She looks at me. “In your case though, you need something to stall the deportation. To file some kind of appeal. And you’ll need a judge on your side for that. I think it’s called a stay of deportation. After that, you’ll need to somehow be eligible to apply for green cards so you can become permanent residents. But I just can’t believe the judge wouldn’t look at your academic excellence as a reason to keep you and your family here in America.”
“It was a nightmare,” I say, feeling brave enough to speak my mind after hearing her supportive words. “He was definitely not on our side. He thought winning Nationals at cheer was silly. He made some comment about how America had enough cheerleaders.”
“I’m not surprised,” Mrs. Blakely says. “Some of these people think a woman’s place truly is in the gutter. They’ve spent years at the top and believe their power gives them the right to decide people’s fates. That they deserve the power to say who stays and goes.”
“Like Dad?” Royce says.
Mrs. Blakely laughs. “Your dad wouldn’t get anything done without me.”
Royce elbows me. “What did I tell you? Maria wouldn’t be here without Mom pushing Dad to help.”
“He was glad to help,” Mrs. Blakely says. “It’s just that he has so much going on. He would have never known if I hadn’t pushed the issue. He probably would have just hired another housekeeper. But I like Maria, and she asked if I had any solutions. So here we are.”
“Do you have any solutions for Jasmine?” Royce asked.
“Not yet,” Mrs. Blakely says. “First, we need to take this to your father. He’ll know what to do. There are so many loopholes and ways of doing things. We might have to do a little research. Ask around Washington.”
“Dad will do it, right?” Royce asks. “Even if his politics are very conservative.”
“Just because someone is conservative doesn’t mean they don’t help people, Royce,” his mother chides. “You know that. Besides, this is your Jasmine we’re talking about. Her track record alone means that this is a special case, don’t you think? Let me talk to him first, and when Dad gets back in town this week, you and Jasmine should schedule some time to talk to him as well.”
* * *
A few days later, I’ve gotten out early from school and Royce and I are sitting in the waiting area of Congressman Blakely’s office. It strikes me as funny that Royce had to be penciled in to the appointment book like any other constituent, but I guess his dad’s schedule is that tight. Every moment is accounted for, even time with his son.
Mr. Blakely’s office is a testament to all he’s done in his political career. There are photos of him with two US presidents, senators, foreign dignitaries, celebrities, and of course of him in the House of Representatives, speaking on the floor. There are paintings too, probably commissioned by Mrs. Blakely. There’s one of him hanging next to a case that has all kinds of awards of recognition he’s received over the years from around the world. Behind him are the US and California flags.
“He’s ready for you,” says his assistant, a serious-looking guy in his twenties wearing a crisp suit. “Go on in.”
As Royce and I enter his office, Mr. Blakely stands, comes out from around his desk, and clasps Royce around the shoulder. He has Royce’s broad shoulders and classic features, but Royce has his mother’s eyes.
He tells us to sit, and instead of returning behind his desk, he takes a seat on the chair opposite the couch where we’re sitting.
“How’s work?” he asks Royce. “I’m told you’re quite an asset to the team. That press release you wrote about the water initiative was picked up almost word for word by the press.”
“Thanks, Dad,” he says, blushing.
I look at him admiringly. I’m so proud.
“Your mother told me what’s going on,” his dad says. “This is tough business we’re talking about. Jasmine is in the process of being deported?”
“Yes, sir,” says Royce.
“My entire family actually,” I say. “We tried to go through the appropriate process, but we lost the trial.”
“And we didn’t know who else to talk to,” Royce adds. “Mom said to come to you.”
“You came to the right place,” Congressman Blakely says. He studies me. “How are you doing, Jasmine?” he asks.
“I’m all right, sir.”
“I’m sorry about all this. Royce tells me that because of your status, you’re not eligible for the National Scholarship anymore.”
“Yes, sir.” I flush. I hope he doesn’t think I was some kind of fraud for having gone to the reception in D.C.
“That’s a terrible shame,” he says. He doesn’t seem to think so. I breathe a little easier.
“Thank you, sir,” I say.
“Call me Colin, please. I’ve told you before, let’s not be so formal,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about what we can do about your documentation status since Debra told me about it. Here’s my solution. I want to offer you a special chance at something. Have you ever heard of a private bill?”
“No, I haven’t,” I admit, hope rising in my chest.
Royce, who’s holding my hand, squeezes it.
“Several years ago, there was a young man from Uganda who had birth defects to his heart that had never been repaired,” Congressman Blakely says. “He was a walking time bomb. Doctors said he could die anytime. How he lived to sixteen, no one knew. But there was nothing they could do. They didn’t have the expertise to treat him. The boy was in an orphanage and had no money to travel for health care. He was discovered by Doctors Without Borders. They referred him to one of the programs in the US that was training medical students at a university here. And so they treated him. He recovered.”
Mr. Blakely returns to his desk chair and motions for Royce and I to move to the chairs before him. He continues with his story. “Then guess what happened? Over the next few years, he took a bunch of college classes. He wanted to study medicine. Only, he needed to have residency in the US to enter the program. So, Representative Bill Turner from Wisconsin drafted a private bill. Included in that were letters from high-ranking officials from the university and the US government. The bill passed the House and the Senate. No problems. Then the president signed off on it. Just like that, the young man became a green-card holder and then a US citizen. In his case, the private bill only encompassed one man.”
I feel light-headed with hope. “So you’re saying one of these bills could work for my entire family? You would do that for us?” It’s mind-boggling to think it could be this easy, that just because I know Royce, my family could find ourselves moved to the front of the immigration line, the VIP pass to citizenship.
Mr. Blakely nods. “Exactly, Jasmine. We’d center the bill around you—an accomplished young student and her support system. What do you think?”
“I think it’s amazing,” I say. Wow. This is more than I expected. A private bill. Just for us. For my family. I exchange a hopeful glance with Royce. So this is what he meant when he said he could help me. He could make this happen, because of who his father is.
“It’s definitely worth a shot,” Royce says with a broad smile.
“I have to say, it sounds good on paper. But it will be tricky,” Mr. Blakely says. “First I have to talk to the judge who presided over the case, see if I can get him to have a change of heart and grant some kind of temporary visa for you all. We don’t want you to be deported while we’re trying to make this happen. That might simply result in another hearing, which means waiting all over again. It could be a lengthy process.”
“So she would have to wait for two things?” Royce says. “A hearing to see if she could stay temporarily, and then to see if the private bill passes?”
“Yes,” Congressman Blakely says. “In the meantime, there will be a lot of information to gather. I’ll have to call the judge. Letters have to be written. Then the bill will have to be drafted. We can try to fast-track this, but that might not work. It could still take six months to a year, and there are no guarantees it will pass. It’s an exceptional case. Then again, you and your family, Jasmine, are exceptional. We have to find a way to tug on the heartstrings of my fellow congressmen, senators, and the president. I’d say you have a good chance, but you’ve probably heard that before.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blakely,” I say. I can’t call him Colin, just like I can’t call his wife Debra. Not yet. Maybe one day. I’m floored that he’s helping us. I know it’s not for me, that he’s doing this for his son and because his wife asked him to help. He’s doing it for his family, and maybe that means Royce’s family really isn’t that different from mine.
“Wait a minute. Before you go...” Congressman Blakely lifts his hand to stop Royce and I from leaving the room. “I’d appreciate if you kept what I’m doing quiet, Jasmine. It is very much against my party line. If certain people find out, they could take advantage of your situation to hurt me. And that would do neither of us any favors.”
* * *
“Wow, your dad is a superhero. Your mom too,” I say to Royce as we walk hand in hand on the Santa Monica Pier after meeting with his father. The pier is one of Royce’s favorite places in LA. He says it reminds him of his childhood, so we go there often. We’re next to the balloon-popping game at the carnival.
This is the closest I’ve ever felt to him. Not only because he’s helping me but because his family knows me, the real me. They know me and want to help me.
“I told you they could help,” he says simply.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll never be able to thank you guys enough.”
“There’s no need to thank me. I’m doing it for myself, you know. I’m very selfish,” he jokes. “And you know I don’t have any other friends.”
I still can’t believe it. Just one meeting with his father and all our problems have vanished. It’s magic.
“Look at you lovers,” one of the carnies says. He holds up a black teddy bear cradling a heart. “Why don’t you do the girl a favor and win her something she’ll never forget?”
Royce looks at me. “Think I have good enough aim?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I kind of want to go tell my parents the good news.”
“Live a little,” the carnie says. “No one has all the time in the world. Your time for winning is now.”
“He’s a good salesman, don’t you think?” Royce says.
“Not good enough,” I say. I don’t feel like playing games right now.
“Sorry, buddy,” Royce says to the man.
We continue walking down the boardwalk. The breeze is cool and soft on my skin. Everywhere there are kids chasing each other around, laughing at the games. Several seagulls hover overhead. One lands on a railing. The Ferris wheel turns close by. A few kids scream from their seats as the ride rotates.
Royce had offered to help with my situation from the beginning, and I kept turning away his help. I thought I was being practical, that I didn’t want to burden him with my problems when really I was too proud to accept his help. Too self-absorbed to accept his love, because love means letting other people love you too.
While I’m happy for myself, I think about the many millions of people in my situation who don’t have the same resources, the same connections, and don’t have a voice in the system. There, but for the grace of God go I. I’d never really understood what that meant before, but I do now. What if we were locked away in a detention center for years? How would my brothers grow up? What would I be like when I got out? Would my parents’ hair be gray?
I’d been thinking about what I want to do with my life, in case everything worked out, and now I think I know. I want to help these people in some way, to be an advocate for those who don’t have one.
“You okay?” he asks, putting an arm around my shoulder.
“What if I’d kept saying no? What if I didn’t accept your help?” I ask.
“I’d have probably done the same thing anyway,” he says. “I should have done it earlier.”
“We didn’t know it could be this easy,” I say. “And it’s not your fault. I’m really lucky.”
“I’m lucky too,” he says simply.
My mind turns back to the millions of illegal immigrants in this country, waiting and hiding. Trying to stay in America is a game of cat and mouse, a life of working under the table, for less than minimum wage, with no way to report workplace abuses and transgressions. What happens when they get sick? What happens if they’re hurt? The sacrifice they’re making is enormous.
My story is only one of many.
I feel connected to everyone who has ever tried to move to the United States in search of a better life. Those who have sacrificed so much for the dream of a future they won’t get to enjoy—only their children will.
I feel tears welling up in my eyes, and I pledge that I will be worthy of that sacrifice.