From immigration to fame. A life-changing conversation with Eliseo Medina and Jose Antonio Vargas

The energy bursting through the walls of Morningstar building, located in the heart of Chicago’s Loop and home of a top-level investment research firm, it’s truly contagious.  Especially if you’re standing on the seventh floor, sipping free coffee.

Add to that a dynamic panel discussion featuring Jose Antonio Vargas and Eliseo Medina — two groundbreakers for immigrant rights — and you’ve got a recipe for inspiration. 

Everyone who bought a ticket to Chicago Ideas Week’s conversation “From Ellis Iceland to ICE”, this past Wednesday, agreed on that.

The 210-seats auditorium was half-full at best, but the attendees —many sharing an immigrant upbringing — were far from being apathetic. They asked uncomfortable questions and wanted strait-forward answers. For some, learning more about this topic meant filling in pieces of a family puzzle. “I always felt guilty for being an American citizen, because my siblings spend a long period being undocumented” Angie Jaime, 25, a Mexican social media strategist born in the U.S., told me while we waited for the conference to start. “I certainly don’t take my status for granted”, she added, minutes before listening to Jose Antonio Vargas, the most famous undocumented immigrant in America.

As everybody waited for Jose and his fellow speaker, another person attracted all eyes. This young woman sitting near the stage was vigorously drawing on a huge whiteboard, what turned out to be a graphic story of the event itself. I later found out she is a 23 years old illustrator, who works for Ink Factory, a company specialized in real-time hand-drawing visuals.  By the time speakers took up the stage, her marker had created a Statue of Liberty followed by the word “Immigration”, written in capital letters. One hour later, an array of symbols and phrases — like Eliseo Medina's quote: “It’s easy to demonize­ what you don’t know”— left the audience in awe of her talent.

The former International Secretary-Treasurer was actually the first to speak. After a lifetime fighting for the rights of immigrants living in the U.S. — sometimes literally — Mr. Medina, 68, could talk for days on end about what needs to be done in order to change the lives of more than 11 million undocumented aliens in America. He should know better; his Mexican father was one of those people. As soon as he started speaking, people pulled out their smartphones and logged into Twitter, typing away his nuggets of wisdom. And there were plenty.

“Almost 75% of field or construction worker, nannies and restaurant staff are undocumented people. If we remove them, the economy will collapse” he said in perfect English. His oval glasses, white hair and black suit demanded respect, but his spunky purple tie and heartfelt tone gave away his Latino roots. “Immigration reform isn’t brain surgery; it's not hard”, he continued, which made us nodding our heads in approval. 

But we weren’t hearing the whole truth. This time, last year, he deliberately starved himself, in a heated tent, near the steps of the Capitol — Obama family came to visit— for this exact immigration reform. He didn’t eat for 22 days and dropped 20 pounds. So it must be at least complicated.

The same word can perfectly sum up the life of Jose Antonio Vargas, 33, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and filmmaker. According to the law, he shouldn't be touring the United States, trying to raise awareness about immigration system gaps — traveling without any American identification documents — but deported to Philippines, his home country.

A combination of formal high education and street wisdom, Jose gain international fame in 2011, after writing an article for the New York Times. The title pretty much says it all: “My Life as an Undocumented Immigrant”.

Instead of offering us a sample of his flamboyant personality, he decided to take it down a notch. Spiky hair, blue and white plaid shirt underneath a black jacket, no tie, dark blue jeans and brown slip-on shoes, he look professional, yet relaxed. His signature playful eyebrows did much of the talking. “In the last two years, I went to 300 events in 24 states”, he announced right from the bat, admitting that fame serves him as a shield against deportation. 

“People don’t know what immigration reform is. The gap between perception and reality is oceanic” he told us, explaining he had been called all sorts of names — including “illegal faggot”, referring to his sexual orientation —just because he is undocumented. “I grew a thick skin”, Jose concluded, after walking us through a brief recap of his past, something he must have done over a thousand times. I wondered if he was ever bored by it.

Once the event ended, a small group of people lingered in auditorium to share opinions with him. One by one, they thanked, interrogate or asked him for help, while Jose remained friendly and equally interested in everyone. “I’m sure you have a bunch of these” I said when it was my turn, handing him several business card.  His response took me by surprise. “You’re the girl from Twitter right? I knew you would come” he — the guy who has close to fifty one thousand followers on Twitter— instantly answered. Before leaving, we took a photo together. It was during those 4 seconds that it hit me: “I understand why you refuse to leave this country behind. It’s the best thing that happened to me too”.

Rediscovering love. The makeover of our marriage during immigration process

A couple of years ago, I was watching a documentary about Magellanic penguins, on Discovery Channel. It was late at night and the voice-over mingled with the sound of my husband brushing his teeth. I dozed off for a few seconds, while images of penguins in their tuxedo-like fur coats continued to fill out my TV screen.

A phrase caught my ears and made my mind alert again: ‘These animals remained loyal to each other for decades, in spite of spending thousands of miles apart during their winter trips’. I remember barging into the bathroom, almost screaming at C., his mouth still full of white foam: ‘That’s us, we are Magellanic penguins’.

This year, on August 15, we celebrated nine years of relationship, including four of marriage. That’s a lot of time when you’re only 25 and your husband is 31. Somehow it worked. After learning how hard-headed we both can be, we quickly abandon the idea of a fairytale marriage in favor of a more down-to-earth concept, where fights are OK from time to time. This laid back approach, not our savings, helped us stick together during those dark first weeks in America.

‘I’m tired of playing this game. Let’s go home’, I said sobbing, face plant in a pillow, no longer than two months ago. Jobless, stressed and frightened, he mustered the strength to sooth my pain with kind words. We hold hands, looked in each other eyes – I, through a curtain of tears– and decided that feeling uncomfortable equals moving forward.

That yes, we’ll probably point fingers when times get though. And yes, there’s a good chance that we’ll fight over stupid things like which kind of movie to rent from Redbox. We didn’t have that in Romania. But in the mist of all troubles, we choose to remember why we came here in the first place. “Family” was the word that popped into our minds. Not ‘money’, not ‘success’.

So instead of mourning our old life, we celebrated the new one by doing more family stuff. We took long walks in the park, drank beer together on Monday nights and watched silly YouTube videos, laughing till our bellies hurt. It was glorious. 

Almost like we fell in love all over again, nine years later, in a different country, in different circumstances. We also learned new things about each other. I, for example, could eat copious amounts of peanut butter for breakfast and make money from carrying trays. He, on the other hand, fears of driving, but has no problem working night shifts or gobbling down polish sausage. Things eventually turned around. With each passing day, America feels more like an exciting adventure; a very uncomfortable one. My motivation? There's two of us riding the same giant wave.

The only thing I honestly hate about America

I do, most of the time, a pretty good job at fighting with Romanian stereotypes about America. My arguments are unshakable when it comes to tricky subjects like obesity and terrorism, but quickly turn into bubbles of soap when the focus moves to food waste. I throw up my hands in despair.

What could be considered a legitimate excuse to a behavior that extends beyond age, social status, academic achievements and sexual orientation? And it happens literally every day. At the end of each shift, me and a couple of colleagues rush to pack whatever leftovers are available, before someone else throws it away. On Tuesday, I managed to snag two pieces of roasted pork chops, a scoop of mash potatoes and a handful of seasoned Brussels sprouts. Besides meat, everything else went into the trash. “Stop it! We could donate all this stuff!” I screamed in my head, while my lips remained sealed. 

The excuse I have been served last time was that “it’s contaminated, thus unsafe for those in need”. The same contamination craze has spread nationwide. My husband, who works for one of the biggest retailing companies in the U.S., was trained from day one to toss out every fresh produce that looks anything than perfect. A bag of apples with one tinny bruise? Discard. A stalk of broccoli hardly stale? Gone.

This story and the image of my coworker wasting hundreds of dollars’ worth of food —including yummy desserts and high quality vegetables — will forever remain ingrained in my memory. Here’s the thing, though: I would probably do the same, if born in this country.

After years of having easy access to cheap nourishment — healthy foods too — you develop a sort of ‘leftovers are gross’ mentality. Everyone does it, so it becomes the norm. For someone like me, raised in a former communist country, where food was once rationalized, it’s the exact opposite. It’s a sin; worse than that. Until recently, there wasn’t a trace of environmental responsibility in me. I bought Eco-friendly light bulbs, ate fast food twice a year and took the bus only to save money, not the Earth. But keeping the lights turned on for hours or driving an old banger doesn’t have the same instantly damaging effect on other’s life as food waste. “A greasy hamburger won’t feed the poor” some will try to retaliate. I disagree. Food, in any form, is life. 

According to the latest government report, released last year, in 2012, one in seven American households was food insecure. Imagine how bad the situation is in world third countries (think Somalia). I refrained from posting any scary pictures with emaciated children, because my goal is not to embarrass my readers. Instead, I want you to take a sheet of paper and to mark with Xes every time you throw food. Do this challenge for a week. It may be a disturbing experiment; it may be eye-opening. Try it!

A Halloween short story - Wicked Snow White and the Two Dwarfs

Being mortified after finding out that a lifetime dream is about to become reality seems counter-intuitive, but this is what me and my husband felt in March, as we walked out of the USA Embassy in Romania, our home country. 

 

“OK, so we have a visa. What now?” I asked C., squeezing the voluminous paperwork in my hands. He looked puzzled. We had absolutely no acquaintances in Chicago, the town we choose to live our American dream and we were supposed to leave in less than six months.

Our miracle came through Facebook.

In true social media fashion, Rachel, a Romanian priest’s wife living in the 'Windy City' was recommended to us by the friend of a friend. She called almost immediately after leaving her a private message, sounding interrogative, although friendly. “A 24 years old journalist and a 30 years old assistant manager, you say? Oh, I think we may help you”, she decided after a couple of minutes into conversation. There was a catch though: “When time will come, you’ll have to pay it forward”.

“Wait, isn’t that a movie?” I thought to myself, but refrained from making any comments. After all, this person was offering to help us rent an apartment and blend into Romanian community. I immediately felt an uncomfortable sensation, like our deal will not be all unicorns and rainbows. It was anything but.

We kept our connection alive through phone calls and Facebook messages, although never got to the point of having the slightest form of friendship. She would say things like “God bless you” with the same ease people say “Good morning”. Sometimes, just seeing her name on my cellphone display would send me into a fit of anxiety. I began avoided her calls all together. 

That unconformable feeling grew stronger as the day of our departure approached. I just couldn't shake it off. 

To our surprise, she used her influence and gathered from donations all we needed to start a new life from scratch. While most of the rented apartments are completely empty, ours had everything from furniture to kitchen tools and a fridge stocked with food.  It wasn’t until a week later from our arrival that we met, on a Sunday morning in July, at church.

Medium framed, with hazelnut eyes, curls of dark hair resting on her shoulders and almost no wrinkles on her angelic face, she stroked me as a grown-up version of Snow White. Unlike the beautiful princess, Rachel was wearing an all-black outfit that she rarely traded for a t-shirt and jeans. Her electrifying presence got people eating out of her hand; including us.

We soon discovered she had a divergent behavior. 

At church we barely spoke; Rachel had to play her role as a hostess and greet people, introduced the new ones and then waving to everyone as they would go home.

Weekdays though were a different story. When she wasn’t working as part-time veterinary assistant, she lectured us about the importance of having a well-paid job and projected a very gloomy future for us when two months had passed without finding one. “You two are in a big mess”, she used to bark over the phone. From time to time, an easy-going version of her took over, offering rides to interviews or cooked meals.

Her manner of speaking was the least disturbing parts of her character. I was often asked to leave whatever I was doing and jump into her car at a moment’s notice, hardly ever knowing the destination. “Those online applications won’t get you a job. You might as well help me with some errands”, she would say while pressing the gas pedal with a smirk on her face. Her malefic side completely unraveled on the day I turned down a job offer as a part-time receptionist for a dentist, a friend of hers. The job implied a close to four hours commute three times a week and the tasks of both a secretary and an accountant. Needless to say, it was an overwhelming, scary prospect for a journalist.

Once again, we discussed this issue over the phone. “You're gonna regret this. I give you one more month in this country!” she yelled in my ear, causing me to burst into tears. She had went too far with it. We both agreed that instead of providing support and encouragement, Rachel was  a mental poison that brought us to the verge of depression. Our relationship with her gradually changed. We began coming up with excuses for not answering her texts and calls and after a while she just stopped.

I felt like I was breathing again. Not long after our ‘breakup’, our sanity restored, we got hired by American companies, something she told us it’s impossible. Now, we actually enjoy going to the Sunday service, making small talk with Rachel, just like everybody else, knowing that we are no longer her little project. We still don’t answer her phone calls.