The waiting game
José Díaz Jr. has not spent more than two minutes of the last five in the same position. He scrawled some red and blue shapes and scribbles on a piece of paper at the kitchen table, moved to the bathroom, walked to his bedroom, again visited the bathroom, put the drawing in the trash and finally cam...
| Autor: | |
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| Tipo de recurso: | tesis de maestría |
| Estado: | Versión publicada |
| Fecha de publicación: | 2019 |
| País: | Chile |
| OAI Identifier: | oai:repositorio.anid.cl:10533/42514 |
| Acceso en línea: | https://hdl.handle.net/10533/42514 |
| Access Level: | acceso abierto |
| Palabra clave: | Humanidades Otras Humanidades |
| Sumario: | José Díaz Jr. has not spent more than two minutes of the last five in the same position. He scrawled some red and blue shapes and scribbles on a piece of paper at the kitchen table, moved to the bathroom, walked to his bedroom, again visited the bathroom, put the drawing in the trash and finally came back to the kitchen table to move, in circles, a white piece of headphone cord he found in the floor. “José, saluda,” says his Honduran father, José Celio Díaz, 49, who is asking him to say hello. José Jr. smiles and lifts and waves his left hand. “He can understand Spanish you see, but he doesn´t say a word,” Díaz explains, sitting on the brown couch in the middle of the three-room apartment he shares in the Bronx with his son and his Honduran brother and nephew. When he was 3 years old, José Díaz Jr., who is now 22, was diagnosed with severe autism. It´s February but the red and green glittery front door wrapped with gift paper still reminds Díaz and his son of the past Christmas, one of the few they have spent together in the United States. In 2018, they decided to cancel their annual December trip to Honduras because they were afraid to miss a phone call or a letter they have been awaiting for years. In less than 12 months, January 2020, the temporary protection that allows José Díaz to live and work legally in this country is going to expire. The only option for Díaz to remain in the U.S. after more than two decades here is to obtain his legal papers through his son, José Jr., who is an American citizen. Twenty-one can be a big number for many people: It can open the door of a nightclub, or allow you to buy a drink. Maybe a license to book your own hotel room, even a green light to gamble at a casino. But for the estimated half-million undocumented immigrants who live in New York City, 21 can be a life-changing number. According to U.S. immigration law, when American citizens turn 21, they acquire the right to petition for a green card for their parents to live permanently in the United States. For José Celio Díaz, his son, José Jr., has become the only potential protection against a looming order to leave the country. One month before Jose Jr. blew out his 21 candles, his father began the preparation for the process to obtain the desired green card that would allow him to live legally in the United States. Since May 2018, when he entered the formal application, José has been waiting for an interview appointment with the U.S. immigration services. But the phone hasn´t rung yet, nor has the awaited letter appeared in the mail. In 1994, José Celio Díaz, along with a group of other immigrants directed by a coyote, walked for one month and 10 days from Honduras before crossing, illegally, the border of the United States. With a fake Social Security number, he spent four years making pants and suits in a factory located on Eighth Avenue in Manhattan. In 1995, José Díaz fell in love with an undocumented Mexican woman who sold flowers on Third Avenue. One year later, in August 1996, José Díaz Jr. was born in New York, becoming the first U.S. citizen in the family. Under birthright citizenship, every child born in the United States automatically becomes an American citizen. This right applies even to children of unauthorized immigrants living in the country like Díaz, a benefit that President Trump threatened to end with an executive order in 2018. Living with fake papers was not easy, especially with a kid, says Díaz, who struggles to forget the day immigration services arrested one of his work colleagues with a pending deportation order. “I felt panic and thought: ´In the name of God, someday I will have my legal papers. ´” |
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