It’s a shame that I’ve never taken a moment to watch the program Globe Trekker before, and interesting that the first one I’m watching has a feature on the pottery of my husband’s home state of Puebla, Mexico. I rather like this program. I’ll have to watch it again, but probably not at midnight on Sunday.
Yes, I know it’s too late to be watching television on Sunday, but I went downstairs to put my final load of laundry in the dryer, and realized that an hour before, I had forgotten to start the washer, setting myself behind a bit. I think I forgot to start the washer because I was on the phone telling Fermin a story, because before that I had been outside with my brother-in-law and my two-year-old nephew, watching some neighbors set off some pretty impressive fireworks in the alley. About two minutes into the “show,” my nephew inexplicably started crying. He was fine, and then all of a sudden, he just had had enough pops and bangs and sky-bound sparkles. He was calm and sad and mellow for a half an hour, until his mom came home from work. This is the kind of story I sometimes call Fermin to relate, because I imagine he likes a quick image of what’s going on here.
And now it’s 12:27 a.m., and the fact that I got out of bed at 10:30 am is not helping my night-owl’s resistance to much-needed sleep. Back in high school, my bedroom was in my parent’s finished basement, and I used to roll out and climb those damn stairs well after noon some Saturdays, just to hear my father, the quintessential early riser, bellowing, “she rises, she riiiiiiiiiiissssses.” Let me tell you, I adored that.
These days, with my regular 8-5, M-F work schedule, I try to keep up my regular schedule on the weekends, but anyone who has known me for a while knows that I love myself some sleeping, second only for my love of the snooze button. Once in college, when I was living in a single, the power flashed and my alarm failed. I woke up at 1:30 p.m., my sunny room flooded with light for hours, having missed all my classes. No, I was most definitely not hung over. I had slept for well over 14 hours without as much as waking up once.
I bet that load of laundry is done, and I have just spent 30 minutes writing this meaningless post. But really, it’s difficult for me to produce anything of substance right now, particularly on immigration.
Life is heavy. It’s 8 days until our visa interview/pick-up, and I admit, more than at any other time during this process, I am very nervous. I spent all day cleaning and organizing — that’s when you know it’s bad. I’ve gotten some of our hardwood floors refinished, re-painted our loft, and am attempting to make room in our space for Fermin’s shampoo and razor and clothes. I’ve usurped all our community space in this year.
I’ve got the next three nights and all day on the 4th to get everything finished and packed and ready to go. Thursday night I’m tasting wine with friends, and Friday after a short day at work I’ll be on the road… through flat Illinois to St. Louis, past the Arch and on through Missouri and Oklahoma, and then many hours of west Texas.
Ciudad Juarez-bound. There the government decides, or has decided, our fate. We will begin our future as upstanding legal U.S. residents with good job opportunities and a house and car payments and student loans, or become Mexican ones, perhaps the sort who live poor and happy on a beach, if such a thing exists. Funny the way immigration has tangled with my nearly perfect life.
I guess that’s why I haven’t been able to comment much on what’s gone on in the news with immigration lately. It’s all too personal, it’s digging its nails into my heart and soul and mind and I’m not sure anyone in my state can really step back and be the analytical sort she usually is. No, not so much.