Teaching While Undocumented

                                    

Unit 4: Essential Question: Why do people take risks?

The high school campus is nearly empty, and the sun has long set, as I sit in the staff room planning the next day’s lesson. Suddenly an email from the Human Resources manager pops up on my screen: <Julio, I have your W-2 in my office. Please come see me.> My mind drowns among a million thoughts.

The following day goes by in slow motion. The anxiety builds up inside of me as the clock in my classroom ticks the seconds away. When the school day is over, I’m ready to face my truth. I slowly walk to her office, pause; take a deep breath.

“You wanted to see me?”

“We received this letter from the Social Security Administration,” she says, as she hands it to me, “I think we have your number wrong. Can you check your social security card and get back to me?”

I feel as if the room is shrinking, and I am trapped, with no way out. I battle the knot in my throat, force myself to smile and say, “Sure, I’ll check when I get home.”

When my mom comes home from work that night, she finds me working frantically on a substitute lesson plan. Her Clorox-stained clothes and the wrinkles on her hands caused by the house-cleaning chemicals remind me that I have a lot to be thankful for. I invite her into my room to give her the news.

“Mañana será mi último día.”

“How are you feeling, mijo?”

“Bien, mami. Everything’s going to be okay.” I try to sound as normal as possible. I don’t want her to see how much this hurts; I don’t want her to worry.

“God has a plan for all of us. He has something better planned for you.” Her words are comforting.

The following morning, I arrive on campus early. My classroom feels peaceful. I can see my own reflection on the whiteboard, clean and ready for a long day of teaching and learning. The bookshelf on the corner contains prearranged rows of Spanish books waiting to be read. My massive desk in the back of the classroom, reminds me what a waste of space it’s been, given that I never use it during class. I feel a sense of pride as I carefully examine the student work on the walls. The bell rings too quickly, before I know it, my students are at the door. I go through the day as if nothing is happening, pretending like I’m not hurting inside, knowing that this is the last time I will see my students.

“This weekend there is no homework.”

“Maestro, are you feeling well?” a student asks, knowing that no homework is not in my character.

I nod, not wanting to give anything away with the sound of my voice.

I wish I could tell them what is really going on. Tell them what an honor it has been to teach and see them flourish in so many ways. Tell them how proud I am of all their work and of how much they have grown. Thank them for everything they’ve taught me. Tell them that it is true that anything is possible when you set your mind to it. I wonder what they will think of me when I stop showing up, without a reason, without saying goodbye.

My heart skips a beat when I hear the last bell ring, signaling the end of the school day, screaming at me that my time is up. I walk to the H.R. manager’s office, convinced that this is the end, only to find that she’s already gone.

Determined to get it over with, I call her cellphone.

“What’s going on?”

“I need to speak with you about the letter you received.” My voice shakes as I begin to speak. “The number you have in my file is the number I gave you, there is no other number.” A long pause…

“You don’t need to tell me any more.”

My instinct is to say more, but my nerves don’t allow it. < I did what I had to do, in reaction to the situation society has placed me in. This is the country that has seen me grow and learn, and I owe so much to this place. Teaching has been the most rewarding way of giving back.>

These words did not find a way out.

“I need to check with our lawyers. Stay home on Monday, we’ll call you to follow up.”

I sit there, in silence, frozen in time. Everything I have worked, so hard to achieve, all my schooling, preparation, the countless hours spent grading, planning, and teaching; none of it matters at this point; nine numbers stand between me and my dreams.

<God has a plan for all of us. I know that something better awaits me.>

How I Spent My 27th Birthday

The Golden Door (Live)

Identidades (Live)

DREAMapalooza on Noticias Univision 14

Teaching While Undocumented

January 2011

“When was the last time you visited México?” I feel my body tense up when I hear my coworker’s question. I normally enjoy our lunchtime teacher conversations, but not when I have to evade questions like these. “It’s been a long time… years.” I play it off. “Oh, I bet you miss it. You should try going this summer!” suggests another teacher. “Yea, if I don’t teach summer school.” I lie. “I’m moving out this weekend!” I announce, enthusiastically, knowing very well that this will steer the conversation into a safe zone. It works. “Congratulations!” “Finally!” “Does that mean your mom won’t pack your lunch anymore?” My coworkers have been telling me that I’m way past the expiration date of leaving home, for the last four years. “She doesn’t always pack my lunch.” I reply, feeling my body relax as I share the details of my new place.

January 12, 2011

Second semester always seems to be more exciting, perhaps because my students and I already know each other, and we know what’s expected. I’m eager to teach my Spanish 2 Native Speaker students about the Bracero Program, the East L.A. walkouts, their identities and visions of the future. In the middle of planning the next Spanish A.P. lesson for our unit about water, I receive an email from the school’s Human Resources manager. <I have your W-2 in my office. Please come see me.> So much being said in so few words; a million thoughts cross my mind all at once. The anxiety is overpowering; I already know what the conversation will be about. Not wanting to think about it, I finish planning my lessons and force myself to sleep.

The following day cannot go by any slower. I feel the anxiety build up inside of me as the clock in my classroom ticks the seconds away. During lunchtime, I avoid going near the H.R. manager’s office; I want to wait until after school to find out why my W-2 is being held back. My heart skips a beat when I hear the last bell ring, signaling that the school day is over, screaming at me that the time has come. I slowly walk to her office and take a deep breath before I walk in the door. “You wanted to see me?” I ask, still hoping that the answer will be no. “We received this letter,” she says, as she hands it to me, “I think we have your Social Security Number wrong.” The letter states that my Social Security Number has never been issued. A knot has already formed in my throat. I want to respond but all that comes out is, “Hmm.” “I checked your file,” she continues, “and one of the numbers looks a little blurry. Can you check your Social Security card and get back to me?” I feel as if the room is shrinking, and I am trapped, with no way out. I force myself to smile and say, “Sure, I’ll check when I get home.” I leave her office, crushed; my biggest fear has become a reality.

I always knew this day would come. I’ve imagined the scene in my mind many times, but I never imagined it would hurt this much. I’ve thought about how empowering it would be, to finally stop living in the shadows, to finally be able to tell my students about my situation, to tell them that it is true that anything is possible when you set your mind to it. Reality felt nothing like that; all I could think about, all I could feel, was sadness. I drove home, feeling empty inside, as if someone had carved a hole right through me. <This is it, it’s over.> I think to myself, as tears flow down my face.

Although it hurts, I know that what’s about to happen will be very difficult for everyone, especially for my students. With them in mind, I gather myself and begin to work diligently to plan the next day’s lessons and a rough sub plan for the next two weeks. I can only imagine what my students will think of me when I stop showing up, without a reason, without saying goodbye. There’s no time to think, I have less than 24 hours to prepare everything, one last day to be a teacher, I better make it worth it. When my mom comes home from work that night, I give her the news. “Le tengo buenas noticias,” I begin, “ya no me voy a mudar.” Her excitement fades when I tell her the reason why I’m not moving out anymore. “Mañana será mi último día.” I say, trying to sound as normal as possible. I don’t want her to see how much it hurts me; I don’t want her to worry. “Dios sabe por qué hace las cosas,” she comforts me, “tal vez tiene algo mejor planeado para ti.” That night, I can hardly sleep. The day’s events run through my mind like a bad dream.

It’s Friday morning, and what follows is one of the most difficult days of my life. The day starts with my prep period; I use every second of it to put my curriculum binders together. Before the end of the period, I walk into my classroom, look around at everything that’s there; the bookshelf, the desks, the student work on the walls, I take in every detail knowing that this is the last time I will teach in this room. The bell rings too quickly, before I know it, my students are at the door. I greet them all with a firm handshake, as I always do. Nothing I learned in my teacher credential program could have prepared me for this. I go through the day as if nothing is happening, pretending like I’m not hurting inside, knowing that this is the last time I will see my students and coworkers. “Este fin de semana, no hay tarea.” The class cheers at the good news. “¿Se siente bien, maestro?” a student asks, knowing that no homework is not in my character. I nod, not wanting to give anything away with the sound of my voice. “Maestro, ¿me puede ayudar con mi ensayo el lunes después de clase?” another student asks. It kills me to know that I won’t be able to help her with her essay; I won’t be able to help her with anything anymore. “Sí.” The word feels heavy as it fights its way out of my mouth. I almost burst into tears, but somehow I manage to keep it together until the final bell rings.

I’m ready. Ready to face my truth. I walk to the H.R. manager’s office, convinced that this is the end, only to find that she’s already gone. <I can’t hold this until Monday.> I think to myself, <I can’t carry this weight any longer.> Determined to get it over with, I call her cellphone, but get her voicemail. The short, barely understandable, message gets the point across that I need to speak with her urgently. As I drive home, I’m startled when my phone begins to vibrate. I pull into an empty parking lot and answer her call. “What’s going on?” She asks, worried. “I need to speak with you about the letter you received.” My voice shakes as I begin to speak. “The number you have in my file is the number I gave you, there is no other number.” A long pause… no further explanation is needed. “You don’t have to tell me anything else,” she replies, “I need to check with our lawyers to see what legal process we need to follow. For now, let’s say that you’re on an unpaid suspension. Stay home on Monday, we’ll call you to follow up.” My hands are shaking as I feel the tears swell up under my eyes. “Okay.” is the only word that escapes my mouth before we hang up. I sit there, in silence, frozen in time. Everything I have worked so hard to achieve, all my schooling, my preparation, the countless hours spent grading, planning, and teaching; none of it matters at this point; nine numbers stand between my dreams and me.

The weekend is uneventful; all I can do is wait. On Monday morning, I meet with the H.R. manager. “Our lawyers have informed us that we must give you 30 days to provide valid proof of employment eligibility in the United States.” She tells me. “I suggest that you speak with a lawyer to get legal advice.” Although I know that there is nothing I can possibly do in 30 days, I follow her suggestion and meet with an immigration attorney. She confirms what I already know; not only is there nothing I can do about saving my job, but there is also no path to legal residency for me. “Your best option would be the DREAM Act.” She tells me. The next day, following the attorney’s advice, I resign from my employment at Downtown College Prep. Attempting to have some closure, I write the following letters to my colleagues and students, explaining in a lightly sweetened way what has happened.

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Dear DCP family,

It breaks my heart to let you know that I have resigned from my employment at DCP. The reasons are beyond my control and too personal to share. Thank you for all the positive thoughts you sent my way this week. I truly appreciate it. I want you to know that I am doing well and I am keeping a positive attitude. I apologize for having to leave DCP this way because I know that it will create a burden in your work. I am so proud of the mission and the work of everyone at DCP, and I feel blessed to have been a part of it. Thank you for being more than a colleague to me. I feel that I have grown so much both in my work and my personal life and I thank you for being true friends, role models, and family. I am leaving with experiences and memories that I will forever cherish. I hope that we can continue to create more memories together. I am optimistic and I look forward to what the future has in store for me. I love you all!

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Queridos estudiantes,

This is the toughest letter I’ve ever had to write because I care so much about each of you. I feel very lucky to have gotten to know you, both at an academic and personal level. I really admire your resilience and willingness to fight when you are faced with obstacles. I am facing a very big obstacle in my life right now and because of it I have made the difficult decision of resigning from my employment at DCP. I wish there was an easy explanation for my decision but there isn’t one. The problem I am facing is very personal and very complicated. I hope you can understand and I’m truly sorry for having to leave DCP this way.

Although I’m faced with a big obstacle, I want you to know that I am doing well and I am optimistic that everything will turn out okay. I am honored to have been able to teach you and see you flourish in so many ways. I am so proud of all the work you have done and how much you have grown. I am leaving with a lot of good experiences and memories that I will never forget. Although I was your teacher, I have learned so much from each of you. Thank you so much for everything you taught me. Please continue to strive for a better education and a better future for you and your families. Remember that education is the key to success and the path to making our world a better place. Once again I apologize because I know that this creates a challenge for everyone, but I know that you won’t let this get in the way of your education. You all mean so much to me and I hope to see your successes in the future. I really wish I could be there in person to shake each of your hands and tell you <¡Sigue adelante!>.

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<What now? Where do I go from here?> I’m shattered, like a broken mirror, reflecting my fragmented reality. How do I pick up the pieces and move on? The next couple of months are tough. My mind plays tricks on me; I wake up every morning thinking that I’m late for work. My new reality sets in as I remind myself that I do not teach anymore. One hour at a time, I stay busy, distracting myself so I can begin to heal. One day at time, I invest time in hobbies, and reconnect with old friends. One week at a time, I volunteer, read, exercise, I continue to heal. One month at a time, I make a plan, go back to school, and surround myself with people who love me. Perhaps my mother is right, maybe there is something bigger planned for me.

Memories of a Place that No Longer Exists

“¡No te tardes!” warns my mother as I run out of the house. The heat, though nearly unbearable, is never an obstacle to stop me from playing with my best friend, Carlos. Carlos and I are both in second grade. He and his family live in an unfinished hotel, possibly a failed construction project due to its remote location. We live on the hillside; unlike in the United States, in México only poor people live on the hills. Carlos’ family is the sole inhabitant of the building. Most of the rooms are unfinished, missing doors and windows, empty shells for what should have been a thriving resort. I like spending time with Carlos because, unlike where I live, they have indoor plumbing. My house consists of four brick walls, a dirt floor, and another wall dividing the bedroom from the kitchen. That’s it, no bathroom, no living room, nothing else. It saddens me to know that these memories exist only in my mind now. There is no room for failed resorts in the industrialized city that has replaced the Puerto Vallarta that I grew up in.

“¡Ya métanse!” demands Carlos’ mother as warm drops of rain fall on our dirt-covered skin. “¿Escuchaste algo?” asks Carlos. “No, ¿y tú?” I reply. “Tampoco,” we lie as we make our way down the hill. The rain keeps coming at immeasurable proportions, as if the ocean itself were falling from the sky. The dirt road we walk on quickly turns to mud and the smell of wet dust fills the atmosphere. “¿Vamos al río?” suggests Carlos. I follow. Soon enough, the streets disappear, in their place are canals flowing with unrecognizable debris. “¡Hay que jugar a los barcos!” I suggest as I move to take off my leather sandals. Our sandals transform into boats as they float down the canal that conceals the street. Carlos and I chase after them so we can stop our sandals from being swallowed by the river. “¡Córrele que se te va una!” yells Carlos, but I’m too late, I’ve lost my left boat.

We make our way back home as the final drops of rain fall from above. The full moon signals that we’ve been out far too long. “Apúrate que nos van a castigar,” I hurry Carlos. I walk as fast as I can, half barefoot and soaking wet. A symphony of sounds from the countless toads and frogs serenate our walk home. When we finally arrive at Carlos’ house, we find a pleasant surprise; the hole that was supposed to be the swimming pool, has filled with water and actually become a swimming pool. “¡Vamos a nadar!” I shout as I sprint toward the pool. “A qué no te atreves a cruzar por allí,” Carlos dares me pointing at the narrow wall that separates the shallow from the deep side of the pool. “A qué sí,” I contradict as I take a step onto the divider. I carefully make my way down, counting every step, controlling every breath. <Splash> I plunge into the water like a canon exploding against the earth. My shock soon turns into terror as I feel hundreds of slimy tadpoles and toads rubbing against my body. I jump out of the water screaming at the top of my lungs, “¡quítamelas, quítamelas!” Carlos is too consumed with laughter to listen to a word I’m saying. I run home, screaming like a crazy person. “¿Por qué vienes tan empapado, y qué le pasó a tu chancla?” asks my mother when I get home. “Me atacó un sapo,” I mumble as I make my way to change my clothes and dry off.

The strong smell of tierra mojada is as vivid now as it was then. I can still feel the tiny tadpoles and bumpy toads as they swim past my body. I can still hear the thunder in the background as the rain drenches my entire body, and the sound of frogs and toads singing to the rhythm of the night.

Abuela

My grandmother loves to knit. She knits beautiful scarfs, woven from fine, shinny threads. Each thread she weaves carries with it a part of her soul, a piece of her heart, and a part of her being. When she was sixteen, my grandfather tossed her on his horse and rode off with her. I guess that’s how families in México were started in those days. It wasn’t long before children came, one, two, three, four, five. My grandmother knitted miniature pieces of clothing for them, six, seven, eight, and nine. Knitting for necessity. Knitting with love.

Grandma is a strong, independent woman. She worked alongside my grandfather in the fields to help feed their nine children, raking, sowing, and harvesting the land on which they grew tobacco. Life was tough; but grandma knitted her way through the difficult times, as if she were knitting a shield to protect her family, as if the thread was the bond that kept everyone together.

My grandmother knits sweaters as soft as the wrinkles around her eyes. She knits sorrow, the sorrow of the loss of her eighth child. She mourns him with every thread she weaves. She knits remorse, the remorse she feels for the childhood dreams she locked and buried at the bottom of an old trunk. She knits pain; the pain that is suppressed deep within her soul, and the physical pain her age has rewarded her with. In her sleep, her fingers twitch, even in her dreams she knits, she weaves, and she sows. Grandma sows seeds of love in the hearts of all her children, her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren.

My grandmother isn’t my grandmother; she is my second mother. She helped raise me. From an early age, she sowed her seed of love in the deepest part of my heart. She taught me to respect, myself, women, men, nature. She taught me to believe, in myself, in humanity, in God, in love. She taught me to fight, fight for what I believe in, fight for others. I see my grandmother in me. The same fire that has ignited her lives within me. I too, wonder what my life would be if I hadn’t been thrown on a horse and ripped away from my life in México. Although there are hundreds of miles and kilometers between us, we are not separated, we never have been. There is a thread, the strongest thread that ever existed, that connects us. A thread that stretches across states and countries, it knows no borders. A thread that is unbreakable, resisting anything that pulls it, anything that tries to destroy it. I long for the day when we will no longer need this thread, the day when my grandmother and I can make a beautiful blanket out of it, the day when people are no longer confined by borders.

The Golden Door

Driving While Undocumented

The first time I traveled to Idaho, I was 21 years old, and I had recently graduated from San Jose State University. It was a difficult time for me, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do; I felt lost. When my uncle came to visit us in San Jose, it gave me a sense of belonging; it was the first time I had been around relatives since I was 8 years old. I came to Nampa, Idaho, where my uncle lives, in search of an answer. Perhaps here, I would understand what exactly I was supposed to do now that I had graduated from college. Idaho helped me detach from my life in San Jose, it helped me to see things clearer; it was like meditating. I’ve come to Idaho every year since, to detach, to think, to meditate.

Friday, September 16, 2011

I’m not worried about this trip; I’ve done the 11-hour drive to Idaho many times before. My mother gives me her blessings as she makes the sign of the cross in front of me. “Manejas con cuidado. Me llamas cuando llegues.” She tells me and I’m on my way. The scenery, although familiar, is always soothing. The drive through the mountains relaxes me.

Welcome to Nevada

I’ve always liked driving through Nevada because the speed limit is 75mph, unlike Oregon where the limit is 55mph. I have just driven into Winnemucca, when I see the patrol car camouflaged on the left side of Interstate 80. I spot him in the distance, amongst the bushes, like a lion waiting for the perfect moment to attack his prey. I look down at the speedometer: 70mph; I lift my foot from the accelerator and slow down to a safe 65mph. <Look forward, don’t look at the patrol> I think to myself as I drive past him. I gaze at the rear view mirror to make sure he doesn’t follow; I smile as the distance between us stretches. One last gaze at the rear view mirror, and his sirens come to life. <He found his prey> I think to myself as I continue driving. Suddenly, I feel my heartbeat speed up when I notice that the patrol is racing toward me at full speed. <Maybe he’s on a call> I pray as I merge into the right lane. Before I know it, he’s right behind me. <This can’t be happening, I didn’t do anything wrong> I think to myself as I drive my car to the side of the road, in disbelief.

I wish I could say that I’ve never been pulled over, but as anyone who’s been driving for 10 years will tell you, getting pulled over is not a matter of if, but rather of when it will happen. For me, it’s happened five times: twice for speeding, once for having a cracked windshield, once for blocking an intersection, and once for no reason at all. The first time was the worst, my car got impounded for 30 days and the fee was enormous. The last four times I was let go with a warning; a combination of luck and honesty, I think. This is number 6. <There’s no way I’m getting out of this one> I think to myself. I’ve never gotten pulled over outside of San Jose, much less in a different state. How can I explain that I’m coming from San Jose, California, headed toward Nampa, Idaho, without a license, and expect the officer to say, Okay, drive safely!

I roll my window down and turn off the engine as the officer makes his way to my car. “How are you doing today?” He asks very casually. “I’m doing well. How are you doing, Sir?” I reply, struggling to remain calm. “Get your license and registration and meet me at my car.” He says and walks away. I frantically shuffle through what seems like hundreds of papers until I find my current registration. <Take a deep breath> I exit my car and walk toward the officer. When I hand him the registration, he asks, “Do you have a license?” I can’t get myself to look at him in the eyes, so I look down and say “No, officer.” “Why are you driving without a license?” He continues. I don’t know how to answer his question. “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Are there drugs or weapons in the car? Are you on parole? Any warrants?” I can feel my hands starting to shake as I struggle to keep it together. “No, no weapons or drugs, I’m not on parole, and I don’t have any warrants.” He explains that the reason he pulled me over is because I was driving on the left lane, which is only to be used when passing another vehicle. <That’s odd, I don’t recall seeing a “Keep Right, Except to Pass” sign> I think to myself. “I’m sorry officer, I didn’t know that.” I explain. “Maybe if you had a license you would have known.” He says.

“Do you have any form of I.D. on you?” He asks. I don’t want to show him my Mexican matricula. That story is way too familiar now, I’ve heard it many times on the news: countless people getting deported through “Secure Communities” after being arrested by an officer who’d pulled them over. “I have my student I.D.” I say, as I struggle to take it out of my wallet. “What’s the National Hispanic University?” He asks. “It’s where I go to school, in San Jose.” “You don’t go to San Jose State University?” He asks, pointing at the “SJSU Alumni” frame around my license plate. I explain that I graduated from SJSU, but now I’m a grad student at NHU. “Were you born in the U.S., or in another country?” His question echoes through my head as my blood rushes through my body. “I’m sorry officer, I don’t feel comfortable answering that question.” I stutter. “Okay then, turn around and put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.” He firmly says as he reaches for his handcuffs.

The second that follows feels like an eternity. I can clearly see what’s about to happen; I can already feel the cold metal of the handcuffs pressed tightly around my wrists. <This cannot be happening> I think to myself. I have to say; I never thought it would go down like this. In my mind, I always thought that if I were ever arrested, it would be for taking a stand; something like public disobedience, something that made a statement.

“I’m trying to have a civil discourse with you, but if you’re not going to answer my questions I’m just going to place you under arrest.” He continues. I reach for my wallet, pull out my Mexican matricula, and hand it to him. “I was born in México. I’ve lived in San Jose since I was 8 years old. This is who I am.” I mumble, defeated. “Why didn’t you show me this before?” He demands and listens attentively as I explain about my fear of the “Secure Communities” program. “Let me explain something to you,” he begins, “my job as a Sheriff is to look for people carrying drugs and weapons, people who are on parole or have outstanding warrants. Your immigration status doesn’t concern me.” I don’t know whether to believe him or not.

The interrogation continues: Have you ever been arrested? How do you attend college if you’re undocumented? What is your uncle’s name? My mind goes blank. What does your uncle do for work? Who do you live with? What does your mother do for work? How much money do you have on you? How much money is in your bank account? How did you earn that money? How do you pay for school? Do you do drugs? Why haven’t you filed to adjust your immigration status? Can’t your uncle petition for you? “I have a friend who is from meeshooacan,” he says, as if the word hurts the inside of his mouth, “and she was able to get her sister a Green Card in fourteen months.” He says.

“Would you consent to a search of your vehicle?” He asks. I already know what happens when I refuse, so I agree. He goes one step further, “Would you consent to a search of your vehicle by my K9?” “Yes, there are no drugs or weapons in the car.” I tell him. I open the trunk and the search begins. “You’re a runner.” He says as he goes through my gym bag. “What’s in the backpack?” He asks. “My books and my laptop.” I reply. “Are there any hidden compartments in the car?” This question has never crossed my mind. I bought this car four years ago from a man that my dad met while he was serving three months in jail. “None that I know of.” I tell the officer. “Do me a favor and walk at least thirty feet away from the car, I’m bringing out my K9.” I follow his instructions and walk away, slowly, not wanting to give him any reason to think that I’m running away. From a distance, it feels like I’m watching a movie, like this is not really happening to me. I see the dog circling my car, sniffing in every direction. I hold my breath. The officer takes the dog back to his car and signals for me to come over. “If you have a kilo of cocaine or a gun in your car, you’re hiding it very well because my dog didn’t find anything.” He says with a smirk on his face. I’m not sure if I should laugh.

“You know, you need to get yourself a U.S. government-issued I.D.” He says. “You should tell your uncle to help you get one from Washington, they won’t check your immigration status there.” I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe that the man who was just about to arrest me for not answering a question was now suggesting that I commit fraud on the state of Washington. “You’re free to go. Drive safely!” He says as he returns my registration and IDs.