How I Met and Married an Illegal Immigrant

Yes, this is a true story.

   

My upstairs apartment was the perfect place to stand on the balcony and look up into a treetop-- not 4 feet away-- at the massive gathering of Starlings that had flocked there for the moment. The sounds they made varied from tweets to near buzzes as they conversed with one another. I felt like I could almost understand them as I leanded over the railing toward them, and enjoyed their happy company. It was a sunny October day in central California, and I just loved being up there;felt like I was touching the sky.

 

 

 

    "Hey, woman!," a sharp voice called to me from below. It was my favorite neighbor. She was an immigrant from Tijuana, whose two children I babysat, for free, just because I loved being around them so much. Her house was just under my balcony. "Do you need a table?" Of course I needed a table. I worked at Subway, and had my disabled father living with me. I didn't have money to buy furniture, and had collected everything in my apartment from curbsides, thrift stores, and even dumpsters. (It still never ceases to amaze me what some people throw away!) So, I told her that of course I wanted the table. She disappeared inside, and I opened the door to my apartment and made way for my new furniture.

 

   

 

         Ten minutes later, she called out to me again. I rushed out to see a tall, smiling, beautiful man just below me. His smile widened as he looked up at me; mine appeared. For months, I would carry that smile.

 

 

 

     I was wearing the old pink t-shirt and hole-ridden shorts I always wore on the days at home when I was cleaning my apartment and bumming around, I hadn't had a shower in over 24 hours, and my hair was bunched up in a messy ponytail. Yet, here I was gazing down at the most beautiful man who had ever smiled at me. I felt like kicking myself. Of course, instead, I just asked him to bring up the table for me.

 

        

 

       That glorious creature entered my apartment with his head down, shaking with nervousness-this gangly Mexican man who, to me, glowed with the beauty of a fallen angel. I said hello,and he just looked up for a moment, not speaking, and quickly retreated out of my door. I followed, and watched for a moment before he disappeared into my friend's house.  "I look terrible. He's not interested. Crap,"I thought.

 

       

 

        Reluctantly, I closed my door and set up my new table. I heard the van that must have been his as he drove away. I never expected to see him again, and my heart ached at the thought, even though we had only met for a moment, and never had he spoken a word to me. I was interrupted by my neighbor's knock on my door.

 

    

 

      "My friend, Ricardo, wants to see you. He asked me to ask you out for him. He said you are the most beautiful woman in the world, and that he would do anything to know you."

 

     

 

        I shook my head. "Why didn't he have the guts to ask me himself, is he really that shy?"

 

     

 

       "He doesn't speak any English, silly. He just came here a month ago from Puerto Vallarta. He's a cousin of my friend's." Sandra looked at me, and she knew my answer was that I wanted to see him, though I didn't know what to do with a man I couldn't speak to. I knew only 10 words of Spanish at the time. The words for foods we had at Subway. Pavo, pan, mustasa, queso, and the like. Seein my thoughts,Sandra quickly offered her services as an interpreter on our first date.

 

     I said, "Ok, but I don't know about this. He is gorgeous, though."

 

 

 

    Two nights later, on Friday, Ricardo came to pick me up, my neighbor and all of her kids in tow. He looked like he was walking on a cloud as he surveyed my form beneath a black skirt and tight black blouse. Pleased with the look I got for my efforts to clean up for our date, I piled into his van with everyone else. Then, in a cloud of dust, his cousin (my neighbor's friend) squeaked into the driveway in her rusty old boat. "I'm going with you," she blubbered, her own three children two stepss behind her. I laughed and shook my head. Off we went to a tiny taqueria that I liked, where there would hardly be room for all of us.

 

 

     In the taqueria, I sat with my neighbor beside me and Ricardo facing me. The kids flanked both sides of the table. All of us were laughing.The ladies and children were laughing at Ricardo and I; we were laughing at ourselves.

 

 

 

    My date was so tall that the table really wasn't big enough for him. Hunched over that short table as we waited for our waitress, Ricardo gazed at me, shy yet unable to look away, just as I was. His tender eyes alone were enough to melt me, and then I heard his voice.

 

 

     My friend and interpreter started to translate. "He says he is the most high he has ever been, just to be here with you. He says he never aspired to meet someone as captivating as you are." He looked down as she finished the translation, and so did I.

 

 

 

    Momentarily, the waitress came, and we ordered. Ricardo's cousin, Lupe, ordered a "Taco de Lengua". I knew what lengua meant. It meant tongue. Cow's tongue. I laughed and said " Yo quiero una lengua, pero no de vaca." They all bursted out laughing. (I wanted tongue,I said, but not a cow's tongue.) Ricardo flushed with embarassment. Those were the only words in Spanish that my nerves let me speak that evening. I was thankful to have our guests to help me speak. Eventually, the more I looked at Ricardo, the more I knew that I was about to start learning a lot of Spanish.

 

 

 

     My friend drove on the way home, and I sat in the back, touching the back of Ricardo's hand as he shook with the nervousness of the entire situation. When we got there, his cousin left in her car and my friend went inside, leaving Ricardo and I alone in the van, parked in her large dusty driveway. Communication was minimal. We did a lot of staring and giggling nervously- and then he kissed me. A fire leapt through my veins like none I had ever known previously, though I had had many lovers. He looked at me and said "You, I like". I repeated it to him as well. He showed me the pictures in his wallet, and spoke to me in Spanish. I understood little of it, but through gestures. I used hand motions to communicate, as well as kisses.

 

 

     We sat in that dirty old van of his for the rest of the evening, though it was cold and he had no heater. Eventually, we created our own heat. I hadn't been with a man in over two years. I had been through so much in those two years, and simply hadn't met anyone. I felt no shame as to where we were, or what we were doing. It was like fusion. There was nothing I had ever desired more than that fusion with him that evening.

 

 

 

    In the morning, I awoke, tangled in his arms in the dusty back seat of his van, and looked at him. He had obviously been awake longer than I, and had been watching me sleep. I gave him my phone number, and he drove away-- after depositing me at the door to my apartment with dozens of his hungry kisses.

 

 

 

     For the months that followed, he came at least three nights a week to stay with me in my apartment. We got a Spanish English dictionary, and used it to communicate. I was a quicker study than he, so it was I who was learning Spanish. For love, I would have learned anything.

 

 

 

    Within 3 months,I could communicate with him quite well, and understood full well when he was asked me to marry him. I told him that he would have to wait a year from the night he asked, that I had to know for sure that it was right. Then, a month later, I discovered that we were pregnant. He was happy, and I was afraid, but somehow also happy.

 

 

    My landlord and his wife were conservative Catholics. They kicked my father and I out of our apartment simply because I was pregnant out of wedlock. my father moved down to El Centro California, where he had friends, and Ricardo and I moved into the only house we could find- an old shack with only 3 rooms. His brother, who was only 19, slept on the living room sofa.

 

      We were happy, for a time. I did what was expected of me, I cleaned alot, cooked alot-- we damned near starved. Our daughter was born the following October, and shortly thereafter, our year had passed.

 

 

     On Cinco de Mayo, I married Ricardo in front of the county courthouse. The courtrooms were all full. Our vows were spoken in Spanish, and hard for me to understand and repeat at times. The train whistling in the background did not help. We wore our everyday clothes, and simply went home to our little house and made love when our daughter fell asleep. I cooked him dinner, and we went about our lives. He never said a romantic thing on our wedding day, and no special effort was made. I loved him. He was charming, goofy, and I thought, reliable. I was happy enough, until I began to really meet the man I had married... but that is a different story altogether.

Author's Note

Many people ask how I became fluent in Spanish, and then ask how I fell in love with a man I couldn't communicate with at first. This story is the answer to those questions. In reality, was it love, or lust? For me, it became love, though as for him... other stories tell that tale.

Reviews

[Oxonian]

You contiune to surprise me. First of all the story is well told - okay there are a few typos; but that is trivial. What mattered was the style, the abscences and the speed of it all. You are so revealing that even if this weren't true I still believe evry word and look forward to finding out about the man.
I like your style and honesty (be it real or not :)).
Thanks
Harry

[Vonnette]

First of all, I can totally see how you can fall in love with someone who doesn't speak your language. By necessity, you learn fast. The question in this story may be, why did you learn so much faster? Why did he change on your wedding day? My niece is in love with someone who is from Mexico. I can totally relate to this story and how it could happen. I like it and would love to see the other stories. Nicely done.