Once in a Spanish/French Language Meetup

I’ve been trying to figure out a way to answer what it is like to be an Asian-American undocumented person, or further how gender might play in, given the dearth of answers that exist to affirm the experiences of such impacted people. This story might be taken as one such answer.

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Once, I was at a Portillo’s restaurant[1] for a Spanish/French language meetup in Chicago. There, I was excited to meet new people, hoping to find companionship and perhaps make new friends. It was still during the time that I did not have legal papers as an immigrant who grew up in the United States despite being, in what all practical ways that she could help it, American (my Spanish by then had that horrid American accent I hear in it, along with its own character having become diluted to some generic and at times unsure sort of Spanish). It was one of something like two or three times that I attended this particular meetup group that met weekly.

I was getting along fine, meeting the new people, sharing that I was hoping to practice my French, when I met a girl. She looked a lot like me, which is always great, because one is generally always drawn to people who look like them. Well, rather, she reminded me of the Kyrgyz friend I had at Wright College[2], Atyrgul K., due to various characteristics. The girl might have been Eurasian, in that way where they seem like they could be Korean but have lighter-colored eyes or something slightly not-Korean like that, and when they speak in their native language it sounds like Russian. A. was lean and generally conventionally pretty without being overly feminine (though with a round face and pointy chin combination that added something distinctive to her), as was this girl. A. was very kind, but practical, and once shared with me an amazing napoleon (dessert) she had made at home, as I could imagine this girl being and doing. A. and I had bonded after meeting in some business class particularly knowing her insecure legal status and my non-status. The girl at Portillo’s seemed also in her early twenties, like A. and I.

I was getting to know the people, talking whenever I got the chance, playing the Bananagrams[3] that the white American guy who had either studied abroad or briefly lived in either France or Spain had brought as an activity, when I started to notice something unusual as I looked to the side with curiosity where the girl was. I hadn’t noticed for a while, but she was seated next to an older man. He was white, perhaps in his 50s, with a potbelly. They seemed rather comfortable and familiar with each other, yet still maintaining what distance that one might attribute to a forming relationship. Something started feeling rather off about them.

I couldn’t quite place what their relationship might be.

If you were to ask me now, or even then in theory, how I felt about a woman in her 20’s having a boyfriend or male sexual partner at least twice her age, I would say that if that is what the woman wants, then by all means, she is old enough to know what she wants and what is safe, and I am not one to judge. If she likes and enjoys her relationship, then I am only happy for her.

But somehow my experience of witnessing this relationship out of the corner of my eye that evening did not leave me with happy feelings for what seemed like a budding couple.

The girl seemed cool to me, given the way she seemed to carry herself comfortably, and how lightly she would tell him off whenever he seemed to tease, or make a playful advance with his words. In no way, to me, did she particularly seem to show herself as sexually, or maybe even romantically, interested or open. But they went on, enjoying themselves, with the man outwardly showing much more enthusiasm than the girl.

I was a little stunned, and I could not quite focus on the Bananagrams. We caught each other’s eyes at some point, because I felt I could ride on that private sense of intimacy between two young Asian women among western people and therefore I kept looking over.

I was scared to find out what she might be revealing to me –that she might somehow be reflecting me or my fate. I wondered what her legal status in the US was, and if she was legally secure, then perhaps whether she might be insecure economically.[4] By then my father had introduced me to the second and yet unmarried son of the owners of the swap mall building where he had his acupuncture clinic in Santa Ana, CA. They were a Korean military Christian conservative immigrant family who had done well for themselves through real estate holdings since they immigrated long ago, and their son, whose life decisions and timid personality seemed long-ago predetermined by his parents’ fearsome will, not only left me feeling utterly unvaluable, but also revealed to me my father’s desperation and lack of contacts.

I was feeling very self-conscious. Suddenly I wondered if everyone had assumed that I was there to find a romantic partner. Suddenly it dawned on me that perhaps everyone else was, and only I had been so embarrassingly naïve. I realized what the intent of the guy across from me might have been when he decided to bring the Bananagrams that evening.

When the meetup ended and we were all leaving, I noticed the couple together outside. They were waiting for a cab together, and I overheard the man say something like “your place or my place this time.”

I left feeling desolate, letting the emotional dissociation further sink within me.

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[1] A famous Chicago chain known for their Italian beefs and other such Chicago-style foods

[2] One of the City Colleges of Chicago, where I attended community college before transferring to University of Illinois at Chicago. Undocumented immigrants do not qualify for state-provided financial assistance.

[3] A crossword-type game, which always struck me squarely as a “white people thing to do and enjoy”

[4] For the American that is not quite familiar with the options for undocumented immigrants in the US: there are no options for attaining legality other than legal marriage to a US citizen.