Our Visa Love Story
What Obama can learn from our arduous experience with the K-1 fiancé visa.
by Rachel Glickhouse and Eliseu Cavalcante
Following the mass shooting in San Bernardino, California last week, the FBI revealed that Tashfeen Malik — one of the suspects and the wife of alleged shooter Syed Rizwan Farook — used a K-1 fiancée visa to enter the U.S., requiring her to marry her U.S. citizen husband within 90 days of her arrival. On Sunday night, President Obama referenced Malik’s visa in a major address on fighting terror, and The White House said the president has called for a review of the K-1 program. Made famous by the 90 Day Fiancé TLC show, this visa allows tens of thousands of binational couples to start their lives together each year in the United States. But it’s not an easy process — here's what you have to go through, step by step.
Rachel:
Eliseu and I married on July 14, 2009 at City Hall in New York. We’d set the date only a few days before. I wore a cream-colored party dress and stilettos I’d found in my closet; he wore slightly-too-large dress pants and a button-down shirt. I was 24; he was 27. The ceremony took less than five minutes, but I cried anyway. Four of my family members came as witnesses, and we went out to lunch afterwards, stopping for a few photos on the steps of the New York County Courthouse. We had a deadline to get married, or he would risk losing his visa and his chance to start a new life in the U.S.
When I decided to marry an immigrant, I didn’t understand the responsibility I was taking on in the eyes of the government. I would have to prove his worth — his health, finances, moral character — in order for us to actually be together. I also didn’t realize I would have to prove it over and over again: first to get the visa, to change his status, to get a permanent green card, and then, finally, citizenship.
This is the story about how the immigration system dictated the course of our relationship, fast-tracking us to marriage without a full-blown wedding while we were still young. It’s about the love letter I penned as a series of forms, translations, and explanations about our lives that allowed my husband to immigrate to the U.S.
Eliseu:
I’d spent my whole life in Brazil and had never thought about moving to the U.S., and Rachel had spent two years living in Rio with me. We’d been together for around three years. She wanted to go back to New York, and I wanted to start fresh. It wasn’t going to be easy; I had to learn a new language and find a job.
At the time, I didn’t even have a tourist visa and had never been to the U.S. I didn’t have the money to visit, even. There was no other way to make the move and be able to work. So we decided to apply for the K-1 visa, known as the fiancé visa.
Rachel:
We couldn’t afford a lawyer, and Eliseu didn’t speak much English at that point, so I took on the monumental task of doing the application. For awhile, our lives became a blur of forms and acronyms, of checkboxes and copy shops. I relied on visa forums for guidance, and later made my own guide to help others navigating the complex process that is the K-1.
Part one: prove that you are actually you, that you’re really in a relationship, and that you literally promise the U.S. government to get married within 90 days of your fiancé receiving a visa.
To get the ball rolling, I anxiously sent a thick sheaf of paperwork and a $455 check to U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) in St. Albans, Vermont. As I filled out three sets of forms, gathered dozens of emails, Gchats, plane tickets, receipts, envelopes, blog posts, birthday cards, photos, and miraculously, my birth certificate, I wondered about the Vermont bureaucrats poring through the history of our relationship, learning about our intimacies. I translated every piece of evidence we sent from Portuguese to English, and it was surreal to have to share these private conversations, ranging from banal to painfully cheesy. “Thank you for loving me,” I’d written in one email. Sharing these moments felt incredibly invasive, but I was willing to forfeit our privacy in exchange for the visa.
It was also surreal to see how the U.S. government identified this person I’d chosen to marry, as if he was guilty until proven innocent. The forms referred to my husband-to-be as “alien fiancé,” while at the same time asking for endless proof that this “alien” was the love of my life. On one of the forms, they give you a tiny box to write an explanation of how you and your fiancé met; I wound up attaching an entire separate page. The long-winded explanation ends: “We’ve been through difficult times and in the end our love has only grown stronger. We are very excited about getting married in the U.S. and starting a new chapter of our lives together.” Translation: please, please give us this visa.
Eliseu:
Part two of the process: proving I was healthy, sane, and not a criminal.
I had to pay to get a physical and medical exams testing for AIDS and TB, but I could only go to doctors approved by the U.S. embassy. At the time, there were only 4 approved doctors in Rio and just 15 in the entire country — which is roughly the size of the continental U.S. I also had to get a background check from the local authorities. And then there was a new round of paperwork (six forms), and another fee. On one of the forms, I had to list if I’d ever been arrested, or been treated for mental illness or addiction, or if I had associated with anarchist or communist groups.
Because we weren’t making much money at that point, we had to get visa sponsors who promised to support us in the U.S. Rachel asked her parents to sponsor us, and they had to submit a form, too.
After that, I had to interview at the U.S. consulate in Rio. I was lucky: I just had to take the subway downtown. But if you’re Brazilian and don’t live in the cities of Rio, São Paulo, Brasilia or Recife, you have to travel to do this interview, which can mean a plane ticket and hotel stay.
The consul interviewed me for around 15 or 20 minutes. He asked me how long we were together, where we met, what our relationship was like. He wanted to know if I had met Rachel’s parents, and if my parents had come to the U.S. He gave me a sealed envelope, which I took with me on my flight to New York.
I received the visa around six months after I applied, and I flew to New York in June 2009.
I arrived at JFK, and no one knew anything about my visa. Eventually, I was brought to a small room, and an agent named Bauer, like from 24, interviewed me. I had to bring the sealed envelope from the consulate, and I handed it to Bauer and another agent in front of me. They repeated some of the consul’s exact questions. They commented that it was weird that Rachel was Jewish and I wasn’t, and asked if I got along with her family. They asked what I would do for work, and I said I didn’t know. “Maybe what you do,” I added. They laughed. The last question they asked was what I had in common with my fiancée. “Almost nothing,” I said. And with that, they stamped my passport and let me go. I was the last one off my flight.
Rachel:
I’d always dreamed of all those traditional wedding things: an engagement, a wedding, a gown. But we didn’t have that luxury. We’d put all our money into the visa application and the move, and with just 90 days to get married after Eliseu arrived, we decided we could have a party later on. So in July, I bought two simple silver rings, and the next day, we headed to City Hall.
At this point, you’d think we’d be done, right? Get married and boom, it’s over!
Nope.
Eliseu:
Meanwhile, I couldn’t work until after we got married and I changed my status, so I was in limbo for a few months. I took a bartending course and worked on my English.
I thought life in the U.S. would be more fair than in Brazil. If you work, you make money. In Brazil you work, work, work and earn nothing. There’s the security, too. Here I felt really safe. I didn’t have to look over my shoulder; I could come home at night in peace.
Rachel:
After we got married, we sent another round of paperwork to USCIS and another fee. Eliseu also had to do something USCIS calls “biometrics.” We went to a dreary USCIS outpost, and he waited in line with other immigrants to get fingerprinted. Later, those prints would be used every time he came back into the U.S. from a trip abroad.
By the fall, he’d received his temporary green card and work authorization. We could really begin our lives here.
Eliseu:
But it wasn’t over yet.
Rachel:
Two years after we got married, we had to send in a new round of proof so Eliseu could get his permanent green card. Another form, another fee. More stress.
We had to prove our relationship all over again. That meant sending proof of shared address and finances, and another round of personal conversations, love notes, and vacation photos. This time, our conversations were more practical: a Gchat about returning holiday gifts; an email about leftovers in the fridge.
By the end of the permanent residency process, we’d spent well over $2,000 on fees alone. And Eliseu finally had a permanent, 10-year green card.
Eliseu:
When we started writing this, I was inspired to start my citizenship application. I’d been putting it off. I’d fill out the application form but the PDF wouldn’t save; one time, I accidentally sent it to a visa agency and I had to cancel it. Plus, on the citizenship application, you have to list every time you’ve left the country and for how many days, and add them all up. Over the past six years I’ve been fortunate to travel, so that task took a while.
I sent in the application in November. I want to vote. That’s the first thing. My home is here now. I want to come to the airport and for them to say “Welcome home.” Not “what are you doing here, what were you doing abroad,” all that bullshit.
Rachel:
This time, Eliseu filled out the form and I checked it over for typos. We also wrote a check for $680 to the Department of Homeland Security and sent some more proof that we’re still together like tax returns and leases.
Along with detailing every single trip he’s taken abroad since becoming a resident, he had to go through a 53-question checklist with such questions as:
Between March 23, 1933 and May 8, 1945, did you work for or associate in any way (either directly or indirectly) with the Nazi government of Germany?
Were you ever involved in any way with any of the following:
A. Genocide?
B. Torture?
C. Killing, or trying to kill, someone?
D. Badly hurting, or trying to hurt, a person on purpose?
E. Forcing, or trying to force, someone to have any kind of sexual contact or relations?
F. Not letting someone practice his or her religion?
Were you ever a member of, or did you ever serve in, help, or otherwise participate in, any of the following groups:
A. Military unit?
B. Paramilitary unit?
C. Police unit?
D. Self-defense unit?
E. Vigilante unit?
F. Rebel group?
G. Guerrilla group?
H. Militia?
I. Insurgent organization?
Have you ever:
A. Been a habitual drunkard?
B. Been a prostitute, or procured anyone for prostitution?
C. Sold or smuggled controlled substances, illegal drugs, or narcotics?
D. Been married to more than one person at the same time?
E. Married someone in order to obtain an immigration benefit?
F. Helped anyone to enter, or try to enter, the United States illegally?
G. Gambled illegally or received income from illegal gambling?
H. Failed to support your dependents or to pay alimony?
I. Made any misrepresentation to obtain any public benefit in the United States?
This week, he's going in for his biometrics. Later on, he'll have to do an interview and citizenship test before taking the oath of citizenship.
And then it will really be over. We’ll be finished with our time in line. We’ll be done with having to prove our love for one another, that we are really together, that my husband isn’t an alcoholic, drug-smuggling anarchist.
Eliseu:
I’ll just be an American.
This essay is part of the My Time in Line series, in which immigrants are sharing their experiences of what it’s really like to get legal status.
