I am originally from Sweden. I came to the United States on a management visa with a large international fashion company. I worked as a store planner and interior designer, where I earned $70,000 a year. Then, four years later, I lost my job because my work permit had expired. It wouldn’t take long before I lost my right to stay here, too. Now, I live here without papers.
As a result of my unemployment, I couldn’t renew my work permit. And I can’t find a job without one. You get the picture. My petition for a green card has been unanswered for seven years. The last time I spoke to my immigration lawyer he advised me to get married, or leave.
When the job went, my apartment soon followed. I moved in with a friend in a small town in the state of New York. We live in an old house and my two rescue dogs. They have certainly rescued me more than me them.
I depend on my friend for everything. I moved in after his wife died. We spent much of the first year just trying to get along and find some kind of happy place to keep us floating. I take care of household work, cooking and cleaning, gardening, growing vegetables and other things. I recently started apprenticing with a shepherd at a farm nearby. I have also taken evening classes in upholstery, and, on occasion, I reupholster antiques and replicas. Some of my work has been featured in World of Interiors.
I have other sources of income too. I lease land on a farm where I grow flowers to sell during the summer, using skills that I learned while I was unemployed. I’ve exhibited my flowers at local fairs, have a garden question hotline and participate in local agriculture and horticulture events. I have also worked as a “live in” construction manager at a friend’s house in another state, spending my paycheck on train tickets to go home on weekends and pay rent.
When I still had a valid work permit, I applied for hundreds of jobs, a lot of them hundreds of miles away from where I was, but I had no takers. To keep myself from going insane, I volunteered full time at an animal shelter for almost two years. I found the cure for my vulnerability was to help someone in worse trouble than I was.
This life has been incredibly hard – and humbling. For the first time, I took comfort in the wisdom and advice of older people around me. I lost my world of privilege, and also my arrogance. I no longer consider myself unemployed. Just because you barely get paid, doesn’t mean you are not working.
I dream of having wool sheep and growing cut flowers. I dream, because I have to. I’ve been intimidated, hurt, scared and let down. I have had thoughts of suicide, and felt despair so deep I could barely help but howl. I have lived in friends’ houses, in my ex-boyfriend’s basement, in homes working as a live-in “everything”, and when I last year thought I was ready to give up and move back, my mother discouraged me. “Don’t come,” she said. She is mentally unstable and we have a strained relationship.
I never actually wanted to go back, and as cruel as it was, her comment made me realize that I will never freely give up this country. I am firmly rooted. I believe I have earned my right to call this my home, no matter what my legal status is.
Despite the difficulties of my situation, I have never felt so free as I do here. I have never felt less pressure to conform, belong or adjust. From the moment I arrived, this was my home. It’s easy to explain why I love it here, but harder to explain why going back to Sweden is not an alternative.
There is a scene from a comedy movie where someone is getting deported and the officer says, “We are taking you to Mexico!” and the person cries, “But I’m not even from there!” That is how I feel about Sweden.
To lose everything changes you forever. But I will never stop planning, and working towards my goals. All the people that said yes when I needed help make me dare to believe there is a happy ending for me out there.
