Good Faith Marriage

I’ve taken 1,112 photos since December 8, 2023, the day we got married. Three hundred ninety-three are from my research in historical archives, large blocks of white and sepia in my camera roll. Ninety-six are of my dog. Sixty-two are of myself and my husband Enrique together. Just five are of us with family. These photographs are the ones that count most for U.S. Immigration and Customs Services (USCIS).

I generally don’t create typologies of my camera roll, but assembling a “family-based” petition for my husband’s green card has changed that, along with much else. Our photographs have a new purpose: to prove to USCIS that our relationship is real, our love genuine. It is true, there are cases of fraud. Some people will pay as much a $30,000 to marry a US citizen, which offers the simplest path to permanent residency. To prove our case, we dutifully compile 300 pages of forms, sworn affidavits, bank statements, shared phone accounts and light bills, an overwhelming display of our “cohabitation” and “comingling of finances,” two key metrics of a “good faith marriage.” I admire the final product and even take a picture of the thick stack of papers before gingerly tucking it into an over-sized manila envelope to deliver to our lawyer. I document our documentation, wondering at how our marriage could generate so much paperwork.

While considering financial imbrication the most important indicator of a “real” marriage, USCIS recognizes that love is more than a shared mortgage and a joint bank account. The other, blurrier evaluative tool is “shared experiences,” documented in the form of photographs, with extra points earned for pictures taken with family. For “real” and fake couples alike, this represents the easiest proof of good faith. For us, it has been more challenging.

We met in Mexico City on February 25, 2020, a day we still celebrate as our anniversary. One week later, the university where I teach announced that Spring quarter classes would be held online. It seemed that the world had conspired to give us more time together. I stayed longer than anticipated—Mexico’s lockdown did not begin for another month—and by then we were happy to quarantine together. A pandemic success story.

We escaped the eerie quiet of Mexico City to Zihuatanejo, where Enrique’s mother owns an unoccupied house, a small concrete box on a working-class street. For a month, I recorded my class lectures over the insistent yap of the neighbor’s chihuahua and the loud grind of an AC unit, essential to cut through the swampy Guerrero heat. When I listen now to these recordings, the noises immediately transport me back to those uncertain days. After I’d finished my lesson for the day, we’d drive ten minutes to a lonely beach—the only one that remained open—and lounge in the sun. We found a stray puppy wandering around there and brought her home with us.

We took many photographs from these early days, but they feel far too intimate to share with USCIS. In most, we look bleary eyed and sex drunk. Our smiles scream, “we fucked five times today!” We wear bathing suits, but the close camera angles make us appear naked. Our heads press together in celebration: we are together! We are in love! But this composition lacks the context and story-telling elements necessary for our file.

Other photographs are voyeuristic, taken when the other wasn’t looking. In one, I lay in a hammock, watching an oblivious Enrique sprawled in the sand and scrolling through his phone. My tanned legs stretch out in the foreground, a book closed over them as I observe him. In another, I capture him perched on a rock formation, crouching over his camera. To me, he is wild. He pinches lizards from trees to get a closer look and watches clouds to track the shifting light. His way of seeing the world changes my own, and soon I find myself observing clouds too, considering the conditions for the day’s sunset. But these pictures also don’t work for our file. They must show us both, together and sharing an experience.

Enrique is a professional photographer, but he prefers landscapes and animals over human subjects. Once, when we were hiking in the foothills of Mexico’s stratavolcano, Popocatépetl, inspiration struck, and he did an impromptu photo shoot with our dog. He came home with two hundred images of her play bowing and peeking through tall grasses. There is just one selfie of us in front of a waterfall. My eyes are closed.

I am a chronically private person. I hardly use social media, and I don’t imagine an outside audience when I take pictures. They are just for me, amulets against forgetting. Sometimes the crush of work and the compulsive busyness of life flattens time. It is easy to feel fixed in my own particular moment, to think that things have always been and always felt as they do right now. I’ll scroll through my camera roll and the images remind me of my own trajectory, how fast and slow the years can move, of the constant churn of change.

Enrique says he felt like he was on drugs for the first months we spent together, referring to the sense of ecstasy and timelessness. But I wonder now if part of that drugged sensation also was one of impaired judgment. Neither of us expected to start a serious relationship when we met, but somehow we could not bring ourselves to do the practical thing and end a binational romance. I spent a lot of time in Mexico, able to teach my classes remotely during the pandemic, always with the uncertainty of how long we could keep it going. Each moment felt precious. To be together, one of us would have to leave our country, a major decision best suited to a twenty-something still embarking on their career. I chose to ignore that reality, enjoying the intoxication until I awoke with a bad hangover.

Between visits, we sent hundreds of photographs that shared the quotidian happenings of our separate lives. I learned to do this for Enrique who liked to visualize what I was experiencing. If there was a big snow or if I prepared a delicious meal, he wanted to see the pictures. If I saw an interesting plant or our dog met a friend, he asked for the photo. It made him feel closer to me. So, I started taking more photographs of myself, of my experiences, just for him. He did the same, sending selfies holding a mezcal in the air or smiling widely while he set up camp for a photo shoot. I look at these images and think about that time of longing. These are modern-day love letters, but they are not legible as such to anyone but us.

Reality soon set in, and by September 2021 I had to return full-time to Seattle to teach in person. I knew I wouldn’t be able to go back to Mexico for at least nine months. And Enrique wouldn’t commit to visiting during that time. I was devastated, and he was practical. A few years earlier, he had quit his desk job to dedicate himself full time to photography. He had worked to build his business and was gaining recognition just as we met. In Seattle, he would have to begin from scratch. We split up. Contrary to what Republicans say, not all Mexicans want to live in the United States.

It took being apart for Enrique to decide to fully commit to the relationship, regardless of where it took us. In January 2022, he arrived in Seattle for a six-month stay, and we’ve been together ever since.


“Who’s he?” It’s a challenge more than a question. The agent hangs out of the booth of the Nuevo Laredo/Laredo land-border crossing, jutting his chin at Enrique who sits in the passenger seat next to me. Another officer appears around the corner, sensing action. The questioner is thick and ruddy. His friend, toothpick thin. They look like a cartoon couple of pranksters.

It’s September 2023. After spending my sabbatical year in Mexico City, I have the idea to drive back to Seattle, ignoring the fact that arriving to the border with a car crammed full of belongings will raise red flags. Friends in a similar situation to ours warned us that it wasn’t a good idea. “Better that you don’t cross together,” they said. “He should accompany you to Monterrey and then fly alone to Houston, where you can pick him up.” But that short, three-hour drive from Monterrey to Nuevo Laredo passes through Tamaulipas, the most dangerous state in Mexico. And not in the Fox News, over-hyped, ratings-seeking sense. I’m nervous, and I urge Enrique to drive together.

At ports of entry, Border Patrol looks for evidence of criminal activity, namely trafficking of people, weapons, or drugs. When encountering ordinary crossers, officers try to sniff out “fraud,” someone claiming to come for a short visit with the actual intention of over-staying their visa and remaining in the country. As a binational couple, we are a walking red flag for fraud. Border Patrol assumes a couple wants to be together (reasonable, to be fair) and that anyone coming to the United States wants to stay (U-S-A!, U-S-A!, U-S-A!). The easiest and fastest way to accomplish these two goals is for a “foreign national” to cross with a tourist visa, get married to their US citizen partner, and then file for an “adjustment of status” to get a green card. If you have this plan prior to crossing, but enter with a tourist visa, that is considered misrepresentation and thus fraud.

A smile curdles on the blond agent’s mouth when I tell him that Enrique is my boyfriend. I swear his eyes actually light up. I feel that familiar itch when confronted by authority. It is the entitled American in me. For a moment, I am invincible, defiant. They can’t touch us. I am used to sailing through these checkpoints. I travel frequently to Mexico for research and am accustomed to getting questions about why I was there. I tend to be haughty and can afford to be (although polite society frowns upon it) because I know they cannot deny a US citizen entry to her country.

But Enrique is not a US citizen, and Border Patrol can deny entry to any visitor they suspect of committing fraud. They do not have to prove anything, and the immigrant cannot appeal to a judge. Denial of entry results in at least five years of being barred from entering the United States. I didn’t really understand the latitude Border Patrol had for action because I didn’t have to.

The dick swinging begins, complete with challenges to masculine honor. Does Enrique plan to let his girlfriend pay for him for four months while he’s in the States?

“Ya’ll plan to get married. He’s gonna overstay his visa.”

They are insistent and stubborn. We have spoken to them for three minutes, and already they’ve accused us of fraud. This is not how things were supposed to go.

“He’s not going to be able to come through.”

They instruct us to pull into the large, empty parking lot. Enrique will need to go into the adjacent offices for further questioning.

The loneliness of the Nuevo Laredo/Laredo port of entry unnerves me. I am more familiar with the interminable lines at the Tijuana/San Ysidro crossing, an hour from where I grew up. There, an informal market of vendors and entertainers glide between cars, ready to offer drivers whatever they may desire during their wait: potato chips, lime-dressed jicama slices, a loose cigarette, a juggling show. Border crossers and vendors are bonded by our purgatory, thousands of souls waiting to show our passports or for our shifts to end.

Nearly 100,000 people cross each day at the San Ysidro entry. Commuters make their way on foot and in car back and forth for work or school. Their lives trapped in a perpetual straddle over that line. By comparison, Laredo is a joyless, flat desert wasteland, with no pedestrian traffic and one-third of the personal vehicles crossing annually. Commercial traffic dominates. A mile from the border, we are sandwiched between hundreds of semi-trucks. But they all vanished suddenly into a separate turnoff, leaving us alone.

We step out into the oppressive heat. The car thermometer reads 110. I hate this place with every fiber of my being. I accompany Enrique to the door because it feels like someone should witness where he’s gone to. I mumble something about return tickets and other documentation he should show. I am numb, guilty, and penitent. He won’t make eye contact with me.

The building looks brand new with impeccably clean windows and shiny countertops. Our whispers echo, bouncing across the empty space. Four agents, including the two from the booth, wait, eager to join the questioning. I imagine they will go home that evening, shift complete, crack open a Bud Light and tell a different version of this story.

I return to the car. The dog can’t stay alone in this heat, and they won’t allow me to wait inside anyways. I keep checking my phone for updates, then I Google whether Enrique would be entitled to a lawyer. More time passes before I allow my mind to wander to the next stage of the roadtrip. To my aunt who is waiting for us in Austin. I grow bored, itself a privilege.

Enrique finally emerges, diminished and seething. The officers were relentless, making him show the deed to his house, the title of his car, paystubs, and other proof of financial solvency to show he could support himself while visiting the United States. As an upper-middle class man, Enrique’s experience crossing was also relatively privileged. The agents had nothing to go on, and they finally turned him loose, but not before one of them warned, “You clean up nice, but I know you are a criminal. I will hunt you down for the rest of your life until I catch you breaking the law.” America’s finest.

But Enrique does not share that until later. For now, he refuses to talk. I want to touch his experience and to share it, to make it a little lighter. I want to tell him that I am livid too. But it’s not the same. They did not taunt, berate, and interrogate me. I was not threatened with denial of entry.

We drive in silence for two hours until we reach my aunt’s house. The border growing between us.

Like so many other genuine couples, we made choices about our relationship based on the need to have the necessary immigration documents that could keep us together. We spoke with a lawyer who said that, now that Enrique had been taken to secondary inspection a few times, he would be flagged. We did not want the agony and uncertainty of such questioning again. We decided to get married.

I pored over every document in our file before submitting, correcting lawyer-introduced errors and adding Enrique to as many bills as I could. I culled through our family photographs and tried to find ones that had as many members present as possible. USCIS sees photos with family at special occasions as harder to fake. There is a professional photograph taken of me, my siblings and our partners at my sister’s wedding. Officers won’t know that my mom stuck the boyfriends (including Enrique) at the ends, just in case she needed to crop them out later.

I couldn’t help but think that a child would obviate the need for all this documentation. Nothing convinces USCIS of a good faith marriage more than shared offspring. It’s ironic, since many loveless marriages begin with a child. This metric touches a nerve because children have been a tender subject between us. With Enrique, I suddenly felt the desire for motherhood, while he never envisioned himself as a father. He can’t imagine bringing a child into a world with the certainty of climate disaster and the uncertainty of financial stability. On an intellectual level I understand this. But on a gut level, I still want a baby. Every six months, we dust off our arguments and rehearse them again. But these negotiations leave no trace in our file, just an unchecked box: no children. 

We spent eight agonizing months waiting, a relatively short period but it felt like an eternity in limbo. Finally, in August 2024, we received a notification of a “Request for Initial Evidence.” Didn’t we already submit that? USCIS wanted to see that we had continued our relationship, that Enrique didn’t abscond after we sent the fat file of paperwork, the one I had photographed.

I frantically texted my mom after receiving the request. “Did you take a picture of us at Sophie’s baby shower?” No. Then, my sister. “Sophie, can you take a picture of the page we signed in the guest book? The one with the polaroid photo of us.” The officers need to see that we went to an important family event together. I searched my camera roll. Just photos of myself with my sisters, my parents. None with Enrique. He is a phantom. He often shrinks at large gatherings, especially when English predominates the conversation. Instead of sticking by him, though, I assumed the role of baby shower co-host, not of spouse petitioner. I wasn’t thinking of the photo.

Enrique’s relationship with the United States has evolved in the last fifteen months that he’s lived here. His resistance has softened. He perceives it as more orderly, less chaotic, more reliable. He doesn’t mind the wet cold of Seattle. But it hasn’t been easy. He has felt isolated, lonely, overwhelmed by the challenge of restarting his life, his business here. He says his social skills have grown rusty. Many days, I don’t know how to help, and I feel wrong for asking this of him.

After Enrique and I broke up in 2021, I talked to my dad about the possibility of us getting back together. My father, a quiet man who usually isn’t quick to give advice, warned me against it. “It’s too much to ask someone to move to another country.”

I wasn’t naïve when we began the process. I spent the summer after college graduation working for a pro-bono immigration law center, filing U-Visa applications for victims of domestic violence by US citizens. Now, I teach college classes on Latin America, which include lectures on the immigrant experience. I thought I knew what to expect. The infamously anachronistic questions on the I-485 form: “Have you EVER been a member of, or in any way affiliated with, the Communist Party or any other totalitarian party (in the United States or abroad)?” The maddeningly opaque USCIS website. The dehumanizing biometrics exam. (Every applicant has to get tested for syphilis.) Many of my friends have been through this, and they warned me about the interview. (“They will quiz you about the color of your spouse’s toothbrush.” “They will ask intimate, embarrassing questions.”) Still, I wasn’t prepared for the queasy feeling I would get quantifying my own marriage for the state’s evaluation.

Our response to the request for initial evidence:

1. 2023 jointly filed tax return
2. Verizon Wireless bill due Aug. 15 for billing period Jun 24-Jul 23, 2024
3. Seattle City Light Bill, summary of charges as of July 30, 2024. Total amount due on August 20, 2024: $157.49
4. Progressive Auto Insurance Policy
5. Xfinity bill that begins: “Hello Vanessa-L Freije-Rodriguez”
6. Bank of America joint checking account opened August 15, 2024 with an initial balance of $500
7. Washington State Department of Licensing Registration Certificate for a Ford Focus
8. University of Washington Statement of Coverage
9. Nine photographs with family

Commingling of finances. Shared residence. Shared experiences. It was all there.

Just one week later, we received a notification of approval. An anti-climactic message after eight months of receiving the silent treatment. The website didn’t update our estimated wait time and still maddeningly displayed “eleven months” in blocky blue font. But the green card arrived one week later. For our relationship, it will mean even more stability, but I know that certainty is always a moving target.

While intended to accurately capture the genuine nature of a marriage, the green card application changes relationships in the process. USCIS shoehorns romantic attachments into the heteronormative 1950s model of a single-income family. We tentatively join finances in a way I never did in my first marriage. It gives me pause. As a divorcée I know how fragile marriage can be. And yet these decisions don’t feel like our own. Instead, we are prompted to ask: how would this look to an immigration officer?

Intimacy doesn’t easily conform itself into evidence. It resists at every turn. Still, we’ve accumulated our own file, a private archive of our good faith marriage. Only this one holds no evidentiary weight for USCIS.

1. Innumerable Whatsapp messages: “I’m on my way home.” “Ya voy en camino.” “Te amo bebé.”
2. Photographs
   1. Various supermarket items, sent by Enrique to ensure that he has selected correctly with a corresponding voice message, “Was this the yogurt you wanted?”
   2. A photo, from behind, of Enrique mounting the TV. Sent with pride to my sister on August 18, 2024, according to the metadata.
   3. Video, taken by Enrique, of me and my sisters blowing up an enormous four-seater floatie to take on Lake Washington.
   4. Pictures I’ve sent him of my progress on various yard projects: a trench dug in our side yard for a French drain; a support for our Espalier tree; raised garden beds with the dog lying between them
   5. A message from Enrique while I was in Santiago, Chile, traveling for a conference. “Mándame fotos de todo.”

The green card is “conditional” because we had not been married long enough when we filed. That means that in two years, we will need to apply for the conditions to be removed. The current wait time for that approval is 48 months. With Trump’s reelection, we can expect more hurdles. My TikTok feed is full of immigration lawyers warning of catastrophe and shouting, “Show everything, more than you think you need to! Don’t give them any reason to doubt!” We will gather more evidence, and I will try to remember to take photos, the right kind this time. Meanwhile, I will cling to our shadow file, which holds the true signs of our good faith marriage.