Reyna is afraid of her husband.
Alone, she is gregarious and funny. She bursts with pride for her children, high-achieving students, athletes or performers. She’s the kind of mom that classroom teachers love — quick to offer assistance, to gently tease teachers and staff. She walks around the school grounds with confidence.
When her husband is present at school events, Reyna is silent. She is still. Even when her children are chosen to receive awards, she claps sedately while parents around her whistle and holler as their children take the stage. Next to Reyna, her husband sits, arms crossed, his lips a tight line. He does not speak. I make a point to say hello, effusively, every time I see him. He tilts his chin up slightly in response.
I watch Reyna for months. I see no bruises, no scratch marks, nothing visible that would indicate domestic violence. I don’t know what I would do if I saw evidence of physical violence; although I am legally mandated to report child abuse, there is no similar directive for adults. However, Reyna flinches when doors slam or books drop. As teachers interrupt their conversations with her to scold unruly students, she ducks her head at their raised voices.
Reyna’s children do not show signs of trauma on first glance. The boys are loud and boisterous, and the girls are perfectionists in both their attire and their schoolwork. Studying them over time, however, I see the boys are dismissive toward anyone they consider weaker than them, especially girls. They are not bullies, but the potential certainly exists. The girls are anxious and fearful of making mistakes. Their behavior is impeccable; it is clear they don’t want a phone call home or a note to parents.
It takes more than a year for Reyna to open up to me. Over time she confides that her husband is verbally and emotionally abusive to her. She worries that the boys are learning his mannerisms, that the girls will model their future roles as wives on her submissiveness. One day, I gather up the courage to ask her a question which has been on my mind for some time.
“Why do you stay with him?”
She hesitates, perhaps wondering how much I can be trusted. Finally, she says slowly, “I don’t have papers.”
While Reyna is undocumented, her husband is a US citizen. He could help her adjust her immigration status, she says, but refuses to do so. In this way, he can hold the threat of “la migra” and deportation over her head when they argue. Because her children were all born in the United States, she knows that deported, she will have no chance at gaining custody of them. She has learned to stay quiet, to avoid conflict, and to steer clear of him when he appears to be gearing up for a fight. Her hope, she explains, is that when her children become adults, one of them can sponsor her immigration paperwork and she will have the opportunity to become a legal resident.
An idea occurs to me. Perhaps she can apply for legal residency under the statute that allows for victims of domestic violence to adjust their status. The VAWA, or Violence Against Women Act would permit her to file paperwork without her husband’s blessing. I take a deep breath before asking the next question.
“Does he hit you?”
She laughs bitterly. “Oh, no. He’s too smart for that. He knows I could get papers if he hits me!”
I am surprised and dismayed at his astuteness. Part of me wants to urge her to provoke him, just once, enough that he will hit her. She could document it, press charges, and apply for legal residency. But of course, I cannot give that advice, and I cannot guarantee that he would stop at one satisfying swing.
I look at Reyna. I imagine the desperation she must feel, tied to a man whose anger frightens her, whose disdain has whittled away at her confidence. She has no papers, little English, no means of supporting herself, and a deep fear of losing her children.
Reyna masks her fear well, behind a cheerful smile. She has carved out a niche for herself in the community, and is loved and respected. I’m grateful that among the many things our public school provides, it has given her a safe haven, a place where at least for moments her biggest worry is whether the electric pencil sharpener will overheat or the copy machine will run out of staples. I count the days until one of her children helps her apply for legal residency, and pray that she stays safe until then.
