I imagine most of you have been on a roller coaster at some point in your life. Chances are there are a few of you who are either too terrified to get on a roller coaster again, or at the very least, despise having to get on one to appease your friends, family, or your kids. Where even if you cry, you’ll get through it, but just hate that being a necessity.

For my wife, every day is a roller coaster ride.

She’s waiting in line, which is her slumber. Some days, the line is long and she gets maybe even seven hours of sleep. On other days, the line is short and she’ll catch maybe three or four hours. She’s recovering from the last ride, her adrenaline regulating, but she’s also gearing up for the one in front of her. She dreams about wellness retreats in India, but more realistically, about finding our way to the gym, where we haven’t been in months. She’s pumping herself up for another thrill- another day in the life of an immigration attorney and advocate in the Trump era. An immigration attorney who is a wife to her second husband and a mother to her eleven-year-old triplets. An immigration attorney whose life is on such a level of overdrive that she also equates it, publicly, to a roller-coaster ride. 

The daily alarm goes off. That’s the little gate opening, the one alerting you to your turn to climb into the seat and strap in. With eyes open, barely, her heart flutters with that “I know I want to do this – I paid for my entrance to the theme park – my friends are watching – but I’m scared sh**less” feeling. She stumbles toward the ride, the coffee pot, and commits to moving forward. She could pass over the seats through to the other side, how some people who chicken out do, and go back to bed, but she doesn’t. She can’t. She lowers down into place and straps in.

Slowly climbing upward toward the sky, the click-clack of the little car as it is mechanically pulled in a direction that defies gravity. It’s completely unnatural. 

We all experience this at some point, don’t we? It’s a mixture of “what am I doing?”, anticipation of about what is to come, and a preparation for the fast fall. It’s early morning, when she’s mentally reviewing the to-do list that awaits her at the office. We coordinate making lunches for the kids and packing backpacks. Noah doesn’t like white bread anymore. Gabriel likes mustard now. Aila will eat ALDI-brand Pirate’s Booty and name-brand Cheez-its, but not name-brand Pirate’s Booty or off-brand Cheez-its. Should we cut fresh strawberries or toss in some fruit snacks? Fruit snacks count as fruit, right? 

They’re almost to the apex, which to avoid tardy slips, is 7:40 am. Click-clack. A quick shower. Click-clack. Frozen waffles in the oven. Click-clack. The file she brought home last night, but didn’t get to. Click-clack. The right sportswear for – is it cross-country? Soccer? Basketball? Practice or game day? Tick, tick, tick, tick. It’s 7:40. Her mind is a Rubik’s Cube stuffed with two decades of legal wrangling mixed in with a nearly irresponsible, loving, motherly instinct, and spousal engagement.  

She’s bracing herself because the day is actually happening now, like it or not. The fast fall is the drive to school. She exhales, briefly, before the twists and turns begin. They groove to pop music on the radio. They review Latin. They laugh hysterically when one of them farts. It’s never her, we’ve determined. They talk about our favorite British TV show, The Durrells in Corfu, and, inspired by it, daydream out loud about spending the summer together in a rental in Greece. That fast fall ends quickly, and at the bottom of the hill, my trio jumps out of the car with a trombone, a clarinet, and a cello, and the trunk of the van slams shut as she blow kisses, even though they’re now in middle school and probably hate that. I do it when I drop them off because they hate it. The contrasts between parenting styles are endless, but that one’s my favorite. 

At the next, smaller incline, it’s going too fast to hear the click-clack of the first climb. She pulls into the parking garage in downtown Indianapolis, takes the elevator up 25 flights, and… go. 

A meeting with a Mexican gentleman whose Lawful Permanent Resident father petitioned for him in 1998, and she has to tell him he still has about two more years for his visa; a 22-year wait in total. 

She’s drafting an appellate brief, arguing that for a Chinese client didn’t get proper notice of his hearing because even though service on one’s attorney constitutes service, his prior attorney never notified him, and therefore, they’re dealing with a violation of due process if he doesn’t get his day in court.

She takes a call from a frantic wife, a US citizen whose Nicaraguan husband was taken from their home by US Immigration and Customs Enforcement at 4 o’clock this morning. 

She prepares a Mauritanian client for an upcoming asylum interview, where he’ll have one opportunity to explain to a total stranger who holds his future in her hands why he is certain he’ll be killed if he is sent back to Africa.

An e-mail pops up. A flagged assignment. One of my kids bombed a science quiz we had studied for from a PowerPoint my wife made. A note from the school nurse. Another kiddo is in the office with a headache and is asking if she’ll authorize Tylenol. Which reminds her, she still wants and needs to find a suitable day camp for winter break. She slaps her head remembering: “Flu shots. We all need flu shots.”

She pulls up our bank account, and jumps on Amazon to order the library book I lost. At that moment, I text her asking if the elbow macaroni is for a particular recipe she planned, or if I can use it to make chili. 

She needs more coffee, a refueling, a rest; but before she gets up from the desk to get a cup… 

A Muslim woman calls, asking if Sarah will go to Bartholomew County to speak at her temple about the status of the current travel ban, as it stands after over a year of litigation. A professor from Marian University e-mails, requesting Sarah be at her class to give a presentation on “Immigration 101” to her students- a class I could  actually teach for her, as I have heard it at least 20 times, and it would actually be costing her money to not be billing clients.  A community organizer is inviting her to a rally.

And she says yes, yes, and yes. Of course, she says yes. 

One of her favorite colleagues is in her office, in the yellow IKEA chairs we got when she first joined the firm. They are engaged in a deep conversation about the latest blows – the administration’s efforts to denaturalize people who have been citizens for decades, the Executive Orders that purport to make it harder for anyone to immigrate here, ongoing election results and their predicted impact on their work. The firm’s marketing plans. Anticipated staffing changes. 

She ends that conversation by taking a quick glance at the clock and shouting, “Sh**! I have to go!” She grabs her purse (which isn’t really a purse, but an old tote she got for free somewhere), she rushes out, and makes it to our son’s game, and because she’s the kindest and most thoughtful person I’ve ever met, she even thinks to text me on her way, “I’m excited to get home for that chili!”

As the ride rolls to a stop, she has a drink. Or two. She knocks herself because she feels she shouldn’t. She reflects on the experience finally completed – the thrills, fears, twists and turns, and as she finally pulls the metal bar off her lap, she hears someone say, “Again! Let’s go again!” And she does. All year long. 

Before 2016, life as an immigration defense attorney was difficult. There are ICE and ICE Air agents who use their power against attorneys, especially female attorneys, which make up more than 57% of the 25,000 immigration lawyers today. There are stories of male agents letting the female attorney know they might be willing to provide assistance (i.e. do their job professionally, by the book) if the woman would just “give us a little spin”, or “meet up for lunch soon”, or  ask, “Are you still with your man?” Legal provisions and protocols have affected tens of thousands of immigration attorneys as well, but most of the litigators could adjust and find traction to assist their clients in the most effective ways possible while navigating sometimes labyrinthian and dynamic changes coming from the top on a yearly basis. 

Since Trump took office, and more significantly, since Sessions, Whitaker, and now Barr assumed the top legal role in dismantling many understood to be moralistic immigration laws, what was once difficult has become almost impossible, as well as a daily, deliberate abeyance of justice. How any AILA member stays sane is beyond me, and yes; if you’re paying attention, my wife named her daughter, at least partially, after the American Immigration Lawyers Association. 

If any or all of this has sounded like too much, I encourage you to do your best to not let life become a roller coaster. Sarah has dedicated her life to a craft of precision, certainty, a mastery of language, and a deep belief in the goodness of the human heart. The world may have now crossed a threshold. I say world for the obvious interconnection of human capacity and tendency. I say threshold for the obvious ubiquity of fear mongering and hate going on today. This country not only accepted, but cradled immigrants with the same irresponsible love my wife shows our kids and showed me when we first met. I was once a stranger to her. She didn’t need to, but she took a chance on me, and some in America are no longer taking chances on who they don’t know. They should. It would truly be making us great. And happy. 

I owe much of my happiness to my wife and was not just compelled, but soulfully obligated, to share this story and these thoughts with the world. She inspires me and helps me to face the day when all I want to do is roll up into a ball and cry. But instead of crying about the tough input I receive from the world, my mind goes to comedy. The synapses fire and wire together to reduce strain in my heart’s muscles, keep my stomach in place, and laugh out into an environment that would rather hear me cry. My advice is to laugh, even when you’re taking it on the chin. I find it a great key to sanity. So, to be true to myself and my heart, I’ll leave you with the first quote that ever made me laugh after a good cry. I hope it helps you, too. 

“For every minute you are angry, you lose a minute of happiness.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson 

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