Not that it matters . . .
. . . but . . .
Has anyone else here ever actually
BEEN an illegal alien?
Anyone?
Ahh.
Well.
The year is 1981. My visa has expired. I am in Southern England. I have a four-year-old daughter. I have no money. I have just finished several years of volunteer work on the continent.
So, it's January, I'm unemployed and broke, and technically homeless. With a four-year-old daughter.
I have a skill I can sell, but I can't legally work.
The British Home Office has no sense of humor. If I'm discovered working with no visa, life gets interesting.
Assets: I have a very passable accent. After some years in country, I talk like a native. I have a skillset that businesses need (I'm an experienced international telex operator). I have some acquaintances in London. I have a strong will to overcome anything set before me -- an attitude that nothing is really a problem.
I go to London with my last twenty Pounds. I look up someone I know and secure a place to stay. I find someone else willing, on the word of this acquaintance, to lend me cash. I start looking for someplace that needs what I do.
Over the next ninety days, I learn the proper combination of truths, half-truths, and outright lies that will get me in the door. I eventually obtain a job with an foreign-owned export/import company who are willing to forego the embarrassing questions in return for my commitment to learning computers and helping them computerize their comms system.
Over the next several months, I learn computer programming, select the hardware they'll need, and write the application that does what they require. During this period, the lion's share of my income is stored rather than spent.
By the spring of the following year (1982), I have accrued enough cash to pay my way home, avoiding an encounter with either the Home Office or the State Department.
We fly back to the states.
My daughter and I arrive back home with enough cash in hand to live for three months while I find another job.
During this adventure we never once spent a night on the street or went hungry. During this adventure I had one objective: get home without involving either government.
Mission accomplished.
Oh, and I picked up a new career in the process.
(Epilogue: The following year (1983) one of the companies I worked with over there decided they liked my work, and went through the months of red tape to get me a real visa and plane ticket and a car and lodgings, and flew me back to help them write a version of my comms software for an obscure (Osborne) personal computer. That trip was lots more fun. It's way more fun to be legal.)
So I've seen both sides of this issue, with my own son in-law jumping through hoops, and my own time as an illegal alien "undocumented" worker.
You know what?
Just do it right.
No, my situation wasn't "identical" to that of a man sneaking into this country and lying and hiding and stealing in order to stay. But I can tell you I know the point of view, know the exposure.
And I still say, "just do it right."
I've tried on the shoes. I shed them as fast as I could.
Don't break the rules and then pretend you were right to do so.
Just. Do it. Right.