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As boy heads to D.C., mother keeps the faith
Mary Schmich


October 4, 2006

Elvira Arellano was fasting Tuesday, and it wasn't a media stunt.

She might not even have mentioned it if I hadn't shown up without warning at Adalberto United Methodist Church in Humboldt Park and asked one of those hard-hitting reporter questions: What do you usually eat for breakfast?

Usually, she said, sitting in a dim second-floor room, with a cell phone clipped on her green sweat pants, it's a ham and butter sandwich.

But not Tuesday. Her 7-year-old son, Saul, was on his way to the White House to deliver a letter asking the president not to deport her. Fasting was a form of prayer.

It's been seven weeks since Arellano took sanctuary in this storefront church next to the Salon de Belleza Puerto Rico on Division Street.

August has shaded into October, and she sometimes turns on the space heater in the tiny bedroom where she and her son share a single bed. She caught bronchitis but is almost well again. She sews, answers e-mail on her laptop.

Does she get bored?

"Never," she said, in Spanish.

Sad?

"Sometimes, yes." But only for a moment, she said brightly. She tells herself to be positive. "But yes, sometimes sad."

When she gets sad, it's when she thinks about her son Saul--Saulito--and the possibility that she will be forced back to her homeland of Mexico. She wants him to have a life here, in his homeland.

While they've been living in this apartment that also serves as the pastor's office and an AA meeting room, Saul entered 2nd grade. He is learning how to multiply and to read, in English.

He owns a new little beige suit, for interviews. He has worn it from California to Miami and this week to Washington.

"Where are you?" he asked when he talked to his mother by phone Monday night. "What are you doing? How is Daisy?" Daisy is their dog, a mix of Chihuahua and mini-Doberman.

It's a strange life for a kid, this celebrity and insecurity. But Saul's life hasn't been normal since 2002 when his mother, deported once before, was arrested for working at O'Hare with a false Social Security number and ordered out of the U.S.

By now, Arellano said, the media are just part of their lives, like the eternal twilight in this room.

Arellano never goes farther outside than the back porch; from it she can see the Boys and Girls Club where Saul had made new friends. One of her friends begged her to come to his wedding. He'd disguise her, he said, smuggle her in his car. No one who might tell would know.

"God would know," she said.
She doesn't get lonely, or at least she's never alone. The phone or the door buzzes most days by 8 a.m.

Reporters are rare these days, but supporters come, and students, from DePaul, UIC, Columbia, Truman. Many are the children of Arab, African, Asian and Latino immigrants. They're working on papers and documentaries.

"I'm always willing to talk," Arellano said. "I never say no."

On Tuesday, a group of Florida activists arrived shortly after I did. Then a neighborhood photographer who wanted her portrait for an art exhibit.

A man in a CTA uniform popped in. He'd just come back from a Denver transit union conference; they'd taken a collection for her.

Goodwill sustains Arellano. The nearby laundry does her wash for free. Supporters donated a microwave and refrigerator and painted the bathroom. Friends cook.

But even some undocumented immigrants wish she'd go away. By being so visible, they think, she makes them vulnerable.

"They're not in my situation," she said. "When someone's in a position to be deported, their thinking is different. Any mother would do the same as me."

A couple of minutes later, the phone rang. Saul. He was outside the White House.

"Ah, wow!" said Arellano. "Que bueno, Saulito!"

When she hung up, she and her visitors held hands in a circle and prayed.

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mschmich@tribune.com