Homecoming

Homecoming

Though still facing possible deportation, Aaron Billings enjoys his freedom and the warmth of his family who fought for his release from INS custody

By Corina Knoll

CORONADO, CALIF. — While sitting in the living room of his parents’ house, Aaron Billings grins at his mother, leans over to fake-punch his brother and laughs loudly at one of his father’s jokes.

In each of these small interactions, Aaron is celebrating freedom.

Now, his laughter fills a room, not just a telephone. And now there is no glass divider separating him from his family.

These are cherished details to a man who was incarcerated for more than two years at the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) detention facility in San Diego — a side effect of a 1996 immigration law.

Released on May 9 into the custody of his parents, Lowell Billings and Bonnie Ewen, Aaron is enjoying life outside of a cell.

For a while though, it looked as if this 27-year-old would be deported to South Korea. In fact, less than three months ago, Lowell and Bonnie — whose story was originally featured in the March 2003 issue of KoreAm — were beginning to fear that they had done all they could do for their oldest son and would soon be saying their good-byes.

“I was almost at my wits’ end,” recalls Lowell. “Almost ready to just say, ‘I can’t figure this out.’”

What Lowell and Bonnie couldn’t figure out was how to rescue their child from the clutches of a federal law intended to close loopholes in past immigration policies.

The couple adopted Aaron from Korea when he was 3 years old. At that time, a misprinted birth certificate sent from the adoption agency led them to believe that Aaron’s alien status had been changed to that of a U.S. citizen, and so they never pursued the naturalization process for him as adoptive parents are required to do.

Throughout Aaron’s childhood, Lowell and Bonnie never suspected their son was anything but a citizen. Even when he had run-ins with the law in his early 20s and spent 11 months in an Arizona state prison, authorities never questioned his citizenship. But in April 2001, Aaron was picked up for selling marijuana, and an INS purge identified him as an illegal alien — news that shocked him and his family.

Because of the 1996 Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act, which imposed harsh regulations on non-citizens who commit crimes, the INS placed Aaron in the San Diego detention facility. The law mandates that immigrants convicted of crimes that are punishable by at least a year — even permanent residents who have committed relatively minor crimes like shoplifting — be detained and face deportation.

Suddenly, a common misdemeanor had a young man facing the possibility of leaving the country where he grew up.

“It’s not what he did, it’s what we didn’t do,” says Lowell. “Aaron could commit any crime — he could be a mass murderer, and they couldn’t send him out of the country [if he had been naturalized].”

For now the INS has chosen to send Aaron back to his family. After two years that included an appeal that went to the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals, Aaron’s lawyers finally got word that the 27-year-old would be released.

“If [INS authorities] don’t remove you within 90 days [after your final appeal], they’re supposed to review your case,” explains Carl Balediata, one of Aaron’s attorneys. “They didn’t do their job initially and, from our standpoint, we didn’t want to push anything because we were negotiating things with the Korean Consulate. In reality they should have started to review whether they were going to release him or not back in January.”

In March, Aaron’s attorneys submitted over 200 documents that argued for Aaron’s release, including letters from prominent community members and politicians. These arguments, combined with the hesitation from the Korean Consulate to issue the necessary travel documents for Aaron to enter Korea, were enough to send a young man home.

“The Friday before Mother’s Day was when I got the call,” says Balediata. “Words can’t even express how I felt at that moment. I actually got goose bumps and was shaking and wanted to scream out the window. This was a case that had been on my desk for around two years. To have that feeling was the most exhilarating feeling. It reaffirmed what I do and what our office does.”

Still, the decision to release Aaron was unexpected, since it came on the heels of a recent Supreme Court decision that upheld the mandatory detention provision in the 1996 act that states the need to imprison criminal aliens awaiting deportation to prevent them from committing new crimes.

It also said that the attorney general has the right to treat those facing deportation as a group, without regard to the nature of their crime or their personal situations.

Lowell had almost lost hope when he received the good news call from Balediata. Earlier that week, Lowell had received a much less pleasant call at 4 a.m. from Aaron who was being questioned by INS officers. It struck fear in the hearts of the entire family that perhaps time had run out and Aaron was about to be sent back to Korea.

But then Lowell heard the lawyer say something he will remember forever.

“He said, ‘I don’t know how to tell you, I don’t know why, but unexpectedly they’re letting Aaron out. Are you going to be available from 6 to 9 tonight?’” recalls Lowell. “I just about broke down in tears because I thought he was gone for sure.”

Immediately, Lowell, who is the superintendent for the Chula Vista Elementary School District, contacted Bonnie, who had just finished teaching her third-grade class, and told her she was about to receive the Mother’s Day gift of her life.

The couple waited by the phone that night and received a call from Aaron who had been dropped off alone on the corner of 4th and Broadway in downtown San Diego. After only being able to visit Aaron on weekends and talk to him through a glass wall, the family was finally able to exchange hugs.

They are now a foursome since Aaron’s younger brother, Greg, 20, has returned home after finishing up his junior year at the University of Arizona.

“I cruised around the corner, I see Aaron’s head poking out the window,” recalls Greg, smiling. “I thought, ‘Hey, I know that guy, it’s been two years, but — ’”

“Two years, one month and four days!” adds Aaron, chuckling.

Aaron is currently under what is called an “order of supervision,” which means he is at the mercy of the INS, to whom he must check in with once a month and who can demand his appearance at any time and can also make unannounced check-up calls.

There is also the chance that Aaron could still be sent back to Korea.

“The word of caution that we have at this point is that the Korean Consulate hasn’t given us a definite that they’re not going to issue a travel document,” explains Balediata. “So there’s always that specter looming in the background.”

“It’s like eggshells because it’s not fixed yet,” says Bonnie. “So for now it’s a lot of still being excited and that fear of, ‘Is this really permanent?’”

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Although the 1996 amendment to existing immigration laws intended to crack down on so-called “criminal aliens,” it has imposed some unanticipated consequences for international adoptees like Aaron. Since its passage, there have been at least two cases of international adoptees — raised in America but never naturalized — who were deported to their birth countries after committing felonies in the United States.

Like these adoptees, Aaron has no knowledge of his birth country or how to speak the language, nor does he know of any relatives or friends outside of America. The prospect of being left alone in Korea is more frightening to Aaron than spending the rest of his life incarcerated in the United States. And if you’ve ever met Aaron, you would understand that there is even greater reason he should be close to the only family he knows.

Aaron speaks deliberately, his speech is a bit hard to decipher, and if he plans to say something important, he will rehearse it first. When recalling his past, he tends to role play rather than just tell it straightforwardly. He also frequently interjects colorful commentary into conversations that often makes his family laugh. While he is in his late 20s, Aaron’s voice sounds like that of a grade-schooler, and after just one conversation, it is obvious that his sensibilities have not yet caught up with his age.

“There’s lots of things that Aaron can say and could say, but he doesn’t have the expressive language,” says Lowell. “It isn’t easy for him to just carry on that complex of language communication. If I brought that fan in here as a box full of parts, he wouldn’t need the directions; he’d put it together. But ask him to give a speech and explain it to somebody else, he couldn’t do that.”

Aaron also has cognitive difficulties, or as he puts it, “Like I read a book, and then I have to read it again so I really understand it.”

In special education classes until high school, Aaron continues to struggle with learning disabilities, a trait that sometimes hinders him from making the best decisions. Like the time he traveled to San Francisco on a whim, “just to see if I could live on my own, make money by collecting cans and panhandling, going from trash can to trash can.”

When Lowell asks Aaron if that was a good way to make a living, Aaron responds defiantly, “You know how many cans I picked up, Dad? Over 7,000 cans!”

Aaron is sincere and trusting, two traits that his parents believe make him vulnerable and cause others to take advantage of him, persuading him to go along with their misdeeds and then leaving him to take the fall.

“He doesn’t speak off the cuff, and that’s one of the reasons he’s been in trouble,” says Lowell. “[When] Greg gets caught doing something, he can lie his way out. Aaron never could.”

“You’ve got excuses up the yin-yang, and I’ve got nothing!” says Aaron gleefully to his brother.

His earnest smile and adolescent-like personality are charming, but his parents worry that that Aaron’s naïvete may land him in trouble again.

“We’ve talked to him and said, ‘You know, Aaron, you’re in a transition period,’” says Lowell. “We’ve really got to maneuver through this, and the important thing is there’s an order of custody. That means you’re with us, so stay close. Don’t take chances with people.’”

If the U.S. government determines that Aaron is no longer a threat and the Korean Consulate issues a denial of travel documents, then Aaron will be allowed to stay in the United States, but without the rights of a citizen. Because he would still technically be under the order of supervision, unless an amendment to the 1996 act is made, this could mean that Lowell and Bonnie will bear the burden of keeping track of Aaron for the rest of their lives.

“We made that commitment when we adopted him,” says Lowell.

Aaron insists that he has learned to steer clear of trouble and to make his own decisions.

“I have been judging people, seeing if they’re really worthy to be my friend — their characteristics, seeing how fast they get mad, seeing if they’re trustworthy or not,” he says.

Since he has returned home, Aaron has been volunteering full-time for his father’s school district, processing library and media material. He enjoys the work and being around other people, while his parents say that it is important for him to have structure in his day.

“Only thing I got going for me is volunteer work now,” says Aaron, who hopes to get a work permit and is eager to apply for a position as a bellboy or busboy.

While Aaron and his family still think about the fact that deportation is a possibility, they are determined to be happy. They want to make the best out of the time they have now, and pain will only be talked about in the past tense.

“[We had] a lot of ups and downs in the last few years,” recalls Bonnie. “A lot of emotional roller coasters.”

“I would come home from visitation and be depressed,” says Lowell.

“Like the souls got sucked out of them,” remembers Aaron.

“Yeah, I just collapsed inwards, and I just sort of built up a shell,” says Bonnie.

“But now I’m out here,” says Aaron, smiling.

The Billings are planning one of their first family vacations in a long time. It will give Greg and Aaron a chance to hang out before the younger brother heads off to work in Mexico for the summer. The two are already busy jibing each other and making wisecracks. Nothing’s changed, they say. It is the same relationship they have enjoyed since they were kids.

“Yeah, I love my brother too much,” says Aaron.

Tonight, the brothers plan to go see a movie. It will be the first time Aaron has gone to the movie theater in five years.

“Everything’s 3-D now,” jokes Greg. “A lot’s changed.”

But some things really have changed in Aaron’s world. He came home to a different house (the family moved while Aaron was incarcerated), a new dog and the realization that the passing of time also means the death of loved ones. On Mother’s Day, Bonnie took Aaron to the grave of one of his favorite grandmothers who had passed away when Aaron was serving time in Arizona.

“I wish I was there to spend more time with her,” says Aaron.

Lowell and Bonnie hope Aaron has recognized the value of staying close to family. Even before he was incarcerated at the INS, Aaron was seldom at home and had a tendency to take off on his own without letting them know his whereabouts.

“I’m glad to be home,” says Aaron earnestly. “I just love being home.”

It’s hard for him to think about what will happen if INS officers appear at his door to take him away, so he wants every minute to count.

“I want to take it one day at a time,” he says. “See what happens. They could come and get me any time now — tomorrow. I’m taking this one day at a time.”

While Aaron’s case has not appeared in the mainstream media, it has touched many who have heard about it through websites or friends. Lowell and Bonnie have received letters of support from concerned community members and other adoptive families. There are also many that the two say deserve credit for his release — people who wrote letters on his behalf or utilized connections with the Korean Consulate and the U.S. government. They are even hosting a gathering for a Korean adoptee group this month to thank them for their support.

Eventually Lowell and Bonnie hope there will be enough advocacy from the community to get Congress to pass a bill that would amend the 1996 act, so that this does not happen to other adoptive families, and so that Aaron can eventually apply for citizenship.

For Bonnie, who is the quietest member of the clan, it is obvious that right now what is most important is concentrating on being a family again. Her eyes are moist as she sits back and watches the three men in her life playfully interact.

“All the four of us together,” she says. “It’s just been such a long time.”