He Was Inches From a Green Card — Then the Officer’s Tone Changed and ICE Took Him

The day I married Allan felt quietly sacred. I wore indigo-purple and he wore cobalt blue; our best friend, who served as our witness at Brooklyn City Hall, wore green and completed the picture. We read vows, exchanged rings, and were pronounced husband and husband. In the hallway afterward, one of Allan’s grandmother’s favorite songs began to play. He took my hand, we cried and danced — it felt perfect.

More than two years later, the next time we stepped into a government building, everything unraveled.

What Happened at the Interview

On Nov. 24, 2025, Allan arrived at 26 Federal Plaza for a long-awaited green card interview. We came prepared — our pastor from Middle Church accompanied us, and we carried a meticulously organized three-inch binder containing every immigration document Allan had collected since arriving from the Cayman Islands in 2013: passports, work permits, birth records, hundreds of photographs and letters from family, friends and community members attesting to the legitimacy of our marriage.

The room was cold, the atmosphere tense. At check-in a staffer smiled and complimented our appearance, but when our number was called the officer refused to accept our binder. We were forced to dismantle weeks of careful organization and hand over loose papers. Something immediately felt wrong.

After a long wait, the officer barred our pastor from entering the interview — despite other families being accompanied by loved ones — and required that Allan and I sit apart. The questioning began. When I glanced at my husband while answering how we met, the officer snapped and scolded me not to look at him. When I said I loved my husband and saw no flaws in him, she replied, "No one is perfect." The interview felt more like a criminal interrogation than an administrative review.

An Unexpected Order—and Detention

Midway through the interview, the officer said an unresolved issue from 2022 had surfaced: Allan had allegedly missed a court hearing and had been ordered removed in absentia. Allan says he never received notice of any hearing and had no knowledge of any order. The officer told us that because of this unresolved order, his green card could not be approved.

We were repeatedly reassured that we would be allowed to leave safely and were told to seek counsel immediately. But the officer left and reentered the room several times. On her final return, her tone changed: she said she could only control what happened in her office and could not guarantee our safe departure. When I asked directly if Allan would be detained, she said she didn't know.

Moments later, we were led through a maze of hallways and Allan was handed over to ICE. There was barely time to say goodbye. He was taken to the 10th floor and sat on the floor under a foil blanket. Our pastor immediately mobilized our Middle Church community and helped secure legal counsel through Make the Road New York.

Transfers, Conditions, and Legal Steps

I was told Allan would call at 3 p.m.; the call never came. The next morning, when my mother, our pastor and I returned to Federal Plaza to demand that ICE provide his prescription medications, we were told he had already been transferred without notice to a detention facility in New Jersey.

More than 24 hours after his arrest, I finally spoke to Allan for a three-minute call. He told me they had taken his suit, his phone and his wedding ring. The ring that symbolized our commitment was replaced by shackles on his wrists and ankles, and he was moved like cargo.

Since then, Allan has been transferred multiple times across the country — to facilities in Arizona, Texas and a notorious detention center referred to by detainees as "Alligator Alcatraz," where he was held in a cell with overflowing toilets and human waste on the floor. He is now detained in Mississippi. Throughout these transfers he has been continually shackled, bruised and traumatized.

Our legal team filed a motion to reopen his immigration case, which was accepted. That filing legally halts deportation proceedings for the moment; we are now waiting for a bond hearing and hoping for Allan’s release, though we do not know when or if that will happen.

"Allan has never tried to evade the system. He is not asking for sympathy; he is asking for fairness."

Why This Matters

Allan is not a criminal. He has never been arrested. He is a tax-paying, work-visa-holding man who fled the Cayman Islands to seek asylum from discrimination for being gay. He found safety, built a life and community here, and married the person he loves. After more than two years of marriage he should be eligible for a green card — yet he was detained while following the rules.

This experience highlights how people who show up to interviews and hearings — doing exactly what the system asks — can still be swept into enforcement actions. The public narrative that immigration enforcement targets only the "worst of the worst" is not borne out by stories like ours. Love is not a crime. Seeking safety is not a crime. If the American Dream still matters, it cannot be built on cages, cruelty and silence.

About the Author

Matthew Collin Marrero is a New York City–based singer, songwriter and published poet who explores identity, resilience and the human condition through music and writing. Born in Connecticut, he studies songwriting and music production at Berklee College of Music and lives in Brooklyn with his husband, Allan, and their dogs, Sasha and Roscoe.