The day I married my husband was cool and quiet, and filled with the kind of calm that feels sacred. I wore my favorite color, indigo-purple, and my soon-to-be husband, Allan, looked dapper in cobalt blue. Our best friend, who served as our witness at Brooklyn City Hall, wore the perfect shade of green to complete the moment.
As our names were called to step into the chapel, I could feel my heart racing, and my breath was shallow with anticipation. Dizzy with love, I kept thinking: Out of the billions of people in the world, I have found the true love of my life, and we are getting married!
With tears in our eyes, we exchanged rings and read our vows aloud. When we sealed them with a kiss and were pronounced husband and husband, our best friend let out a joyful squeal that still makes us laugh to this day when we reminisce about it.
We stepped into the hallway for photos, and then, out of nowhere, a song began to play. My now-husband took my hand and danced with me. He whispered that it was a sign. The song had been one of his grandmother’s favorites. We cried, held each other, and danced. It was perfect. We were perfect.
The next time we stepped into a government building together, it was more than two years later — and everything unraveled on that day.
Courtesy of Matthew Collin Marrero
We arrived at 26 Federal Plaza on Nov. 24, 2025, for Allan’s long-anticipated green card interview. We were accompanied by our pastor from Middle Church and carried a meticulously organized three-inch-thick binder containing every immigration document my husband had amassed since arriving in the United States from the Cayman Islands in 2013. There were hundreds of photos documenting our life together, along with letters from family, friends, and our community affirming the legitimacy of our marriage.
It was nearly a year into Donald Trump’s presidency, and the political climate surrounding immigration was terrifying. Stories of ICE detaining immigrants flooded the news and our social media feeds. We were nervous, but confident. We had done everything right.
This time, our colors were muted. I wore chocolate brown; my husband wore charcoal. At the check-in window, a woman smiled and told us we looked handsome. She gave us her blessing. We sat down to wait.
The room was cold. Workers behind the counter wore scarves. Families were called one by one through a door leading to the back. When our number was called, my husband, our pastor, and I approached — only to be stopped. The officer asked for our documents. We proudly presented our binder.
She scoffed and refused to accept it.
We were instructed to dismantle weeks of careful organization and hand over loose papers instead. Something immediately felt wrong. After another 45-minute wait, the officer returned. We handed her our now-disassembled documents and expected to proceed. Instead, she asked who was accompanying us. When we introduced our pastor, she refused to allow her into the interview, despite other families being accompanied by loved ones. A supervisor confirmed it was at the officer’s discretion — the discretion of the officer who disliked our binder.
Our pastor hugged us and promised to wait.
Inside the office, we were instructed not to sit next to each other. My husband was seated in front of the officer’s desk; I was placed against the wall.
When I nervously glanced at my husband while answering how we met, the officer snapped her fingers and scolded me not to look at him. When I spoke of my love for my husband and said I saw no flaws in him, she responded sharply, “No one is perfect.”
I knew this would be difficult, but I did not expect it to feel like a criminal interrogation.
After more harsh questioning, we were informed, without warning, that there was an unresolved issue from 2022 that he had never been told about. Apparently, he never received notice of a court hearing, so he was ordered removed in absentia, but never knew. The officer said that because of this, even though our marriage was bona fide, his green card could not be approved.
My husband, who has been meticulous with his paperwork since 2013, was devastated.
Throughout the interview, we were assured we would be able to leave safely and were instructed to seek legal counsel immediately. However, the officer repeatedly left and reentered the room, which gave us pause. When she returned for the final time, her tone had changed. She admitted she could only control what happened in her office and could not guarantee our safe departure. When I asked directly if my husband would be detained, she said she didn’t know.
Courtesy of Matthew Collin Marrero
Moments later, we were led through a maze of hallways, and Allan was handed over to ICE.
They took my husband with barely a moment for us to say goodbye.
He was moved to the 10th floor and made to sit on the floor under a foil blanket. When I ran back to our pastor, all I could say was, “They took him.” She immediately activated our extraordinary Middle Church community, which rallied around us and helped us secure legal counsel through Make the Road New York.
I was told my husband would call me at 3 p.m. He never did.
The following morning, my mother, my pastor, and I returned to Federal Plaza to insist that ICE provide my husband with his prescription medications, only to be told he had already been transferred to a detention facility in New Jersey without notice.
I finally spoke to Allan more than 24 hours later. We were given three minutes to talk. He told me they had taken his suit, his phone, and his wedding ring. The symbol of our commitment to each other was replaced by shackles on his wrists and ankles, and then he was transported like cargo.
Inside the detention center, the conditions were indistinguishable from a prison. Visitation took place in a deafening cafeteria-like room. Guards yelled at me for holding my husband’s hand.
This is the reality of our government’s cruelty.
My husband is not a criminal. He has never been arrested. He has followed every rule. He is a law-abiding, tax-paying, work-visa-holding man who fled the Cayman Islands to this country to seek asylum from discrimination against homosexuality. He found safety here. He found love here. He built a community here. He married me here. After more than two years of marriage, he is legally entitled to a green card.
Instead, he was ambushed.
Since Allan’s detention, he has been transferred four times across the country — all while constantly being shackled, bruised, and traumatized. He was housed in Arizona. Texas. Then the infamous “Alligator Alcatraz,” where he was held in a cage with overflowing toilets and human waste on the ground. He is now being detained in Mississippi.
Our legal team filed a motion to reopen his case, which legally halts deportation. The motion was accepted, so now we are waiting for a bond hearing, and then hopefully Allan’s release, but we don’t know when, or if, that will happen.
My husband has never tried to evade the system. He is not seeking sympathy. He is seeking fairness.
Courtesy of Matthew Collin Marrero
Imagine your spouse, your child, or your parent being snatched from your side — not for committing a crime, but for trying to follow the rules. Imagine your life frozen while a system makes up rules as it goes along.
The public is being fed lies about how immigration enforcement works. They are not targeting “the worst of the worst.” They are targeting people who show up to interviews and hearings, people doing exactly what they are told, in hopes of being a part of the land of the free and the home of the brave.
We are all human. We deserve to be treated as such.
Love is not a crime. Seeking safety is not a crime. And if the American Dream still exists, it cannot be built on cages, cruelty, and silence.
Matthew Collin Marrero is a New York City–based singer, songwriter, and published poet whose work explores identity, resilience and the human condition. Born in Connecticut, he developed a lifelong commitment to storytelling through music and writing as tools for change and growth. He is currently studying songwriting and music production at Berklee College of Music. Matthew lives in Brooklyn with his husband, Allan, and their two dogs, Sasha and Roscoe.
A petition calling for the release of Allan Dabrio Marrero can be found here.
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