On Monday, Jan. 28 a bipartisan group of senators held a press conference to reveal their plan for comprehensive immigration reform. The key points of their five page plan include a pathway to citizenship for undocumented immigrants currently residing in the U.S., increased border security, and an employment verification system. The lack of public outcry from both sides of the aisle regarding the controversial bill was not surprising, as both parties have a lot at stake politically. Immigration reform will arguably determine which political party dominates elections for many years to come.
However, how they will sell this plan (and particularly the pathway to citizenship for 11 million undocumented people) to their constituents is less clear. Why should Americans sympathize with people who have made a choice to evade the law? And if they do sympathize, would Americans come to believe that undocumented immigrants deserve a pathway to citizenship?
My answer to these questions may seem obvious; I am an undocumented immigrant and have been since I arrived in this country nearly 18 years ago. In spite of or perhaps because of my own story, my feelings about whether my family and families like mine across this country deserve a pathway to citizenship have always been complicated.
From an early age I understood how incredibly blessed I was to call this country my home. I remember how proud I was to sing the national anthem and how with great passion, I tearfully dedicated my first speech for my high school debate team to my parents’ immigration story. Even as a child, I deeply questioned what it meant to be an American and I knew that it was a privilege that I could not take for granted.
It was not until the summer before my senior year, that I learned that I was undocumented. It is difficult to recall my exact emotions at that time but I do remember feeling a sense of relief. I finally understood why my parents had struggled so much for most of my life.
However, when I returned to high school in the fall my sense of relief turned into confusion and frustration. I became reclusive, losing touch with many of my closest friends, as I grew to resent my classmates who took their American citizenship, and the rights it endowed them, for granted. Worst of all, I felt completely alone because I could not explain my pain to anyone without revealing my immigration status. Out of this frustration, I decided to never become a victim of my circumstances and to pursue my education.
My family and I drove 22 hours from Texas to Georgetown to drop me off for my freshmen year. I will never forget when they left me on campus because it was the first moment that being undocumented became a reality to me. I had no idea when I would ever see my family again because at that time, I did not know if I could attempt to fly home by plane without the risk of deportation.
Despite being indefinitely separated from my family, I began my time at Georgetown determined to make the most of this experience. I hustled to find work around campus, only to be told that I lacked the proper paperwork. I shared my story with well-meaning professors and staff members hoping that they might be able to help. While some of them would break into tears as I told my story, others explained that sadly, they did not know how to help me.
I experienced many of the ironies of being undocumented at a prestigious university. I participated in a class debate in which I was required to argue against the DREAM Act (legislation that would put youth like myself on a path to citizenship). The irony of having my photo appear on the FAFSA website made me chuckle to myself, because as an undocumented student, I do not qualify for even a penny of federal money.
As I entered my second year at Georgetown, my personal and family life became increasingly difficult. My parents decided to sell my childhood home so I could remain at Georgetown and my maternal grandfather was diagnosed with prostate cancer, but due to our immigration status, my parents couldn’t return to Kenya to see him. Through all of this, I kept my faith in the promises of this country.
But my faith has waned at times. I have often asked myself why my parents stayed in this country for so long, especially considering that they knew that our circumstances were not likely to change.
Over time I have come to believe in the power of my story. Like my parents, I hope and believe that one day the American people will listen to the story of undocumented people who work tirelessly for the sake of their children and this country, and not judge them solely on one difficult choice. One day the American people will listen to the story of parents who, despite living in the shadows, raised their children to love and respect this nation. And maybe the American people will feel that indescribable feeling that I feel when someone asks me why I believe that America is my home.
The American people will listen to our story and feel how I felt when I stood for hours in the freezing cold to witness the inauguration of a president that I could not vote for. Maybe the American people will feel how I feel when I hear the “Star Spangled Banner” or watch fireworks explode above me on the 4th of July. And maybe, just maybe, they will decide that we deserve to be a part of this country because our story, as complex as it may seem, is American.
Due to the sensitive nature of this article, the Voice has removed the author’s last name in an effort to protect her family’s identity.
