My Undocumentary

This morning I called my mother to wish her a happy Father’s Day. I have been doing this for years, and I am not the only one. I do this because throughout most of my life, my mother has been both, my mother and father. You see, upon our immigration to the United States, my father mysteriously disappeared.

Over a decade later, we discovered my father was arrested, prosecuted, and deported via the secure community program, and later died. However, before this occurred, my father left a imprint on my mind and soul, which continues to affect my though process today, and perhaps for the rest of my life.

I vividly recall my father telling me two things. First, why he named me Cristobal, and second, he told me to never let anyone tell me I am undocumented, or worse, the “I” word.

My father was far ahead of his time when he said the latter statement. My father was before “undocumented, unafraid, and unapologetic.” My father was before, undocumented American, “education not deportation!” and the millions “I am Undocumented” T-shirts worn by DREAMers and allies. Over all, my father was before the federal DREAM act, which arguably heralded a chain of optimism that extended across the United States.

So why is this significant, and why do I make this point? This is significant because the immigrant rights movement owes it to those that came before us, i.e. the original DREAMers–our parents. Moreover, it takes an enormous amount of courage, if not more than that, to think out loud, alone, against the status quo. I make this point because my father was a righteous man, and righteous behavior is its own reward.

Admittedly, I was initially clueless to what my father tried to teach me. But who could blame me; after all, I was about 5-6 years old. However, after years of analyzing my father’s words, I have come to the conclusion that he meant to allow anyone to reduce me to a social construction (i.e. undocumented immigrant, or the “I” word), would be analogous to indignity. And if there is something I take very seriously, it is my identity, dignity, and family’s heritage.

In addition, and regarding the former statement, my father named me Cristobal after one person–Cristobal Colon (aka Christopher Columbus). Although Mr. Columbus is often criticized for engaging in genocide against Native Americans upon “discovering” America, and other horrible acts, my father named me after this man because my father believed I would discover, or create, something that will enhance our society.

Unlike the latter statement, this one is self-explanatory, but more difficult to analyze. I often wonder what this discovery, or creation will be, if anything. Could it be comprehensive immigration reform, or a more general law or policy? If so, how will it come about, via our political system, or court precedent? Was my father right? Who knows! But I strive to find out.

Although I cannot stich pictures together, and post them on Facebook with meaningful captions like many of my friends, I have my mother to celebrate, this story to analyze, and my father to daydream about.  Happy Father’s Day mom and dad! I love you both.

One day before my graduation at CSUN, I was notified that I was selected to participate in the Charles Hamilton Houston Law School Preparatory Institute at Georgetown University Law Center. I only told a selected few about this news, as the Institute came with a heavy price tag. After weighing the pros and cons of attending the Institute, I decided not to attend for financial reasons. I informed my manager about my decision, and was immediately scheduled to work full time.

Similarly, on Sunday, I wrote an email to professor Bellamy, the director of the Institute and former Dean of Georgetown University Law Center, to decline his offer. I saved the email, and planned to send it the following day. But later that Sunday, my family and community organized a graduation party for me. It was then that I had an epiphany–a sudden realization–that I owed it to my community to attend the Institute. I am now on a plane on my way to Washington, D.C. (or at least as I wrote this post).

The view from my backyard in East Palmdale, California. 

I was born in Mexico, but raised in Palmdale, a small town Northeast of Los Angeles, California. Palmdale has so much good, yet its residents tend to focus the negative aspects. As a result, “getting out,” i.e. moving out of Palmdale, is considered as step towards success. Although I never seriously considered moving out of Palmdale, I believe to have done something worse.

You see, at CSUN people know me as an activist for equal justice, an organizer for civil rights, and advocate for comprehensive and meaningful immigration reform. However, in Palmdale, people know me as a shy, and collected person. Although I eventually broke out of that shell, I succumbed to that mentally when I returned to Palmdale. Thus, I withheld Palmdale from my humility, leadership and organizing abilities that I possess. I often speak about my community, but I referred to the immigrant population in general, leaving out that of Palmdale. Although I was not “getting out” physically, I was getting out mentally.

But then my family and community organized a surprise graduation party at El Camino church for me. The party consisted of members from my adolescent, teenage and young adult life. Before the festivities began, I was asked to say a few words before everyone. Thereafter, the pastor of the church invited my friends and family to say a few words about me. Concerned no one would say a thing; one by one everyone stood up and formed a line behind the microphone.

My second grade teacher was the first to speak. She stated that she never thought I would accomplish the things that I have with the resources that I was given. She said the fact that I have ascended a once un-ascendable mountain was a testament to the community that patience and hard work pays off. Many of my friends–who have been criminalized by the criminal justice system–stated that I renewed their sense of hope, and inspired them not to settle for anything less than excellence.

My ten-year-old niece declared me as her role model, and said she wants to be just like me when she grows up (even though I know she will accomplish many great things). My mother said that although she brought us the U.S. for a better life, she didn’t know what that life looked like, and never thought one of her sons would graduate college; let alone go to law school. Moreover, my twin brother declared that he would return to college. This alone brought tears to my eyes, because I refuse to be labeled the “successful” twin. That night I told my twin brother that I cannot be successful without him by my side.

And so then it hit me, to “get out” of Palmdale, physically or mentally, would be to leave my community behind. That is, my friends who I shared many ups and downs with, and family, who I love more than life itself. That would mean to leave my community–Palmdale–with inadequate resources and public representation. I know that the tears that run down my cheeks as I type this message will not change a thing. But I know becoming a “mover and shaker” of my own life for my community will.

On Cafe Con Leche, La Vos Del Valle Del Antelope with my mother. Picture credit: Lili Galindo.

With that in mind, I grasped the opportunity to speak to anyone, and share my story (which I am told is empowering, but who knows). I spoke at various churches, and radio stations. More specifically, I was on Café Con Leche, La Voz del Valle del Antilope, and News Talk Radio 1380am. I will be on 690am in the upcoming days, so stay tuned!

Finally, I decided to attend the CHH program. I decided to attend not only for myself, but also for my community. I know Charles Hamilton Houston entered law school with the intention to destroy the Jim Crow Laws. If I may compare myself to the honorable Mr. Houston, I too will enter law school with one intention. That is, to become an immigration engineer, and to add further impetus to the continuous enhancement of our immigration system for my undocumented brothers and sisters in Palmdale, and throughout the United States.

Although I was born in Mexico, I was raised in Palmdale, a small town Northeast of Los Angeles, California. And I will never forget that.

While I was in high school, California State University, Northridge (CSUN) was referred to as “the rejection school,” i.e. the school you go to if you were denied admission elsewhere. I was also told that it was a commuter school, and that in one way or another, commuting to and from CSUN took away from the college experience. But I was also told that CSUN is the hidden secret of Southern California, which among many other things, produces graduates ready to take on the challenges of the 21st century. Perhaps our motto (nationally recognized, but regionally focused) describes this best. A professor also told me that he transferred from UCLA to CSUN because it failed to provoke his thoughts. While I do not adhere to that statement, as I know many fine UCLA graduates, I do believe there is truth to be told about CSUN.

Pedagogy of the Undocumented

I know that many cannot even begin to fathom the idea of not attending college. But I did. In high school, I didn’t once think about actually attending college. In my senior year, while many of my friends explored various universities, I was throwing university letters and brochures in the trash. I was often asked, “What College are you going to,” as if attending college was mandatory. For the sake of ending the conversation and conforming to society’s standards, I responded, “CSUN.” Thinking I would fit right in, I was confronted with the idea of the “rejection school.” So much for trying to fit in!

You see, in high school I subconsciously struggled with identity, and my place in the world. As I mentioned in A Message From Professor Washington, I did not find out about my immigrant status when I initially sought to apply to college; nor did I find out when I initially sought employment. Rather, I found out at a very young age. While I suffered from external barriers such as immigration laws, barriers to entry in education, housing, and employment, I also suffered from internal barriers.

These barriers are beliefs that oppressed people have come to except—uncritically and unconsciously—as true. The stigma placed upon undocumented immigrants was ingrained in my mind and soul. I felt worthless and dispensable to say the least. Acknowledging this parasitic belief, I acquiesced to the participation of my own oppression.

But CSUN emancipated me from physical and mental constraints that were placed upon me as a young child. I discovered that this world is not a “static and closed order, a given reality which I have to accept and to which I must adjust to; rather it is a problem to be worked on and solved.” I recall Dr. Chavez saying that we must rewrite our history and produce in it our own heroes.

Actually, the History of the Chicano/a course I took with Dr. Chavez revolved around this simple, yet significant idea. This is what the Mexican-American community did in the 1960’s. By calling themselves Chicanos and Chicanas, they publicly acknowledged their Native American heritage (or Aztec), which was threatened to extinction by the Anglo-American mainstream ideology. This acknowledgement subsequently opened new avenues of exploration by which they could construct their identity. Perhaps UMass-Boston professor Macedo put it best; they were able to transform their lived experiences (as Mexican-Americans) into knowledge, and to use the already acquired knowledge, as a process to unveil new knowledge.

I took this lesson, along with Dr. Nabulsi’s lectures on constructivism to construct my own identity. As I mentioned in Unraveling and Politicizing the Undocumented Identity, Dreams to be Heard helped me develop my identity from an “illegal,” to a person without legal status, to an undocumented immigrant, to a DREAMer, and eventually, to an undocumented American. By doing so, I acknowledged that the anti-immigrant paradigm threatened who I was.

Thus, by restoring pride with renewed energy to defend my right to live and thrive in the only country that I know, manifested itself in the term undocumented American. By identifying myself as such, I acknowledged that although I was not conceived by her womb, i.e. the United States, I loved and cherished her as much as if was. Ultimately, I remade my idiosyncratic identity, which became the engine, which continues to run today, for collective action at CSUN via Dreams to be Heard.

The People I Met Were Just as Important as My Education

With the above in mind, I knew that I could not be in solidarity without entering the situation of those whom I was in solidarity with.Therefore, prior to attending CSUN, I emailed several organizations to inquire about their mission. No one but Dreams to be Heard responded. I vividly recall Ana Mirriam saying, “You will find a family here,” which I did.

Like Martin Luther King Jr. once said, I am not talking about the emotional bosh when I talk about family and love, I am talking about a strong, and demanding lovingly family. I characterize our relationship in this way because our struggle for greater rights not only threatens ourselves, but other undocumented immigrants who are still fearful of still greater repression. I cannot give a shout out each and every one of you, but suffice it to say that I learned as much from you all, as you learned from me, if you learned anything from me that is!

A semester later, I had the honor of representing Dreams to be Heard as the Internal Chair, or President. This position opened opportunities to interact with other student organizations, professors from a wide range of concentrations, and local community organizations.

I Never Thought I Would Also Go to Law School, but…

As I prepared to apply to CSUN, I was confronted with the task of declaring a major. I considered majoring in Art but decided against it for practical reasons. I also considered Chicana and Chicano Studies because of the extraordinary opportunity of studying my own culture at the largest Chicano and Chicana Studies department in the Country. But my obsession with immigrant rights and social justice easily took precedence. Ultimately, I chose Political Science because I figured it would provide me with the fundamentals I needed to understand, explain, and argue for or against state and federal immigration policies.

At this time, I was working with the Center for Women and Children to obtain U.S. Lawful Permanent Residency. After several interactions with my lawyer, she asked me, “Are you considering law school?” “No,” I responded. She immediately stopped what she was doing, looked straight at me and said, “think about it,” and proceeded to fill out paperwork. I thought about it. The more I did, the more viable it seemed. The more I asked about it, the more people I discovered had the same questions and concerns that I did. As it so happens, students have this belief that majoring in political science is imperative if one is to go to law school. While this belief is false, I was surrounded with constant talk about law school. Perhaps my most valuable resource was Dr. Bradberry, my professor and Pre-Law adviser.

As I described in Contract Law: A Legally Enforceable Promise, I also had the opportunity of participating in the Georgia State University College of Law Pre-Law Undergraduate Scholar program–a rigorous four week program designed to enhance writing, critical thinking, and analytical skills for aspiring law students. Complete with three law school courses taught by law professors, debate and moot court competitions, I was essentially a law student. I excelled, reinforcing my confidence in actualizing my dream of attending law school. But I thought, “if only I could ascend the mountain of the law school application process.”

After six months of preparing for the LSAT, several months of waiting, I received thirteen consecutive wait-list offers. But then the University of Massachusetts-Dartmouth School of Law called, then Suffolk University Law School, and finally, the University of Tennessee College of Law. With enthusiasm, I announce that I will be attending the University of Tennessee College of Law later this year. You may be asking why Tennessee. But I say why not? There is another world to explore outside of California. Not to mention UT has an nationally recognized Immigration Clinic, along with an Immigration Assistance Project. Like the Matador, I will tackle my future academic endeavors with courage and wisdom and never settle for anything less than academic excellence.

So What Now?

Over the course of two years, CSUN forced me to dig deep and take inventory of myself. While in the process of doing so, it bestowed upon me a language to express myself fully; to understand tensions, contradictions, fears, doubts, hopes, and deferred dreams that are attached to the hectic and often uncertain life of an undocumented immigrant.

Some people may say that I am not longer undocumented. But I say that I cannot simply forget my childhood, and the hardships that I have endured. To make such an attempt would be to paint adjustment of immigration status as the solver of all problems. Unfortunately I doesn’t quite work that way.

During my first semester at CSUN, I was unable to foresee the outcome of my quest for adjustment of immigration status. However, despite my insecurities, I declared that I would be ready with a degree in my hand, and experience to back it up. As I emerge as a new person on May 20th, at the Social and Behavioral Science’s Commencement ceremony, I will be ready for the world of Immigration Law with a degree in my hand and experience to back it up.

Be it as it may, for me, CSUN is not “the rejection school.” Rather, CSUN was the first and only University to admit me.

All hail the matadors! For El Matador video by Los Fabulosos Cadillacs click here. Best part starts at 3:10!

The immigrant rights movement has reached one of the most important milestones of the last two decades. Finally, politicians are responding to the demands of advocates asking to reform a broken immigration system that has marginalized millions of undocumented immigrants. We see this in the form of Senate Bill 744 proposed by the Bipartisan Senate Coalition referred to as the “Gang-of-Eight” which is by far the most comprehensive piece of legislation we have seen in recent years. Such progress is due to the masses of brave DREAMers (undocumented youth) that came out of the shadows to declare their legal status for the purpose of telling their stories to the American public.

Senate Bill 744 incorporates many of the provisions outlined in the most recent legislative proposal known as the DREAM Act (Development, Relief, and Education for Alien Minors Act) with added flexibility in the requirements for legal permanent residency by removing the age cap of 30 for applicants. DREAMers residing in the U.S., who entered the country younger than 16 years of age and prior to December 2011, would be eligible for Legal Permanent Residency (LPR). This proposal is now inclusive of the elder generation of undocumented youth, those of us who came prior to the DREAMer movement. We were not called DREAMErs as the only known label used to identify us was illegal alien. That is because the term DREAMer did not exist until after 2001 when the first version of the DREAM Act bill was introduced in Congress.

To some extent, the illegal alien identifier was accurate in describing my experience growing up during my high school and early college years, which was one of alienation. Intrinsically, I knew that in order to survive and protect myself from danger, I had to hide the fact that I was undocumented. This seemed rather challenging when you live in neighborhoods and attend classes at a school where you feel and look like an outsider. Not to mention facing a communication barrier as you are trying to learn a new language. If my looks were not enough to alienate me, my foreign accent did the job. Consequently, as a young adult I felt so different from everyone. I also knew that my life would be about surviving in a society that did not care to recognize me as a full human being.

It was clear to me that the fight for survival was one I had to do on my own. During my high school years, I did not have any friends, mentors, or counselors to assist me as I was faced with sorting my life after graduation. How would I explain to someone that I could not apply for jobs, internships, financial aid, etc.? My parents provided the stability I needed at home, but when it came to navigating the outside English-speaking world and the educational system, I knew I had no one but myself.

Although I was an honors student and belonged to the top three percent of my graduating class, my future was uncertain due to my undocumented status. Could my way out of such predicament be an education? That was a question I did not know answer at the moment, but college seemed like my only alternative. I saw how much my parents struggled to climb the economic ladder with a 6^th grade level education. So, if I wanted to have a different outcome, I had to do something different. My plan for self-sufficiency included pursuing a college degree. Thankfully, the hard work in high school paid off as I was accepted to California State University,Northridge (CSUN). I began attending college in the fall of 1998.

I get asked the following frequently – “If you were undocumented, how were you able to attend college?” My answer to this day is a simple one – “Nothing stopped me from applying”. But it is a valid question to ask because the outcome could have been very different if Proposition 187 had been upheld. I started college only four years after Proposition 187 (known as Save Our State Initiative) was approved by voters in California. Such measure was intended to create a state-run citizenship screening system to deny undocumented immigrants access to public services including healthcare and public education. It’s principals are not very different from laws that have recently been upheld in states like Arizona. Although the “Save Our State” measure was still facing legal battles in court, a restraining order preventing this law from being in place allowed many like me to stay in school. The Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals eventually repealed this measure and it was effectively killed in 1999.

Although such an anti-immigrant measure did not come into fruition in California, its aftermath was still felt. Such political climate furthered cemented the feeling of marginalization I felt growing up. I was simply a voiceless illegal alien that should not be in this country. I had no say, no vote, and no rights. That’s the message I got from those that wanted to criminalize my family and those like me. It was then that I decided to continue to stay “under the radar” and did as much as possible to appear a normal college student. On the other hand, this also fueled my desire to rise above my legal status. I wanted to be able to make it through college regardless of all the obstacles that were in front of me.

During my college years, I was living in the neighborhood of what is now called South Los Angeles which is 30 miles away from CSUN. Since California had also banned licenses for undocumented immigrants in 1994, driving was not an option for me. I resorted to making a four-hour daily trip to arrive at my college campus, which included a journey of three buses and a metro ride. This meant that after a full day of school and extra-curricular activities, I would return home at the late hours of the night. A 10 pm arrival was not too rare.

Breaking through the isolation became a second challenge to tackle. Thankfully, being on my own only lasted through the completion of my freshman year. I realized that somehow I needed to feel part of a community and began my involvement when I joined a student organization focused on volunteer work. I started to feel at home for the first time in my life in the U.S. Volunteering for the American Diabetes Association, AIDS Walk, Habitat for Humanity and many other non-profit organizations gave me an avenue to make a difference in others. This in turned helped me grow as a student leader and it encouraged me to be civically engaged on campus. It was here where I began to meet other students who were also undocumented. We created a type of camaraderie that served as a support system, but it was more on a one-on-one basis rather than in an organized way. It still felt we were the minority on campus and that in order to get through college, we needed to keep our status hidden to the outside world.

My last year at CSUN was life-changing as I stepped into the ultimate student leadership role, becoming the first Latina President of Associated Students– the university student government. The public fights we took on were primarily to protect college affordability given the proposed tuition fee increases by the Governor Schwarzenegger’s administration which continued to slash public funding for higher education in the midst of a state budget crisis. I knew this was an important battle, not only because it would impact all my college student constituents but also the at-risk students which included undocumented immigrants. But hiding my immigration status continued to be my modus operandi, especially in a more visible leadership role. Only friends in my closest circles knew about my legal predicament. Finally, in 2004, I was reaching the improbable finish line, becoming the first college graduate in my family.

I believe that my personal journey resembles that of First Generation DREAMers, as I would like to call us. Being undocumented was the cross each of us had to carry on our own. Some of us were lucky to have found a mentor or friend that understood our circumstances and encouraged us to continue, especially in challenging times when one is about to give up all hope.

Has anything changed in the last decade for the DREAMers? Not much. Lacking a comprehensive immigration reform policy, the struggles continue to be the same and perhaps even worse in states that have adopted anti-immigrant measures. However, somewhere in between, the newer generation of DREAMers became tired of being scapegoats and has done what their predecessors were afraid to do. They came out to the world as “Undocumented and Unafraid” demanding a change through a campaign that modeled other civil rights movements seen in American history. Now we are witnessing the rise of student groups on college campuses such as CSUNDREAMs to be Heard established to advocate for immigrant rights and create a support system for DREAMers.

The Undocumented and Unafraid movement has become an inspiration to me. It has taught me that in order to generate change at a mass scale, you have to be willing to put yourself on the line. Even as a deported DREAMer, coming out publically with my story of deportation has allowed me to be part of this movement which is reshaping the conversation on immigration. Most importantly, it has redefined the immigrant community itself. Being Undocumented is no longer something to be ashamed or afraid of. Our stories could make the difference in passing legislation for DREAMersand their families in the U.S. as well as for those of us residing on the other side of the border.

Nancy Landa is a deported honors graduate and former student President of California State University, Northridge (CSUN). Nancy resides in Tijuana since her deportation in 2009 and has shared her story to highlight the need for comprehensive immigration reform in the U.S. You can follow Nancy on Facebook, Twitter or her blog at mundocitizen.com

Han pasado más de dos meses desde que el Congreso y el Presidente se comprometióron a empujar una reforma migratoria. Sin embargo, no tenemos una legislación para apoyar y debatir sobre. La legislación continúa siendo empujada atrás, a partir de marzo a abril, y ahora, a mayo. Pero no hay que perder la esperanza. La reforma migratoria intregal sucedera. Por lo tanto, tenemos que prepararnos.

Después de haber navegado el mundo de la ley de inmigración, he aprendido que la Ley de Imigración es procesal. Es decir, es una combinación de procesos cortos y largos. Si vamos a tener éxito, por lo tanto, es imperativo que aprendamos a navegar estos procesos. Para prepararnos, he preparado una lista de tareas.

• Conocer su historia criminal

Reforma migratoria sera integraráda con los crímenes inadmisibles. Por que la legislación no ha sido escrita, no sabemos qué delitos éstos serán. Por lo tanto, si usted tiene un historial criminal, es importante tener los registros disponibles. Estos registros pueden tomar la forma de las disposiciones judiciales, o una verificación de antecedentes penales del FBI. Teniendo estos registros sólo ayudará a solicitud del beneficiario.

• Ahorrar dinero

La reforma no será gratis. Dependiendo de la vía de legalización, las aplicaciones pueden costar más de $ 1,000, a pesar de que las exenciones pueden estar disponibles. Además, como se mencionó anteriormente, este es un proceso, y por lo tanto, puede venir costes inesperados, tales como tiempo libre del trabajo, transportacion, etc. Para una familia, estos costos pueden acumularse rápidamente.

• Mantener al día los registros de vacunación

Inmigración exámenes médicos pueden ser requeridos. Estos exámenes son muy caros, y por lo general no son ofrecidos por las clínicas gratuitas o de precio reducido. Una manera de mantener el costo de estos exámenes abajo es mantener un registro hasta la fecha de vacunación.

• Antes de presencia

Del mismo modo, no se sabe si habrá una fecha en la que una persona tiene que haber entrado en el país. Sin embargo, sería prudente comenzar a recopilar pruebas que demuestren la presencia previa. Estas pruebas pueden incluir, pero no se limita a las declaraciones de impuestos, registros médicos y escolares, facturas de servicios públicos, y los talones de pago. Fechas escritas a mano seran inaceptables.

• Identificación

Porque no sabemos cuál es el camino a la ciudadanía de Los Estados Unidos, sería prudente obtener un pasaporte emitido por el gobierno. Por ejemplo, si reforma está diseñado en pasos, un pasaporte de su país respectivo será requerida. Por lo tanto, tener uno en la mano permitirá a los solicitantes de aplicar más temprano que tarde.

• Sea consciente de los notarios y hable con un abogado de confianza

Con tanto optimismo en el ambiente, el camino de la reforma tendrá mayores posibilidades de ser llenado con notarios. La reforma no es todavía una realidad, sin embargo, hay notarios que prometen legalización por grandes sumas de dinero. No caiga en la trampa. Además, no habla con nadie que no sea un abogado con licencia. Aunque no todo el mundo necesita un abogado, los abogados están dispuestos a dar consultas.

Por supuesto, esto no es un consejo legal. Por el contrario, no son más que consejos. Sin embargo, espero que sean de utilidad a alguien.

Undocumented immigrant youth have been at the cornerstone of the Undocumented, Unafraid, and Unapologetic movement. However, at the inception of our movement were our undocumented parents, fighting the hard fight, regardless of whether anyone was listening. My mother is a person whose life has passed invisibly to many, but who has contributed to the market place of ideas and our advancement of higher education in many ways. Like many other parents, my mother is “a DREAMer of a more common variety, but her DREAM is no less worthy.”

My parent’s dream was simple, to give their children the opportunities they never had. This dream, however, was threatened by Mexico’s economic crisis in the 1980′s, which destroyed economic equilibrium. Falling oil prices, rising inflation, the devalued peso, and among many other things, were besetting to Mexico and its citizens. Put in other words, although the per-capita income is not the best indicator of living standards because it fails to take into account how equitably that income is distributed, Mexico’s per-capita income was 74 percent lower than that of contemporary Mexico. Moreover, and to put in another perspective, today, the average person in Mexico earns four to five times less than the average person in the United States.

The economic crises and rampant inequality had run its course on my parents. Moreover, with five children, and a sixth on the way, my parents were unable to focus on career advancement because they had to focus on meeting our basic needs.

After vigorous searching, and embracing every opportunity, my parents, both in their mid thirties had two options; stay in Mexico and wait for the economy to improve, or immigrate to the United States to search for a better life. With little to no financial resources, and an abundant amount of faith, my parents chose the latter.

In 1991, both, on foot and train, my family and I immigrated from central Mexico to the United States. My parents knew very well that the desert could become our ultimate resting place, and that we could become mere numbers to the amount of people that have died in the desert, on the journey for a better life. However, the slim chance we had for a better life took precedence over our hectic and often uncertain life in Mexico.

Several months after our immigration, my family was blessed with the birth of my younger brother. However, my father would go missing shortly after, leaving my mother to raise six children all on her own. Yet, despite my mother’s unfortunate circumstances, my mother refused to deviate from her dream of creating an environment conducive to improving her children’s lives.

Unable to legally work, my mother was forced into the informal sector. My mother was a babysitter and cleaned homes. My mother also roamed throughout the streets collecting bottles, cans and other scraps to recycle. Perhaps our greatest and most stable income, however, was my younger brother’s food stamps and other governmental aid.

My mother often said, “tienen que estudiar para que no sean como tu mama.” I know what she was trying to teach us, but my mother is a brick house Chicana who loves her family enough to sacrifice herself for the betterment of her children. My mother is a person who did not let any external forces tell her where and what she could dream. My mother is a person who pursued her dreams with assertiveness that begged to be reckoned with. My mother is a person who lives her life sin verguenza, because verguenza is expensive and unsustainable. My mother is a person who is devoted to teach her children values and moral behavior. My mother is the type of person with faith in humanity, and whose benevolence remains unmatched in my community.

Therefore, I want to be just like my mom. And I hope that one day, I find my own brick house Chicana who will hold me as tightly as my mother’s courage, and maybe, teach me to hold her son or daughter the same way my mother holds me.

Many undocumented immigrant youth want to become engineers, doctors and lawyers. My mother will become none of those. But she has raised a son that will. It is now my turn to give my mother a better life, and perhaps, a better life to other mothers and fathers. Having been admitted to several law schools, I have chosen to do so via the legal system.

My mother inspired a love of family in me; a love that encompasses many aspects of my life. My mother also thought me that love for anything comes with responsibility—to help protect it. My mother—my hero and companion—is “a DREAMer of a more common variety, but her dream is no less worthy.”

Recently, I was sitting in class when I found myself counting the minutes till it was over. My daily 98 mile commute combined with midterms had gotten the best of me. I was exhausted. Suddenly, however, my professor began to speak about identity. Intrigued by he said, I perked up in my seat, crossed my arms, and just listened. Identity, he said, is a way of understanding who we are, and our place in society. A place, in this sense, is a metaphorical expression for any and all identities on any social dimension, such as, nationality. As abstract, and difficult to understand what my professor meant, I took it to mean that our identities are constructed by social interactions.

For example, the very first time I question my undocumented identity was midway through the 2005 track season. I was a junior in high school, when my relay team, which consisted of two friends and my twin brother qualified for the Scholastic Indoor Track National Championships, held at the Armory in New York City. We were the only team to qualify from the state of California in not one, but two events, the 4×800 and 4×1600 meters.

It was my greatest achievement up until that point. Although my team and I earned our spot at the starting line, there were rumors going around that we would not attend. As I have mentioned before, times were different then, and I was terrified of revealing my undocumented status. Worse still, I was terrified of flying; the events that occurred on 9/11 were still fresh in our minds and naturally, conceptualized the worst that could have occurred.

But on an ordinary afternoon, my coach pulled my brother and me aside and told us, “follow as I say, and everything will be alright.” Admittedly, I was skeptical about my coaches’ optimism. But it wasn’t about him being wrong that I was concerned about. Rather, it was the fact that I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that everything would be alright. Moreover, I wanted to conform to standards often taken for granted by my peers. Thankfully, we went on to compete, and had a great and successful time. But the thought of being different continued to cultivate in my mind.

I was uninformed and naïve. I knew nothing about politics. To use the vernacular, I knew nothing about nothing. It was then that I first discovered the federal DREAM act. I thought it to be one the most wonderful things in the world. Thoughts quickly convoluted my young mind. With enthusiasm, I called the director of the Migrant Education program to inquire more information. Upon being told not to get my hopes up, I felt sick to my stomach. I felt like I was shot in the gut, like a deer in plain sight. I was embarrassed to have asked such a question. I should have known better, I thought, and suppressed my identity for the remainder of my high school career.

Image by Victor Zuniga

Six years later, in 2011, I discovered Dreams to be Heard at CSUN. Shortly after, I attended the Unraveling the Undocumented Identity workshop. As the workshop proceeded, the moderator drew two large unisex human figures parallel to each other on the classroom white board. Each figure was labeled “undocumented.”

One by one, we were asked what words came to mind when we thought of each figure. The figure to left was designed for words with negative connotations, whereas the latter was designed for more positive ones. Words quickly filled both figures. Among the words were “lost, unwanted, unloved, hated, confused, disoriented, and uncertain.” I even recall an indigenous term, “lepantla,” which means in the middle. The other figure consisted of words such as “perseverance, bright, optimistic, vigorous, autonomous, and direction.”

It is not until now that I realize what occurred that day. Constructivism, my professor said, argues that identities are contingent on social interactions. In other words, the meaning of our identity is constructed by social interaction. By social interaction, we give identities their meaning, and can attach different meaning to different identities. Therefore, it follows that identities are malleable. That is, they are changeable. Like many things in the world, identity is what you make of it. And how you use it to pursue your own interest is a matter of conceptualization. But interests are not out there simply to be discovered. Rather they too, are constructed by social interaction. Thus, a constructivist would argue that an identity becomes politicized when a collective identity mobilizes to defend a threat against their identity or to increase their interests.

Image by EB Design

This is precisely what occurred in the short hour at the workshop. We, as students, developed our identities from illegal’s, to people without legal status, to undocumented, to DREAMer’s, and eventually, to undocumented American’s. By doing so, we acknowledged that the anti-immigrant paradigm threatened who we were, as the identities of those in opposition to immigrant rights are also constructed by social interaction.

Thus, by restoring pride with renewed energy to defend our right to live and thrive in the only country that we know, manifested itself in the term undocumented American. By identifying ourselves as so, we acknowledged that although we were not conceived by her womb—the United States—we loved and cherish her as much as if we were. We remade our idiosyncratic identities into that of a collective one by sharing our hopes, goals and grievances. Ultimately, our collective identity became the engine, which continues to run today, for collective action at CSUN.