I was five years old when my family boarded a plane headed from my home to the United States to visit my aunts, who lived in Florida. At first, this was just a family visit.
My father lost his job in Barranquilla, Colombia when the company that he worked for shut down. He searched for work for three years. But, the economy was reeling and it was difficult to find a job. This family visit was an opportunity to rest, recalibrate, get back on our feet.
And then, our stay became permanent.
We lived with my aunt for almost four years. It was not an easy time for me. I didn’t speak the language. I was five. My cousins didn’t like me. They didn’t speak Spanish and they didn’t like me invading their space, monopolizing the attention they received, sharing their toys. My little cousin used to bite me. It was the only way he could show his frustration. My older cousin ignored me.
It wasn’t fair.
I slept on the sofa in the living room and my sister slept on an air mattress. My parents slept on a pull-out couch.
My aunt, an American citizen, initiated the process to claim my father and thereby help him obtain U.S. residency; but, we have been waiting for almost twelve years and there are still a few more to go.
And so we stayed.
It was not easy growing up in hiding. I always felt like I didn’t belong, like I wasn’t welcome or wanted. I was always working to fit in: I learned the language; I worked hard to excel academically; I made sure to be polite, to be quiet, to avoid being a bother.
I grew up without the privileges that many around me shared. I walked and took buses to get to places, and my dad took a train to his job. My aunts weren’t always happy to take us places and we had to manage on our own.
The understanding really set in around my fifteenth birthday. Most of my friends would start to learn to drive, and I would not be able to. Trips outside the country were a huge no.
I tried to do well in school. I took the hardest classes I could so that I would make it into college. I made sure I would never stray off into anything that would get in the way of a clean record. Nothing ever came easy.
In 2012, everything changed. Just as I thought all hope of a normal teenage experience was gone, President Barack Obama allowed nearly 800,000 young people like me to gain the opportunity to live in the United States without the constant fear of deportation.
The measure, which turned the U.S. into a home without fear for me, was called the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program.
The program let those who entered the United States as children to apply for a renewable two-year visa, allowing them, to work legally in the US.
DACA applicants had to have lived in the US since 2007, and to have entered the country before their sixteenth birthday. It also included those who were under the age of 31 before June 15, 2012 when DACA was enacted.
Those who fall under DACA must attend school, or have a high school diploma, and have a clean criminal record. It also applies to military veterans. It allowed me to get my license and I am able to open a bank account and get a credit card. Yet, none of this is a permanent solution. It is not a pathway to permanent residency or citizenship.
After a few years of feeling that maybe I could be just like everyone else even if it wasn’t permanent, everything came crashing down. That sense of relief that came with DACA was in shambles. Beginning March 6, 2018, almost 1,000 people a day will begin to lose these protections.
The program was opposed by critics that found DACA unconstitutional because Obama used “executive overreach” by passing the program through executive order, not Congressional approval.
Many also argue that DACA encourages the idea that if you come into the US illegally, there are ways for you to be able to stay. The leader of such opposition is President Donald Trump.
Many fail to see outside their own situation, which is why I can see why others may oppose. Some think those in DACA are cutting in line into the immigration progress. Others are not comfortable with outsiders in their home. I understood that when I first came here and my cousins did not like me. They’re my closest family now.
I understand some of the different reasonings, but no one really wants to leave their home. I did not choose to leave Baranquilla at five years old. I was taken from my old home to the United States, which became my new home. It is my home and the home of every Dreamer out there. We all have ties to our communities and dreams to achieve; we have as much claim to this country as any citizen.
I do not have friends in my home country. Everything I know is here. I have been in school with some of my classmates for more than a decade. I grew up with the same songs they did, the same tv shows, and the same trends. I am American as well, the only major difference is our status: they are citizens, and I am not.
I have been in the immigration process for the past twelve years, and I will continue to wait, but I hope for an end to the uncertainty.
Every single Dreamer has a story as to why they had no option but to come here. We’re “Dreamers” because through the difficult time of transition from our home countries to here, the American dream has been a staple of hope; but for us, it’s not exactly the pretty picture it was painted out to be.
Trump’s campaign promise to end the program slowly began to become reality in September 2017, when Trump ended the program and left Dreamers’ fates up to the discretion of Congress, granting them a 6 month window to come up with a legislative alternative to DACA.
As countless bills swirl throughout the House and Senate in hopes of creating an alternative before the March 5th deadline, some offer a galvanizing prospect the current program does not: a pathway to citizenship.
Across the country, people are watching in anticipation for what will come next in immigration reform. The reality of the situation is that whatever decision is made, there are 800,000 lives in jeopardy, including mine.
