Maria and her family a few years after they moved to the United states from Colombia. Photo courtesy of Maria Velasquez.
By MARIA VELASQUEZ – Viewpoints Writer
12 years I lived undocumented, and in those 12 years I saw how my mom would come home from a long day at work and try and hide her tears of frustration from my brother and I.
12 years I realized that being undocumented was much more than just a word for my family, it would essentially become the thing that prevented my brother from going to college.
I was always told not to share my status with others out of fear, we could never be sure who was ‘on our side’ or who would be willing to report us.
Being a kid during this, I hardly ever understood what all this meant, all I thought was that I was being excluded because I was born in another country.
How ironic is it for a country built on the idea of different cultures to start openly rejecting others. Isn’t that how this nation became what it is today? How could the place that I had called home make me feel like such an outsider.
The reality of many kids in my situation is that we are brought here without any say and in the end we are the ones who are punished. The kids grow up in towns or cities, adapting to the society believing that they are part of it, calling it home.
And then comes the time to start applying for colleges, or jobs, or even trying to get a license. That’s where they start realizing that they aren’t the same, and it’s all because of a decision they had no say in.
My brother, who is five years older than me, went through exactly that. He would be seen as an American, and treated like one, but not when it came to asking for help for college.
Financial aid wasn’t an option for undocumented students, and my mom couldn’t pay because her job didn’t pay her well enough, and there was no option to look for higher paying jobs because those jobs usually require social security.
Things were not always bad though, my brother had an English teacher who inspired him to do better and to challenge himself constantly. That’s what my mom is most grateful for.
There was nothing more surprising than seeing my brother passionately reading a book and being excited to do work for class. It was something we hardly ever saw him do, and something that he would continue to do thanks to his teacher.
And there I realized that a teacher is an undocumented student’s best chance at getting further in life. They are people who can act as mentors and friends, just and they were for my brother.
There’s no better ally to have, especially in a school where people can be cruel when it comes to race. Teacher’s are there to educate and get rid of ignorance, and they can be an anchor to a student that sometimes just really needs to talk about what hurts.
Because being undocumented isn’t just a word, it’s a reality that is constantly affecting someone in a tiny way. I’ve gone through it, and I know that there are many other’s who are going through it too, and it sometimes feel hopeless.
