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Growing up with an undocumented mother
by Sebastian Diaz
Dec. 9, 2018
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I remember secretly playing Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas in my bedroom the night before my first driver’s test. Given to me by a neighborhood friend, Mom thought the game was too dirty for me and my siblings to play, especially at my tender age of 16.
I sped through the virtual city. Various head-on collisions, driving in the wrong lane, the occasional drive-by shooting, all while listening to the mediocre in-game rock radio station.
Now, if I do exactly this, I’m bound to pass my test, I jokingly thought to myself.
This was how I practiced. All games, no real action.
Neither of my parents have driver’s licenses. It is difficult to legally get behind the wheel because my parents don’t have any U.S. documentation like a birth certificate or a green card. So, the idea of me, 16 and uninsured, driving with them around town for practice was out of the question. I had only driven within the parameters of my grid-shaped neighborhood, where the speed limit never exceeded 15 miles per hour. But even that was still illegal.
I was ready to get the driver’s skills test over with. I had passed the written exam without studying. How much harder could the driving part be?
The morning of my driver’s exam was relatively calm. I went through my routine as usual: showering for too long, fixing my hair as if I were in the salon and hearing Mom yell at me so we can leave on time from our humble little mobile home. I grabbed all my proper documentation: my birth certificate, my state ID card and my learner’s license. Mom drove me to the state police headquarters in Little Rock in the Honda Odyssey she bought with cash some five years ago.
“Te sientes listo?” Mom asked while driving.
Yes. I told her I was ready, but I could feel my heartbeat accelerate while I tapped my foot nervously.
When we arrived at the police headquarters, my mom looked happy. If I succeeded, everyday tasks would no longer be illegal. By driving, I could remove my parents’ fears of breaking the law every time we went out.
After about 10 minutes, I made my way to the front of the line, mother at my side, head high and body relaxed. The officer who attended the front desk asked for my paperwork, which I kindly handed over. She reviewed it and then asked for Mom’s driver’s license. Mom rummaged through her purse for her wallet and handed the officer her national identification card from Mexico, her only real form of identification. I looked at my mom and saw her face fall. I tried not to show any emotion so as not to make a scene. When I applied for the learner’s license, no one asked my mom to show a driver’s license. From that point on, our optimism clouded our doubts. But part of me expected this to happen, for us to be questioned. Deep down, I think my mom expected it too.
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Art by Raleigh Anderson
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My mom is an undocumented immigrant from Mexico, which is problematic when living in Bryant, Arkansas, a small, predominantly white suburb in the South. There are not many people we can confide in with this information. If we trust the wrong person, they might threaten to expose my mom or hold her status against us somehow. Each of my siblings, my mother and I carried out our lives meticulously, ignoring the reality at home, directing attention away from Mom not being a citizen.
Growing up, I hardly questioned my mom’s status, and she never really discussed it with the family. Why would I, as a kid, worry about my mom’s legal status when all of the family’s basic needs are met? Mom has a job; we have a home, a place to sleep, food on the table when it needs to be, minivans for transportation, clothes to cover us – all the things normal people have. It wasn’t until I grew up and took civics courses in high school that I realized the danger of being considered an “undocumented immigrant,” or worse, “illegal alien.”
The current administration presumes that migrants are invading the U.S., and President Donald Trump has pledged to protect the American people from this supposed threat. A migrant caravan from Central America of about 3,000 people is traveling toward the U.S. to escape the poverty and violence in their home countries. Meanwhile, Trump wants to deploy thousands of troops to handle migrants at the border.
Between Jan. 20, 2017, to Sept. 30, 2017, officials from U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement deported 61,094 people. Under the Trump administration, a zero-tolerance policy calls for the prosecution of all individuals who enter the U.S. illegally. As a result, if parents crossing illegally are accompanied by children, the children will go into the custody of U.S. Department of Health and Human Services while the parents are sent to officials from the U.S. Department of Justice. In June 2018, officials from U.S. Customs and Border Protection acknowledged separating 2,053 children from their families at the border. Officials later reunited 522 children with their parents.
No one would guess I am an anchor baby, meaning I was born to a foreign, undocumented mother in a country that offers birthright citizenship. Because of the 14th Amendment, my four younger siblings and I are U.S. citizens, but Trump is seeking to defy the Constitution and remove birthright citizenship.
In this age of families being separated solely because someone in the household is an undocumented immigrant, I am more than okay living under the assumption that I have a “normal” family – a mom and dad who are citizens that provide comfortably for the family. In my case, wrong assumptions equal more security. But standing in front of a police officer at the Department of Motor Vehicles in Little Rock, there was nowhere my mom could hide.
The officer confiscated Mom’s keys until she could get ahold of someone with a valid license who could pick us up from the station. She pulled her phone out of her purse, desperately scrolled through a list of contacts and then messaged one of her coworkers.
“Humiliated and degraded, that’s how I felt,” Mom told me recently when reflecting on that morning.
While we waited for Mom’s coworker to come get us, sitting on beige seats near the entrance of the building, I looked over and saw tears streaming down Mom’s face. I wanted to console her but didn’t know how to convey my feelings. I had my arms crossed tightly, my face contemplative while looking around the room. I couldn’t say a word.
“¿No vas a decir nada?” Mom asked bitterly. “¿Vas a sentarte aquí callado mientras que esto sucede? ¿No te importa?”
My silence implied that I didn’t care about the situation, which frustrated her.
What am I supposed to do but sit here quietly? I thought. Mom rolled her eyes and continued to stare down at the ground, resting her head on her hands.
I was annoyed but not at my mom. Never at my mom. I was annoyed with the government. I didn’t choose to be born an anchor baby. Mom does not want to be here illegally. She wants to be a citizen, but being undocumented in the U.S. makes the lengthy process of naturalization risky. One wrong move could lead to deportation.
The morning of my first driver’s exam resulted in failure. Mom’s coworker arrived after an hour or so at the state police headquarters to pick us up. I returned to school as if nothing happened, and Mom went to work that evening, wanting to forget the whole ordeal.
A DIFFICULT PROCESS
In the last few weeks of this summer, Mom and I finally sat down at the dinner table to discuss her story for this article. Mom paused often when speaking, and at certain points, she wiped a tear from her eyes, smearing her mascara.
She was only a teenager when she crossed the border. In Tijuana, Mexico, Mom got in touch with some acquaintances that would help her immigrate to California. A U.S. citizen who looked like my mom ended up not going with the group, but she gave my mom her identification card to help her cross the border. When it was time to go through customs and border security, the border patrol officers did not question my mom, and she was able to cross the border with relative ease.
Acquiring citizenship or naturalization is not as simple as signing a piece of paper and pledging allegiance to the flag. The process starts with acquiring a green card or lawful permanent resident status. Approximately 264,000 people obtained lawful permanent resident status in the first quarter of the 2018 fiscal year, according to the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. The applicant must then wait at least five years before applying for naturalization or three years if the person is married to a U.S. citizen. On average, it takes about 10 months for officials to process a person’s naturalization application, according to the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services.
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People gather Sept. 17 at the intersection of Dickson Street and College Avenue in Fayetteville, Arkansas, to protest the removal of Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals. DACA is a national program established to grant legal status for eligible immigrant youth. Photo by Kevin Snyder, courtesy of The Arkansas Traveler
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Anyone seeking naturalization must meet certain criteria to be considered, such as being 18 or older and having permanent resident status. If the applicant indicates any statement – such as the applicant supports the U.S. Constitution, is literate in English or has basic knowledge of U.S. history – as “Not True,” they are not eligible to apply. If the person is eligible, then they fill out a 20-page form and submit it to U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. Afterward, officials schedule an interview with the applicant, and if accepted, the applicant receives an invitation to the Oath of Allegiance ceremony and is then granted citizenship.
During the 2017 fiscal year, the U.S. Department of Homeland Security processed 986,851 applications for naturalization, according to the agency’s website. About 8 percent were denied. Because Mom came to the U.S. without any authorization, she cannot apply for permanent residence on her own merit, but she has me. When I am 21, I can start the sponsorship process to help Mom obtain legal immigration status. But there’s no guarantee the process will work.
My brother and I talked to Jose Aguilar Salazar, a representative at the Consulate of Mexico in Little Rock to discuss how the process of my mom obtaining citizenship would play out. For my mom to obtain U.S. citizenship, she must have resided in the U.S. for at least 10 years, have a sponsor, demonstrate good character and experienced extreme hardship, Salazar said. The criteria are vague, so Salazar said we would have to consult a lawyer and present information like income tax returns and express that her status has affected those who live with her. My difficulty obtaining a driver’s license is likely to qualify. We could build a case for obtaining citizenship from there.
Mom is optimistic and believes she will be able to obtain citizenship, but she still doubts, she said.
“It’s a complex situation with several prerequisites,” Mom said. “I’d feel more confident if I had enough money for a lawyer that could take on my case. I’ve heard of some cases falling through that don’t end well for the person.”
If her petition were rejected, my mom would likely have to attend immigration court for removal hearings and possibly face deportation.
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Infographic by Sarah Young
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MASK ON, MASK OFF
I live in deception. My skin is pale enough to pass as white, and my English is refined a bit more than most native Spanish speakers who use broken words and speak with heavy accents. When I speak Spanish, people ask questions or make jokes.
“Where’s your green card, bro?”
“Did you jump or swim?”
“You’re too pale to be a Mexican.”
At times I would play along and give into people’s microaggressions – even laugh with them. At times, I joked that I really am an illegal alien. I received a giggle here and there, maybe an annoyed eye roll or a “Shut up, man,” with a chuckle. Every joke in regard to legal status hits me personally, but I have to play along. I must act neutrally or vehemently against illegal immigration so as to not arouse any suspicion.
Through all of the crude jokes and musings made, I find myself frustrated, not so much toward others but at myself. I did not grow up with a strong sense of Mexican identity within the home. I still feel like an American white boy inside a Mexican body. Because I hardly hang out with people of the same ethnicity as me, I lack that sense of Hispanic community. I only experience that community at home, but even at home, there is not a strong sense of Mexican tradition and culture.
On an average day, we came home from school to see my mother getting ready to leave for her waitressing job at a Mexican restaurant. Mom cooked dinner for everyone, usually carne asada with rice and beans and warm tortillas from the stovetop. My siblings and I filled our plates and sat down at the table. By this point, Mom would have said the “goodbyes” and the “I love you”s. My dad, who didn’t live with us, came by to babysit us while she was away. The rest of the evening was spent doing homework, playing music or passing time with friends outside until it was time for bed.
That is the Mexico I know, housed in a little area of white America. At home, I don’t recognize the Mexico shown in the media or relate to the stories I hear from friends who have been there. All I know is that my mom is from there. All I know at home, in the humble little mobile home where my culture resides, is that my mom’s lifestyle is illegal in this country.
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Sebastian poses for a photo with his mom, whose face we removed to protect her identity. Illustration by Raleigh Anderson
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I had gone all my life without telling anyone that my mom was undocumented. Even my best friend Noah, who I’ve known since the third grade, had no idea. Noah, like all my friends, was under the assumption my mom just had a green card like any other immigrant waiting for citizenship status. It was not until this previous summer, when I started working on this story, that I told him. He did not show a face of surprise or disappointment but simply of understanding, as if my behavior at home and in public finally made sense to him. A sense of relief came over me, and I felt at peace.
WAITING FOR CHANGE
A week after our failed attempt, we returned to the state police headquarters so I could take the skills test. This time we were a little more prepared. Mom asked another friend of hers to help us out, and he was willing to let me borrow his car. Mom parked at a nearby Waffle House where we met with up with my mom’s friend, who gave us a ride to ensure that no one at the headquarters saw my mom behind the wheel.
This time around, the officers approved Mom’s friend as my guardian because he had a valid license and insurance. So I was off. An officer walked with me to the vehicle, and I drove with caution, radio tuned to a rock music station on low volume, just as I had practiced while cruising through San Andreas in Grand Theft Auto a week ago.
Mom and I had a celebratory breakfast at Waffle House. We looked at my fresh license, still warm from the printer. A young boy with swooping, jet-black hair smiled back at me from the plastic card. A peace came over us as we enjoyed our syrupy waffles in the crowded diner.
“It was a relief,” Mom said in reflection. “If anything, it brought me joy that there was finally someone in the family who had a license.”
Twenty-one is still two years away for me. Between now and then, there is not much I can do for Mom other than focus on my academics so I can get as many scholarships as possible and lessen her financial burden.
And Mom? Well, she’s still a waitress at the Mexican restaurant. Much to her dismay, it is the only kind of job my mom can work, and it pays the bills. Current events and talking with Salazar at the consulate reminded me that my mom is not alone in her struggle. He told me that people like her work seven days a week, taking the odd hours that no one else wants to assure that they keep their jobs. They often work to support a family, to have food ready on the table at dinnertime, like in any other household. They just want to live another day.
My mom still dreams of owning a house, going to school and moving up the social ladder. This license not only gave me the legal ability to drive, but it gave my mom a sense of validation – that someday she, too, could have a little plastic card just like her son. Despite all the struggles of living as an undocumented immigrant, Mom maintains her optimism, trying to see the big picture.
“Thanks to my children, and good people I have met along the way, I am able to stay positive,” Mom said.
My mom has two more years to save money so she can hire a lawyer that will take on her case for citizenship. Her optimism, though sometimes shaken, never leaves her. I can help her accomplish her dreams, just as she helps me accomplish mine. It is just a matter of time.
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