“My parents are illegal immigrants.”
This is how I started my essay on the question, “Describe the world you come from,” when I was applying to the University. A year and a half later, I have the honor and the chance to present the struggle of my parents who, like their 12 to 20 million brothers and sisters living illegally in this country, are trying to escape the decades-old poverty that continues to grip Latin America in order to ensure their children have better lives.
My story begins in Colombia. My mother decided to immigrate to the United States about 25 years ago after her father lost his job in Bogota, forcing the family to file bankruptcy. Her only option to help her family was to cross the border in Tijuana, Mexico. She had to attempt the crossing three times before succeeding and, contrary to popular belief, she had to roll down a hill to make it to safety. She made her way from San Diego to Chicago, where she spent a few years working as a waitress, later moving to New York City.
My father decided to immigrate to this country at about the same time as my mother for different reasons. His family was actually pretty wealthy, his father owning a profitable cattle business. He, however, decided not to go to college as he was disappointed that he had not been accepted to the Colombian Naval Academy. Thus, he decided to seek a new life in America. He obtained a visa and was able to legally cross the border at El Paso, Texas, later moving to New York City to work at a family body shop, fixing and painting cars in the frigid cold. My father actually went through a failed marriage before meeting my mother, but in the process, a bureaucratic mistake allowed him to gain a legitimate Social Security card. This allowed him to obtain a driver’s license and since then he has been paying taxes to the government, though he has not obtained any benefits from the government. My parents eventually met in New York where I was later born. After three months, my father decided that Miami was a better place to work than the Big Apple. The first three years in Miami saw the birth of my brother, Giovanny, and of my sister, Ivonne Andrea. The family was complete.
Life was difficult. Our problem was further compounded when my family made the decision to relocate to Colombia. When we realized this was not going to work, my mother, my younger siblings and I attempted to return to Miami in 1994, and my mother was arrested at the airport and sent to the Krome Detention Center for six months. She was the only person in the group she went to prison with who was not arrested for drug smuggling, and while she waited deportation orders, three American citizens were deprived of a loving mother and a normal American life. This was the first time in my life that I realized the gravity of our situation.
In the years that followed, I came to loathe the place we would call home. Right after my mother’s detention, we lived in a warehouse in the local industrial park. The four of us were deported back to Colombia in 1995, but fortunately my father was able to stay. We lived in the small town of Rionegro, near Medellín, in a local hotel. When we American children returned later that year, we lived with our father in a one-room shack that a family friend had offered him. Even though there was “enough” space for all of us, it was next to a chicken coop. The infestation of roaches came to symbolize our situation.
During this time we were unable to go to school because we were focusing our few economic resources toward the reunification of our family. My mother made her fourth journey across Tijuana in 1996, reaching Los Angeles and managing to fly to Fort Lauderdale, where we swiftly picked her up.
Since the reunification, my parents’ focus has been on our education. Though Giovanny and I had a few years of schooling, the last time we had spoken English was two years earlier. Although we were able to learn English quickly through the English as a Second Language program, we started a grade level behind because of our lack of schooling in Colombia. This was to be a minor setback, and by the time I reached fifth grade, I was in the gifted program, my brother, in honors, and my sister Ivonne, after a slow start, was rapidly establishing herself as the bookworm of the trio. Since then, my family has been able to stay together.
All through this time my father made no more than $18,000 a year, and currently, he is making $5,000 below that. Poverty has shaped our lives, but it has not been the only influential factor. Yes, many times my father has been unable to pay the bills on time, which has meant days without power or the constant knocking of the apartment owner demanding rent. The success in our struggle came when we were able to purchase our own home, which unfortunately, in order for us to do so, forced my father to lie that he was an American citizen. This was one of the proudest moments in my young life, as I was finally able to smile whenever I came across the word “home.” This dream, however, came at a price. My father had to sell his shop to purchase the house, and therefore we could not pay the mortgage on our home. Within two years, we were forced to sell our only home. Happiness was replaced by disappointment, pride by dejection, hope by despair.
The only hope my parents had to achieve the American Dream was to ensure that their children excelled at school, at all costs. They have achieved a major victory in this regard, as their children are, or are on the path to be, Summa Cum Laude high school graduates, and they proudly served the Felix Varela High School Navy JROTC in Miami.
So why is my family “one unlucky day away?” Currently, my father is driving around Miami without a driver’s license — he has had a few close calls with the police — and even though he has no county license, he continues his body shop profession under the noses of inspectors. He is rapidly losing hope that the situation will change and he refuses to become the poor salesman who was only able to achieve the Dream after his passing. My mother is deeply pessimistic about the future and she refuses to search for work out of fear of deportation. I am extremely serious when I say my family is “one unlucky day away” from deportation, from disintegration, from failure. We live one day at a time.
I could have never imagined how the first sentence to that essay question would change my life. Whenever I glance at the Rotunda as I walk in front of Old Cabell Hall every day, I am always reminded of why I am here. I am here to help my father economically. I am here to restore hope to my mother’s life. I am here to show my siblings the path toward success. I am here to show my country our struggle. I am here to show the world that the American Dream can be achieved no matter the hardship. Most importantly, I am here because I want to serve my country in her government. I have come to accept the adversity, the humility, the pride and the hope of success that has accompanied my experiences as the proud child of illegal immigrants. So has my brother, who is currently studying at the University of Michigan, and so has my sister, who, if all goes well, intends to study at Harvard in two years.
This is my American story.
Editor’s note: The author of this perspective agreed to have his last name printed along with his story.
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