By Julia Ramirez
“License and registration please.” I had been driving for almost a
year and it was finally happening. I was being pulled over. My taillight needed
to be replaced, the police officer informed me, and I needed to hand over my
license and registration. I immediately panicked. My hands began to shake and
my heart raced. I looked in the glove compartment, but I didn’t even know what
the registration looked like. I pulled out a handful of papers, and with the
help of the officer, found the registration. The police officer proceeded to
ask me a series of questions and I suddenly burst to tears. I asked him
if I was going to have my car towed, and when my uncle, the owner of the car,
could pick it up. The police officer calmed me down and continued to ask for my
driver’s license and then I remembered. I am a United States citizen and I have
my driver’s license. I had been driving with a license for almost a year. How
had I forgotten? In a very calm and stern voice the police officer
assured me that I would not have my car towed. I would just need to fix the
taillight and pay my ticket. He wished me a good day and drove away. I sat in
my car wiped away my tears, and laughed.
My parents are immigrants. They stepped onto American soil in the
early spring of 1995. My mother was sixteen years old and three months
pregnant. My father, a young man full of dreams and determination. They set out
on the long journey to cross the border in search of a better life and future
for their new family. A journey that was so long and treacherous they never
returned to Mexico.
Growing up, I always heard stories about their journey across the
border, but never fully understood their significance. I considered my parents’
story as something normal, traditional even. I thought everyone had a story. It
seemed like all the adults in my family had them, different versions of the
same journey. It never occurred to me that this journey would have such
profound effects on my family. It never occurred to me that twenty years later,
until this very day, my parents would remain undocumented. That my parents
would be deprived of rights and freedoms I would possess. Rights and freedoms
they had sought out for me and which have been granted to me because they
decided to cross the border to make me a United States citizen. I am privileged.
I am lucky to have such brave and selfless parents. But my parents are
not so lucky. My parents are shamed and ridiculed every day. They are denied
these rights and freedoms despite the fact that they pay their taxes and have
never committed a crime. They are denied social security numbers, pensions,
financial aid, healthcare, and a simple driver’s license. These documents and
papers make a world of a difference in a family of immigrants. They create a
world of fear and anguish, and if families are lucky enough to someday attain
immigration relief, a world of happiness and opportunity.
My parents have always driven without a driver’s license. They’ve
always had jobs that required them to drive to and from work and take two kids
to school. Driving was a necessity; our schools and their jobs were not a
walking distance away. My parents took the risk of getting pulled over every
day. The sight of a police officer walking towards our car always sent shivers
running down my back, and the sight of my father’s worried face always sent me
into a panic. My brother and I were constantly being told to sit down, put our
seatbelts on and not be afraid if the police officer came and took away our
car. But we were always afraid. Afraid that on any given day we could be pulled
over on our way to school or to a simple family party. Afraid that on any given
week we would have to accompany our parents to court when they paid their
fines.
Our fears always became a reality. We were pulled over once on our
way to school and had to walk the remaining two miles, once on my brother’s
fourteenth birthday after a dinner celebration, and once when my dad was on his
way to visit his brother in the hospital. We already knew the routine. Take all
the things you will need out of the car and quietly step out. Walk towards
either mom or dad and wait until they gave directions to walk to our
destination. Growing up, the sight of a police car always put me on high alert
and panic. A police officer meant the possibility of having our car taken away
and heavy fines. I never saw police officers as protectors or “the good guys.” To me police officers were people who could
not only take my car away, but also my parents.
The day I got pulled over, my mind went back to those memories, to
the only memories I had of a police officer. My mind automatically went into a
panic and forgot the fact that unlike my parents, I had a driver’s license. I
laughed when the officer wished me a good day and left. I could not believe I
only had to pay a ticket and get my tail light fixed. It was too easy. I was
almost happy. I knew this was wrong, I knew it was not fair. Why did my parents
get treated so differently than I in the same situation? Because of a piece of
paper that made them legal? No, this was not fair at all. But getting enraged
about it would make no difference. I could not do anything about it. Right?
There was nothing I could do for my parents when they were being pulled over.
There was nothing I could do for them and their immigration status to make any
of their troubles dissolve. All I could do was continue going to school, doing
my best and waiting until I had a degree to help my parents financially. There
was no other way to help.
I did not find a way to help until I began to
attend John Jay College of Criminal Justice. There I joined the John Jay
Dreamers club and heard stories of students like me. Students who also had
immigrant parents and sought ways to help them in any way they could. It was in
this club that I first heard an undocumented student talk about his experience
across the border and what it meant to him. I finally understood the meaning
these stories had. In my junior year, I received the CUNY Becas Scholarship. I
was required to attend a three-day retreat with the other recipients. It was
one of the best weekends of my life and changed my view on immigration
entirely. Almost all of the scholarship recipients were undocumented, and
had stories just like the ones of my parents. All of them were great people,
with long lists of accomplishments and were somehow balancing school and full
time jobs. But they didn’t stop there; every one of the students had been an
activist in the Mexican community. They were all undocumented, unafraid and
unapologetic.
This group of amazing students along with my
immigrant family inspired me to look for answers and ways to help my community,
to help my people. I have since decided to pursue law and become an immigration
attorney. My dream is to help people like the student scholarship recipients
and my parents. I am currently working as a Case Manager to promote DACA
(Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) in Port Chester and throughout
Westchester County with the Hudson Valley Community Coalition. I am determined
to fight for my people and do everything in my power to help and support all
immigrants living in the shadows. I am here to say you are not alone. I am here
to say I am fighting with you. I am here to offer my help and support.