Introduction

This Blog has created a window between me and the world. It’s become a veil of anonymity that has impelled me to express my sentiments towards my experiences as an undocumented student without fear of reprisal.

It’s an unimaginable grief to the mind and to the heart to want to belong and at the same time be rejected by this same affection. The United States, the land of opportunities, denies my plea to stay.

Without a social security, without identification, it is virtually impossible to enjoy the freedoms this country is said to offer.

I was crossed illegally over the mountains that divide Mexico and San Diego when I was six years of age. I can still remember how it all happened vividly till this day…

There was a divorce between my parents, my two brothers stayed with my father in Tijuana, Mexico and my mother and I fled to the United States.

My mother possessed a passport but I, unlike her, did not. She paid a person $500 to cross me over illegally because that was the only way possible.

I could feel the dark cool early morning wind briskly fanning my face as we treaded across somewhere in the border region. I was accompanied by a young gentleman, about 30 years old, curly hair with a shaven stencil of a mustache. He instructed me on what to do if we got caught:

“You tell them you are my brother, if not they’re gonna send you back by yourself.”

“Will we go to jail if we get caught,” I dreaded to ask.

“No man, don’t worry about it, you’ll be fine, just follow me and don’t make any noise.”

After walking what seemed to me about an hour, we reached a location where we could see a road on top of a small rising, a long elevated track of road designed to spot people crossing by passing border patrol vehicles.

As we crossed the road, I felt my adrenaline pump as we saw in the distance a patrol car steadily approaching in our direction. Instantly we ran across and hid in some nearby bushes.

“Stay down and don’t say anything!” said my guide.

I could see the sun rising as the patrol car shined its search lights our way.

“Don’t move, this is the border patrol, put your hands in the air!”

We were detained and sent to some facilities where they transported us back to Mexico on a bus.

We attempted once more at the break of dawn the following day. I now had the help of two other men. After about three hours walking through hills, farms, and tall brush, we arrived.

One of the first things I notice was the incredible cleanness of the newly paved roads. A McDonalds stood in glow on the corner with a Lincoln Town car approaching its drive threw.

I thought to myself what an amazing new place this was, the city seemed much cleaner then in Tijuana, people where different, the air smelled cleaner, my eyes gleamed with curiosity.

My mother and I traveled to Chicago, where we met her family. It was here, Elgin, a suburb of Chicago, with my aunt, uncle and cousins where I would live my first years as an undocumented child.

It really never occurred to me what consequences my mother’s actions would present in my future. Her dreams were to place me in an environment were more opportunities were available to prosper. Although she had the greatest intentions, the dreams she had for me have been interrupted because my status was never adjusted.

There is not a single day that I don’t think about my situation … on the bus, at work, in bed. I can be apprehended at any moment and sent back to a place which I have no social and emotional connection to. Essentially, I will be deported to a foreign country.

Though I do not deny my roots and where I come from, I can only say that Mexico is not my home country. I have been a victim of identity theft because my boundaries have been determined by a sheet of paper and not by the customs, tradition and language that I mirror.

My undocumented status impedes me from entering a university, driving, boarding an airplane, crossing the boarder to visit my father, and even simple things as to open a bank account, rent movies, and enter night clubs because these actions require a federal ID or a social security number.

My future is evaluated not on my academic or personal performance, rather I am judged by the absence of a birth certificate testifying that my first gasps of air as a toddler were inhaled 15 miles south of the Mexican/US border.

My luck ran 15 miles short, and although I have resided in the United State for over 13 years, I’ve yet to receive any mercy from the government I have lived under since a child.

My only hope is to wait for congress to pass the DREAM act.

The DREAM act is a legislation waiting to be introduced in congress this year. If enacted to become a law, students that have remained in the U.S. for five years or more, have graduated from a U.S. high school, and have good moral character will be eligible for legal residency. A six year conditional resident status would be granted and within this time frame, the applicant must have completed a minimum of two years in the military, or have at least received an associates degree in a higher educational institute to gain full residency.

I sit here on my computer writing this text with my future in the hands of politicians. Orrin Hatch, a conservative Republican Senator from Utah has ironically spearheaded this legislation since its initial introduction in 2002.

This blog will serve as a testament to my life’s struggles and I welcome all to read and contribute so more light can be shed on this injustice.

Thank you.

-Ben