What I Wish Everyone Knew About Having Parents Who Are Undocumented

In late April, when an article ran that I had co-written with a colleague (“Dear Supreme Court: This is Personal”), my first reaction was to run away and hide. That morning, the flashbacks of my father’s deportation were vivid. I couldn’t stop thinking about the sequence of events that took place: the first time I visited him in jail; sobbing intermittently throughout the month this happened, as I was trying to complete college assignments. The memories crossed my mind as if they had been part of some dark, twisted story I had read. They stirred in me a resigned sadness, mixed with a need to disassociate — an act that I needed to force myself into in order to get through my day.

At the same time, a grave fear consumed me after having revealed that my parents are undocumented. “My life is out there. People will know.”

It wasn’t until years after my father’s deportation that I learned about the mental health problems associated with being an undocumented immigrant, and in my case being the daughter of undocumented parents: Fear, alienation, depression, and anxiety are byproducts that can be overwhelming and paralyzing. They are far too common in my community.

What I was going through the day the article ran at Sojourners is a difficult emotion to describe. Fear is a useful word, yet insufficient to encompass what consumed my entire day. Even my wonderful co-workers had no idea what I was going through — much less were they able to comprehend the impact of having written such a revealing article.

It’s not the first time I’ve shared about the fear of being separated from my parents. I’ve spoken in chapel at Biola University and told my professors, and I continue to let people know that this problem matters to me precisely because I cannot bear thinking about this happening to someone else.

But in each of those cases, I have had the opportunity to allow people to look me in the eyes and share with me the burden of being undocumented in this country. “Please look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t feel my brokenness and my powerlessness.”

I have a powerful voice, but writing — now that truly shakes me up. I’ve since scanned through the comments section of the article. Though there aren’t many, I am nonetheless surprised at the number of people who’ve added their responses. A twisted part of me feels admiration toward the people who feel the need to give their input via a comments section of an article without being paid to do so. I know I don’t give anyone that kind of time.

But I can’t help but sense that most of these responses assume that I do not understand laws and governing systems. I hold a degree in political science, and I thoroughly enjoy thinking about these questions of law and order. I understand the gravity of Texas v United States being presented before the Supreme Court. I have wrestled with the nature, power, and limitations of the three branches of government as outlined in the Constitution. I have not separated this knowledge from my experience with our immigration system. I understand that laws are necessary and should be expected to be upheld, but I also know that saying that is a limited understanding of the problem if you do not also include that laws must have a just design behind them.

Our current immigration laws do not serve justice, and quite frankly I couldn't tell you who they serve. They’re simply useless and divisive.

Part of me has resigned trying to convince anyone that my parents deserve an opportunity to live in this country without fear of deportation. But I refuse to be apologetic for their presence and contribution to this country. That is far beyond me, and a place that I will gladly yield to the Holy Spirit to change hearts and break chains of fear.

But one thing I can continue praying for is patience until Congress figures out how to work cooperatively. What I ask of my community, and all who love me, is care and tenderness as I continue to struggle with seasons of burdening sadness and anger. Even years after this tragic event, I continue to recall, as if in a bad dream, the moments that transformed me.

I ask that you all not forget that I continue to live in fear that I will one day get a call that my mom, too, has been arrested and is about to become deported. It is a lived reality that has robbed me of my peace of mind.