Names and places in this story have been changed to protect vulnerable identities
“What does it mean to be undocumented or ‘illegal’ on a land that was stolen?”
María Isabel was ten years old when her visitor’s visa to the United States expired. She was brought here at age four with her parents and older sister in search of better opportunities, much like previous generations of immigrants that have reached the United States since its formation. Today she is proudly a first generation Smithie.
“We never intended to permanently stay here. We just ended up moving here; I was four years old, my sister was eight,” explains María Isabel. “We lived in a little town where my sister and I were born, Boquillas del Carmen. It’s a very small mining town… that doesn’t have a lot of opportunities. It’s very poor and destitute.”
Border towns like Boquillas del Carmen are only minutes away from the U.S. ports of entry that were established when the United States seized 529,000 square miles of Mexican land in 1848, after the Mexican-American war. Today, María Isabel and others like her are faced with the challenges of having been born on the “wrong side” of that artificial border.
With two children, no permanent living space, and no other opportunities, María Isabel’s father began working in the United States every weekend—a relatively easy commute at the time. Eventually, the circumstances put a strain on their family, María Isabel explains, “My mom got tired of being away from him for so long; it just wasn’t working out. He wasn’t able to find a job in Boquillas del Carmen so he decided to move us temporarily to the United States until he could sustain us.”
At first, María Isabel’s relationship with her birthplace was unaffected by the move. She elaborates, “Unlike most of my peers, I would consistently be crossing the border… back and forth on a visitor’s visa,” until that visa expired, “I was not able to ever see my family again, they kind of became like strangers and they saw me as a stranger. It’s a very complicated thing and in a way you feel detached from your culture, from where you come from.”
Soon after, María Isabel was offered a spot at an elite middle school due to her academic excellence. She reflects that this may have been the first time she became truly aware of her undocumented status. “I went and it was a very different reality; it was the first time I met white people. I lived in a very residentially segregated area and I attended schools with a lot of Black students, Hispanic, and Indigenous students. I just didn’t really see white people,” she explains.
The realization of her status came around seventh grade when a student in class made a comment about “illegal aliens.” This unknown term brought María Isabel to a google search that changed her life and perception of herself. She remembers, “Seeing really nasty comments from people… I felt like I just didn’t belong here and I wanted to go back.”
María Isabel describes herself as an optimistic person, believing firmly that everything will work out. In high school, this positive attitude led her to apply for DACA—Deferred Action For Childhood Arrivals, President Obama’s initiative to support young Dreamers. After applying, she says, “I could work and I could get a license, but I still can’t leave the country and I still don’t qualify for a lot of things. I don’t qualify for government assistance at all.”
Soon after she was registered as a DACA Dreamer, a new administration began, highly threatening the program. When the news came out of the president’s intention to rescind DACA, María Isabel says, “I remember a teacher that knew about my status pulling me out of class telling me that I needed to hide… kind of making me feel like I was a criminal.” She began to feel fear for the destruction of her parents’ dream.
She explains that she faced “this strange duality of being in a land that is not your home, that is not ours, that is not your territory, but also not being able to go to the place you were born, and really never knowing where home is.” María Isabel’s undocumented status results from the placement of a man-made border drawn over stolen land—an imperialist aftermath.
Having lived her entire life in the face of this artificial border, María Isabel reflects, “We are all on this stolen land. Borders are not real. The nation state is cruel and divisive. It is created upon violence and the only reason it continues to exist is because it continues to perpetuate violence among the most marginalized in our community.”
María Isabel started this interview by emphasizing that her experience does not reflect that of every undocumented student in the United States. In her words, “It is important to establish that my story is not telling of the story of other undocumented people. My story comes with my very specific situation, it is by no means a representation of what all undocumented students go through.”
This article is part of “Breaking the Border,” a series of articles exploring themes of documented and undocumented migration by Translations Editor Emilia Tamayo. To read previous articles in this series, click here.
