Unable to Go, Not Allowed to Stay
My parents are undocumented Mexicans. They came to the United States 20 years ago with very little, and have gone back once since, 13 years ago. They crossed the border and established their lives in Porterville, California, and have raised me and my three (soon to be four) siblings here. Their lives in Mexico were difficult, and they came to the US to give their children a better future. When I think about their lives in rural Mexico and compare them to my life here, I realize that they have succeeded, even if my life has been more difficult than that of most other people at WashU.
Despite the opportunities that my parents have had in the US since they crossed the border together in 1997, and the better lives that they have built for themselves here, I’ve realized that the border that was meant to keep them out also serves to trap them in. This becomes more apparent when tragedy strikes back in Mexico. One of my cousins died in March of last year. I don’t think I’ll ever forget comforting my mom with my siblings, and hearing her say as she cried how much she wished to be in Mexico with her sister, to be there for her in her loss. Instead, all she could do was talk to her sister on the phone and long to be with her family in their time of need.
In December of 2015, my abuelita came to the US after a long visa process, and her arrival was an unforgettable moment for me. My dad and five uncles were in my living room, and the moment they saw her and hugged her, they all broke down crying. It was their first time seeing their mom, and only living parent, in years. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand the emotions they felt in that moment. As I stood in the back of the room waiting for my turn to hug her, it hit me that my family is effectively trapped in the U.S. Although they came here voluntarily and have built their lives and grown their families here, my aunts and uncles live without the freedom to move and live freely. Instead, they live knowing that they could easily be sent to a home they haven’t seen in years and lose the lives they’ve built here.
This past summer I spent two weeks in my family’s small hometown. The last time I saw my family there was 13 years ago, when I was five. Meeting my family was amazing, and I didn’t want to leave after such a short time there. However, being there also served as a reminder of the insurmountable barriers that exist between the U.S. and Mexico for my parents. I was told by family and strangers alike that I look, talk, and laugh just like my mom, somebody they haven’t seen in over a decade. When I left, my little cousins told me to say hi to my parents, aunts, and uncles for them, people they’ve never met. My time there made me realize even more how privileged I am as a citizen in my ability to exist freely.
Although my family being undocumented influences nearly every aspect of my life, I don’t know when I learned of my parents’ undocumented status. I just know that it has always been a source of anxiety for me. I remember being maybe nine or 10 years old and wondering if something happened to my dad any time he came home late at night. Even now, when my parents work and come home every day at the same time, a half hour or hour delay to this schedule always leaves me wondering, “Is today the day they get taken away? What will me and my siblings do if it is?” Thankfully they have never been deported, but my heart hurts every time I go online and see yet another video of a child seeing their parent robbed from them by ICE.
Because of the limited freedom and constant fear this country has given my parents, the 2,000 miles between them at home and me at WashU feels crushing. After finishing my first year here and seeing the class of 2017 graduate, I started thinking about my own graduation three years from now. The thought of my parents not being there to cheer me on as I receive my diploma is incredibly saddening. However, it is likely what will happen since they can’t fly because of their undocumented status, and driving two thousand miles as non-English speaking Latinos seems impossible. On move in day, I flew for the first time since I was five, alone. On Parents’ Weekend, I couldn’t help but feel sad and jealous seeing so many families walking through campus.
Coming to college alone has been difficult, and I’m incredibly grateful for the friends who have helped me feel more at home being two thousand long miles away from my family. I feel angry at the injustices that this country’s borders have created for those like my family who are trapped inside, and I hope that the stories of families like mine are heard.
Erica Huerta Huerta is a sophomore in the College of Arts & Sciences. She can bereached at ehuertahuerta@wustl.edu.