Papeles
One fine November afternoon, I became legal. There were no
celebrations, no congratulations, no proclamations. I did not shout to the
world that I was once-and-for-all and forevermore a documented young man. There
was only a blanched piece of paper, hastily ripped out of an elegantly stamped
envelope, bearing the bold, bureaucratic inscriptions “The United States of
America” and “Notice of Deferred Action”. I skimmed the letter’s contents, and
then stuffed the paper back into its envelope. I smiled, but only a little. I
neatly slipped the envelope into my backpack and then I went about my business. That’s how I became legal.
Years of uncertainty had not prepared me for that moment. I
had been rejected from too many jobs, too many scholarships, too many opportunities
to have been ready for the day when my legal status changed. It’s not that I
was not happy or that I didn’t comprehend the significance of my deferred
action letter. I was simply numb. For most of my short life, I had expected
crumbs from the table of the American Dream. Yes, I worked hard to earn what I
got, including admission to Yale, but I always seasoned my success with a dash
of modesty, if not outright pessimism, because I knew that my effort would be
worthless without papeles. Without
papeles, I was just another “illegal”, another shadow that wasted space. Throughout
my freshman year of college, the futility of my predicament weighed on me like
a stone. And so when I finally did receive deferred action last November, I did
not leap out of the shadows; I crept out.
I admit that I have been more fortunate than other
undocumented people. I was able to pay the deferred action fee because I worked
the entire summer with a fake social security card, and I quickly cleared my
(nonexistent) criminal background record. I had few doubts about getting
approved. But other indocumentados
have not been so fortunate. I have a friend who must wait to apply for deferred
action until she can assess her foggy immigration record and raise enough money
to pay for a lawyer. She still stands in the shadow of uncertainty, unable to
step out. My brother also has a similar problem. And many other indocumentados simply do not qualify for
DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) because they happened to be in
the United States at the wrong time. Journalist Jose Antonio Vargas, my
friends, my cousins, my parents…
Yes, I am quite lucky, I tell myself. Every so often I reach
into my wallet and pull out my papeles.
I look at them. My glossy red, white, and blue work permit glistens in my
dorm’s pale yellow light. My social security card poses a grayish-blue text
marked with my careful signature. “NOT VALID FOR REENTRY TO THE UNITED STATES”,
they proclaim. I stare at them for a while. And I still wonder whether this is what it feels like to be
out of the shadows.
Juan Carlos Cerda
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