In college, I told my mom I was in a group for women of color, and she looked at me unsure. “Are you a woman of color?” she asked. It’s the same look she gave me last month when we talked about race and migration. “I don’t really think of you as an immigrant,” she admitted. “But we moved here together,” I reminded her. “I know,” she said, and we laughed, remembering the things we went through. I’d get in trouble in school for following my teacher’s directions literally because that’s the only way I understood English. Drivers would stare at us on our walks to the grocery store––making it very clear that we were the only people who walked places in the Texas suburbs. A few months later, we were tricked into buying a car that would break down every 20 miles. After pouring water into the radiator or changing the oil, my mom would say “It’s God-powered, remember?” and I would nod, assured that our precarious rides were really miraculous adventures. My mom and I have gone through so much together, and yet I know exactly what she means when she wonders if I am a woman of color or a Mexican immigrant like her. Despite our similarities, in the United States, we have always been treated differently. I am perceived as White and American. She is perceived as brown and un-American. This difference in perception has enormous consequences –– consequences we’ll likely never know in full.
But, even though I have a lot of White privilege, I am often reminded of the fact that I am not White. In high school, I slept over at the house of a friend who told me her brother had been robbed while delivering a pizza in the “Hispanic part of town.” The next morning, I went home replaying her words in my head. I decided that she didn’t mean anything bad by it. I reasoned that she didn’t think that hearing “Hispanic” equated with “criminal” or “dangerous” would be hurtful to me because she didn’t think of me as Latina. I mean, we both liked feminism and indie music and writing instant messages in lower-case letters. We were in a lot of the same classes. As far as I was concerned, we were practically identical. A few months later, I was accepted to the liberal arts college she’d told me about, and I got a good financial aid package, too. She was a grade below me, and I couldn’t wait to tell her. “I got in! I got in! Now you just have to apply, and then we’ll go to college together!” In my mind, our future was set. Our lives would be a spinoff of a teen drama on the WB.
Her eyes narrowed, “I probably won’t be able to go,” she said, before telling me that she didn’t have my advantages. What could she mean by that? Was she saying that being Mexican and having a single mom were advantages, implying that I didn’t deserve to get in? I mumbled something about “need-based financial aid” and kept encouraging her to apply. I cried when I got home.
In high school, I rarely talked about race or my immigration story. I knew the kinds of things White people said when they thought people of color weren’t around, and it didn’t feel safe. (I wrote a little bit about this for Enormous Eye, under the section titled 1:43 pm, my mom’s car.) College felt safer. My roommate was from Miami, and she told me that even though her parents were from Venezuela, her mom loved Mexico and Mexican culture. Sometimes we’d stay up late, singing our favorite Alejandro Fernández songs, and I didn’t feel self-conscious speaking Spanish on the phone with my mom. One day, I was telling a story about my hometown in Mexico. A White friend of mine laughed and said, “I like you because you’re Mexican, but you don’t, like, make a big deal out of it.” Her tone was light, but it felt like a warning.
People often say things like this to me. Their words are subtle reminders that I can belong to their club, as long as I know my place.
* The title for this post is borrowed from the blog Conditionally Accepted, “a space for scholars on the margins of academia.”
Applying for DACA is costly. Many of the young people who have DACA are unable to pay the application fees––around $500––on such short notice. This page is a directory of lawyers and organizations offering to process DACA renewal applications at no cost. It is meant to be a resource for for individuals eligible to reapply. It will be updated nightly from now until October 1. If you are able to give money to help cover DACA application costs, click to donate to United We Dream’s Renewal Fund. If you know of other resources, lawyers, or organizations that should be on this list, please email their contact information to firstname.lastname@example.org
• UndocuMedia, Inc. DACA Sponsorship
If you are in need of financial assistance to be able to pay for the $495.00 filing fee for your DACA renewal, please fill out this form.
• DACA Renewals Fund
Meridian Solutions established this fund to directly support Dreamers with their DACA renewal fees. If you have any questions or know someone in need of financial support with DACA renewal fees, please email DACA@meridiansolutionsworldwide.com
NOTE: This event is free of charge but does NOT offer financial assistance for the $495 DACA application fee
Any city (by phone) • California Rural Legal Assistance Foundation is providing FREE legal assistance for DACA renewal applications until DHS stops receiving applications on 10/5/17. Applicants will be assisted by appointment only:
– Every Wednesday and Friday in Sacramento
– Every Thursday in Stockton
– Remote application review/assistance for individuals living outside Sacramento or San Joaquin counties.
Please call 916-446-7901 to make either an in-office appointment or remote assistance appointment.
Please contact Holy Angels Church of the Deaf at email@example.com if a sign language interpreter is needed.
• Assistance from the USC Immigration Clinic If you would like assistance with filing for renewal please complete this Google Form to provide some preliminary information and to schedule an appointment. Or you may e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org. When you email please indicate the date on which your work permit expires. Financial assistance will be provided to USC students who need help paying some or all of the $495 renewal filing fee.
Sacramento/San Joaquín • California Rural Legal Assistance Foundation is providing FREE legal assistance for DACA renewal applications until DHS stops receiving applications on 10/5/17. Applicants will be assisted by appointment only:
– Every Wednesday and Friday in Sacramento
– Every Thursday in Stockton
– Remote application review/assistance for individuals living outside Sacramento or San Joaquin counties.
Please call 916-446-7901 to make either an in-office appointment or remote assistance appointment.
San Bernardino/Riverside County
• Sep. 27 DACA Renewal Workshop hosted by Jewish Family Service. Receive assistance from immigration attorneys & DOJ accredited representatives: Free eligibility screening, application assistance, review and mailing. Open registration will be available from 11am – 8pm. to register and for a list of documents to bring, contact Guillermo at 858-637-3046 or email@example.com
Sonoma County • Sonoma County agencies will hold free renewal clinics, with immigration lawyers on hand to answer questions, assist with DACA applications and inform participants how to receive financial assistance to cover the $495 renewal fee.
The next clinic will be at Colorado State University on Saturday, Sept. 23. The next clinic at CU will be on Wednesday, On Sept. 29 and 30, Chapin and her team will hold a clinic at the University of Northern Colorado in Greeley. The clinics are open to anyone, not just students at the colleges the clinics are held.
• TheUniversity of Northern Colorado Faculty-Led Student Support Task Force is partnering with the University of Colorado Law School to help DACA students renew their DACA status. CU Law School lawyers and students will be on campus in late-September to complete DACA renewal applications free of charge
If your DACA status or the status of someone you know is expiring between Sept. 5 and March 5, 2018, please email Larissa Romero-Perry as soon as possible to schedule an appointment with an immigration attorney. Appointments will be granted on a first-come, first-serve basis. All correspondence and appointment times will be kept confidential. (NOTE: These appointments are free of charge but do NOT offer financial assistance for the $495 DACA application fee.)
Sarasota • Sep. 22 DACA InfoSession and Renewal Clinic from 5-7 PM, hosted by All of Us Sarasota. Bring your first application or the last application from when you applied, your work permit, letters of approval, social security number, passport (if you have one), 2 passport pictures, and a money order for $495. (NOTE: This event is free of charge but does NOT offer financial assistance for the $495 DACA application fee.)
• Sep. 23 and Sep. 24 DACA Renewal Clinic from 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. at the Mercer Law School on Georgia Avenue, Macon, GA. The application costs $495 plus a $25 postage fees. Scholarships may be available for the renewal fee through lc4daca.org Applicants are also recommended to bring any criminal records, list of records of any contact with immigration agencies, if an individual has traveled abroad, passport, list of addresses since last application and a photo ID. (NOTE: This event is free of charge but does NOT offer financial assistance for the $495 DACA application fee.)
• Sep. 22 and Sep. 23 DACA Renewal Clinic (free, except for $20 mailing fee)
Make an appointment with one of World Relief Dupage/Aurora’s legal specialists to attend a DACA renewal day. To make an appointment call (630) 462-7660 or email firstname.lastname@example.org For more information visit worldreliefdupageaurora.org/ILS
Indianapolis • Sep. 23 DACA Renewal Clinic Day (NOTE: This event is free of charge but does NOT offer financial assistance for the $495 DACA processing fee) Avondale YMCA (3908 Meadows Drive Indianapolis, IN). Register here.
• Sep. 25 DACA Renewal Clinic Day (NOTE: This event is free of charge but does NOT offer financial assistance for the $495 DACA processing fee). Register here.
• Sep. 26 DACA Renewal Workshop hosted by The Chelsea Collaborative and Greater Boston Legal Services from 4 PM – 8 PM. Bring a money order or a check payable to: USCIS in the amount of $495.00. (NOTE: This event is free of charge but does NOT offer financial assistance for the $495 DACA application fee.)
Boston • Sep. 29 DACA Renewal Clinic hosted by Massachusetts Immigrant and Refugee Advocacy Coalition from 9:30 AM – 5 PM at
Action for Boston Community Development
178 Tremont Street
Boston, MA 02111
• Sep. 30 FREE DACA Renewal Legal Services with Michigan United, Centro Multicultural and LA SED Register and see list of required documents here. (NOTE: The legal services sessions are free of charge but do NOT offer financial assistance for the $495 DACA application fee.)
Lincoln • Sep. 18 DACA Renewal Event (NOTE: This event is free of charge but does NOT offer financial assistance for the $495 DACA processing fee)
• Sep. 28 DACA Renewal Clinic hosted by Catholic Charities of Southern New Mexico from 6 to 8 p.m. at Immaculate Conception Church, 705 Delaware Ave, Alamogordo, NM. This event will assist in applying for application fee scholarships through the Mexican Consulate and the Mission Asset Fund in conjunction with N.M. CAFé.
Anthony •Sep. 23 DACA Renewal Clinic/Application Fee Scholarships 12 p.m. to 4 p.m. St. Anthony Catholic Church, 224 Lincoln St., in Anthony, NM. This event is hosted by the New Mexico Dream Team, N.M. CAFé, Catholic Charities of Southern New Mexico, and the Diocese of Las Cruces. The first 50 eligible recipients will receive scholarships in the amount of $495 to pay for the filing fee.
Las Cruces • Sep. 29 DACA Renewal Clinic/Application Fee Scholarships This event is hosted by the New Mexico Dream Team, N.M. CAFé, Catholic Charities of Southern New Mexico, and the Diocese of Las Cruces. 100 filing fee scholarships will be awarded on a first-come, first-serve basis at a DACA renewal clinic scheduled for 4 to 8 p.m. at St. Albert the Great Newman Center, 2615 S. Solano Drive, Las Cruces, NM.
• New York Immigration Coalition DACA Renewal Referral Guide
All of the organizations listed here are providing DACA renewal assistance. This guide will be updated on an ongoing basis so check back regularly. If you are having trouble accessing services, call the New York State New American Hotline at 1-800-566-7636 or 311 from within New York City.
New York City (citywide) • For help with DACA Renewals from the Mayor’s Office for Immigrant Affairs, call 311 and say, “ActionNYC.”
• CUNY students will receive DACA application fee scholarships. CUNY Citizenship Now! DACA Renewal and Screening Clinics will be held Sep. 23 at John Jay College, 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.; Sep. 26 at City College; Sep. 26 at Hostos Community College; Sep. 27 at CUNY School of Professional Studies and Sep. 28 Medgar Evers College, all from 6 to 9 p.m.
• For non-CUNY students, the New Economy Project will provide the $495 fee grants to eligible Big Apple Dreamers whose household incomes range from no more than $30,150 for one person to a $71,950 cap for a five-person household. DACA Renewal and Screening Clinics will be held Sep. 23 at John Jay College, 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.; Sep. 26 at City College; Sep. 26 at Hostos Community College; Sep. 27 at CUNY School of Professional Studies and Sep. 28 Medgar Evers College, all from 6 to 9 p.m.
FREE EMERGENCY DACA RENEWAL CLINICS
When: From NOW until 10/3/17
Walk-In Hours: M-F, 9-4:30 pm; walk-ins are not available on Wednesdays from 12:30-4:30); evenings and weekends are available and by appointment.
Due to generous funder support, we are now offering FREE renewal for RI DACA recipients.
Dorcas International Institute of RI
email@example.com * 401-784-8621
645 Elmwood Ave, Providence, RI 02906
Brazos Valley Sep. 30 DACA Renewal Clinic hosted by Catholic Charities of Central Texas in the Brazos Valley. Appointment required. To make an appointment, please call 512-651-6100
San Marcos/Hays County
• DACA Renewal scholarships available to residents of Hays county. Click here to apply. *NOTE: Scholarship form must be received by Monday, Sep. 25*
• On Sep. 30, SCOPE is hosting a DACA renewals clinic FREE of cost with immigration attorneys rSeviewing applications before they are mailed to USCIS. RSVP via Facebook for event details. Questions? Send us an email: firstname.lastname@example.org
• Sep. 26 DACA Renewal Help Sessions hosted by CUSH (Kenosha) and Racine Interfaith Coalition. 9 a.m.-12 p.m. and 5:30-8:30 p.m. at the Kenosha Northside Library, 1500 27th Ave., Kenosha, WI (NOTE: These sessions are free of charge but do NOT offer financial assistance for the $495 DACA application fee.)
Madison • Aissa Olivarez of the Community Immigration Law Center (CILC) will process DACA renewals for UW-Madison students free of charge. Students should contact her at email@example.com set up an appointment.
Anja Riebensahm and I are continuing our project Illustrating Immigration. This time Anja will be illustrating stories from immigrants of all ages! If you have moved from one country to another, fill out our survey, and/or send it to someone else who has.
I’ve written about this before, but when I moved to the States, the first thing I learned was that being Mexican and speaking Spanish was not cool (unless you were a talking dog that said “Yo quiero Taco Bell.” That dog was everywhere, and everyone seemed to think it was hilarious).
I’d grown up hearing, “El que sabe dos idiomas, vale por dos,” watching Follow Muzzy to improve my English over the summer, and attending a private school that prided itself on teaching every subject in Spanish and English. Everyone in my family spoke at least two languages, and the grown-ups taught us that being able to communicate with lots of different people was one of the coolest things you could do.
In Texas, the opposite seemed to be true. The public school I went to was starting an English-Spanish bilingual program, but there were no books or materials. My mom was actually the lone bilingual teacher in charge of implementing this program. Her job was to teach all the kids from kindergarten to sixth grade, and faced with an empty classroom, she did the only thing she could think of. She got on a plane and flew to Chihuahua to buy books.
As I got used to living in Texas, it became harder to feel proud of my culture or to speak Spanish in front of other people. Once, at the grocery store, I noticed a White woman giving us a dirty look while I asked my mom a question in Spanish. My cheeks felt hot, and I stopped talking. On the walk home, I asked my mom if we could speak Spanish at home and English in public. She said no. I asked if we could try to speak Spanish softly, instead of yelling. Suddenly, we seemed intolerably loud, and I wanted to do anything I could to make ourselves acceptable to the people around us. I wasn’t the only one. At school, students told my mom they didn’t like their “ugly brown skin.” “Why would you want to have lighter skin?,” my mom would say. “Our skin is kissed by the sun, our skin is the color of cinnamon. ¡Están hermosos!” She taught us to sing “Ojos Negros, Piel Canela” and march around the classroom to songs by Cri-Cri. Soon my classmates (most of whom had not learned to read in any language despite the fact that they were in 2nd grade) were reading and writing in Spanish. Their parents could read what they wrote! And their families looked really happy when they came to parent-teacher night to see my mom. Against my wishes, I was soon transferred to an English-only classroom because the school said bilingual education was only for kids who didn’t speak English. In my monolingual classroom, I met Latinx children who didn’t speak any Spanish at all. Many of them had parents who spoke limited English, and they seemed to rely on the older children in the family to interpret between the parents and the little ones. In the past two decades, I’ve met countless families like this, and I’ve thought about how to prevent intra-familial language barriers.
The two things I believe we have to do if we want Latinx kids to grow up speaking Spanish in the United States are the things my mom has always done for her students and for me:
1. Teach them about their culture. Too often, schools––even schools that serve a majority Latinx population––neglect to teach kids about Latin American and Chican@ cultures, so we have to make up that difference ourselves. I once babysat for a family that only played Spanish-language music, movies, and television in their house. The little girls in that family understood Mexican culture despite never having been to Mexico. They laughed at their tía’s jokes and played “A la vibora, vibora de la mar” with their cousins.
2. Teach them to read and write in Spanish. Even when I wasn’t in a bilingual class, my mom kept buying me books in Spanish; my cousin Caren shared the novels she was assigned in school; and I felt really cool when I got older and could read books like Love in the Time of Cholera in their original form. (My aunt Martha Cecilia still buys me a book in Spanish every time she is in a bookstore because she’s that thoughtful.) Through my books, I learned words that made me gasp “There’s a word for that?!” and were impossible to translate. Thanks to my books, when Texas got to be too much, I had a way to escape to places where I wasn’t weird, and my culture wasn’t considered inferior. Now that I’m older, I often meet people who say they want their kids to grow up speaking Spanish. I take that super seriously because I know the difference it has made in my life.
I am not exaggerating when I say that being fluent in Spanish made the difference between having a close relationship with my grandmother and growing apart, between being proud and ashamed of who I am and where I’m from, between being myself and being someone altogether different. That’s why I will always speak to your babies in Spanish if you want me to, and I will always get them books so that they can learn for themselves. That’s why when my cousin Vanessa told me she was starting Sol Book Box, I was all in. It might seem strange for a childless person to be so excited about a book subscription service for Spanish-speaking children, but I signed up as soon as I could because it is hard to find books in Spanish at U.S. bookstores, and every time I give a book en español to a Latinx baby, I am praying that they get to grow up in a better world than I did.
When people asked me if I would take my spouse’s name after getting married, I would give an emphatic “NEVER!”
But actually, I’d already changed it.
In Mexico, I had two last names––my dad’s and my mom’s, same as everybody else––but on my U.S. documents I only had my dad’s, so when I moved to Texas, I lost my mom’s name.
I grew up thinking that that was the way it was. In Mexico, I had my full name. In the United States, not quite.
Last year when I shared my immigration story publicly, I decided I wanted to use my full name. It felt important to link myself to the people who raised me and love me and give me strength every single day and to the country that has been my home as long as I can remember. I decided I wanted to reclaim my full name in the United States and made that my resolution for 2017.
Then, the election happened.
Now there are many things that feel much more urgent than dealing with the bureaucracy of changing my name, so I’m not doing it yet. However, I have started using my full name everywhere I can.
So this is just a note to say, if you see an extra word hanging off the end of my name, don’t be confused. It’s just my name, and all of it is mine.
Last spring I did my first translation for a major U.S. museum. I translated an essay by Gerardo Mosquera for the Whitney Musem’s exhibition, Carmen Herrera: Lines of Sight. Incidentally, this is Herrera’s first solo exhibition by a major museum, so I felt even more passionate about getting it right. To prepare, I read everything I could about Carmen Herrera, abstract expressionism, and minimalism in Spanish and English. My initial aim was to familiarize myself with terminology, but even after I got a good sense of the lexicon and determined translations for concepts that were new to me, I kept reading. I was fascinated by the 101-year-old Cuban, American, immigrant artist who received very little recognition before her hundredth birthday but kept painting anyway. I love her. I love everything she symbolizes. Here are some of the coolest things I learned.
Her interviews are incredibly fun to read because she seems to have a witty retort to everything, including art criticism: “‘People see very sexy things — dirty minds! — but to me sex is sex, and triangles are triangles’” (quoted by Deborah Sontag).
Her success began a few years after her husband died, and people around her asked if maybe her husband––who had been a staunch supporter of her work––was helping her from heaven. In a 2009 interview, she refuted that interpretation: “‘Yeah, right, Jesse on a cloud. I worked really hard. Maybe it was me.’”
Her favorite artist is herself. The Whitney retrospective closes this Monday, but I hope it is the first of many. That may well be the case because, after it closes in New York, the show is headed to Ohio.
Sometimes my identity feels like a party trick. “Oh, you’re from Mek-see-koe!,” a wide-eyed voice exclaims. I nod eagerly. And I feel like a poodle on its hind legs.
But sometimes, my identity, which is so often unseen for reasons beyond my control, feels like a superpower.
The power to subvert expectations.
It happened yesterday at a Patel Brothers grocery store in Schaumburg, Illinois where I was helping my friend Ariel fulfill mango orders for the Indian diaspora of Central Wisconsin. (Ariel’s partner Shashank is from India, so they are very connected with Indian families that live near them, and when one of them is near an Indian grocery store, they bring mangos back for the group. I want this system but for Mexican snacks, please and thank you.)
There I am, inspecting boxes of mangos and realizing there aren’t nearly enough when I overhear two employees speaking Spanish. I turn and ask if there are any mangos in the back, and one of them, who seems to be the Chief Mango Stocker––clearly an essential job in a store that specializes in produce from the subcontinent––seems happily surprised to hear me speak Spanish. “Where are you from?,” he asks. I tell him I’m from Chihuahua and his look of surprise transforms into a grin that fills his whole face. He leaves and returns, hidden behind cases and cases of mangos on wheels. And as he gradually reappears, transferring the cartons of mangos from the rolling contraption to our two waiting carts, he starts telling me his story. “See those guavas?,” he points to a display, “I’m from Aguascalientes. My family grows guavas.” On his phone, he shows me pictures from his family’s orchard. A close-up of guavas on the tree. The house he built with money he earned stocking the guavas he used to grow. Guavas he left behind because he couldn’t make enough money to live. A house he hardly ever gets to visit. “I had a son,” he continues. “He was two. He fell in the pool. I couldn’t even go to the funeral…” There is a pause, and I think we are both asking ourselves the same questions. What if he’d never had to leave Aguascalientes? What if the border were just a line on a map that everyone could cross? What if he could have brought his baby here? What if he could have saved his son? He attempts a look of resignation. “Así es la vida. Difícil…” I nod. What I really want to do is yell, “No! Your life shouldn’t be this hard! Nobody’s life should be this hard!” By then, our carts are full of mangos; customers approach him to ask for help; Ariel and I say goodbye. Of course, I don’t know that he shared all of this with me because I’m from Mexico. Maybe he is always this vulnerable with strangers. Maybe he tells everyone his story. Maybe this is how he grieves. But I have this experience often. I say I’m from Mexico or I talk back in Spanish, and I see the other person loosen. It is the shift from “You are different” to “We’re the same,” from distant to close, from gringa to paisana. It is the collapse of a small border. Driving away from the grocery store, I think about a talk I saw Mia Mingus give in which she talked about the importance of articulating not only what we’re fighting against, but what we’re fighting for and making real plans. She wrote about it on her blog:
“[W]e are good at resisting. We are good at fighting for the world we don’t want. We are good at analysis and analyzing things up and down (and sometimes into oblivion). We are skilled at naming what we don’t want. I think we are less skilled at naming what we do want; our visions for liberation. And not just vague things like, ‘ending white supremacy and heterosexism,’ but how are all the children going to get fed? Who will clean the toilets? Who will take out the trash? Who will cook the food?”
OK, I think, what do I want? I imagine having to articulate my plans in front of Congress, but all I can picture is me, standing at a podium, looking at the legislators and sharing my new friend’s story. I conclude with my call to action: “If his family grows guavas in Aguascalientes, don’t you think it’s wrong that the only way he can make a living is by stocking guavas in Illinois? I mean, how does that even make sense? If they grow the actual guavas, and the guavas are what’s being sold, why can’t they make a profit?” Good questions, Kristy, but no plan. I try again. I picture myself hitting the podium to emphasize my point that we must repeal NAFTA––which decimated Mexico’s agricultural sector––and punish U.S. companies that conduct unethical business abroad, like Wal-Mart, for example. I picture myself demanding that the U.S. government open the borders because human rights shouldn’t be determined by an accident of birth––especially in a time when photos, words, ideas, and corporations transcend borders every day. I don’t actually think I’m qualified enough to speak in front of Congress about immigration reform. It’s just… I think the people who hear immigration stories most often are other immigrants. And most of the people who determine border laws are not immigrants. In my daily life, I hear lots of stories like this. When politicians walk into a grocery store, they just get guavas.
And so the borders stand. If I could be anything, I would like to be a bridge.