Every 18 months I am reminded I am not wanted here

The psychological nightmare of renewing DACA

[Note: This week’s essay is offered by an anonymous contributor (thank you!). If you would also like to write for La Cuenta, please check out our guidelines and get in touch.]

If you were to see me, could you tell I’m undocumented?

Is there anything that could make you say, “Ah, yes! You see her, the [insert whatever comes to your imagination here] means she’s undocumented”?

In my day-to-day, the thought “I am undocumented” is not top of mind. And before I continue with my string of reflections, I do recognize that this is a privilege that many of my undocumented comrades do not have. It is also possible that “undocumented” is to me as your nose is to your own line of sight: imperceptible, ignored to better perceive your surroundings with one less distraction.

You may wonder why I have the privilege to ignore my immigration status in my daily life. Well, like many other immigrants known as DREAMers, I arrived in the U.S. at the age of 3. The U.S. public education system raised me. I grew up in the Bay Area, in a town with a high immigrant population and—for the most part—immigrant-friendly attitudes. Given these conditions, my existence was not questioned.

Like many others I know, the reality of my immigration status didn’t impact me until high school when many coming-of-age milestones, such as a driver’s license or straight forward paths to higher education, were suddenly out of reach.

Months before I turned 18, President Obama announced DACA, an executive action to lift the threat of deportation for young people who came to the United States as undocumented immigrants. DACA not only provided protection from deportation, it also provided recipients with work authorization (and a social security and a driver’s license!) for temporary, renewable 2-year periods.

For me, DACA meant I could secure internships. I could travel within the U.S. (flying outside of the U.S. without advance parole is not allowed). I could—finally—dream of having a career once I graduated.

Today, I live my life in 18 month chunks of normality. During this period, I get to live the life I lived while growing up, unbothered by my lack of documentation.

And when I reach the end of those 18ish months, about 6 months before my active DACA expires, I start to prepare for my renewal process. Every time, aware I’m closing in on the arbitrary deadline I’ve set for myself, I submit my renewal a little too late... a little too beyond the recommended 150 days prior to the active DACA expiration date. 

You might be kind of wondering … WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF?! 

Because every time, without fail, the renewal process reminds me that I am not wanted here. The renewal process reminds me that I am not safe. The renewal process reminds me that my current existence is in the hands of USCIS. The renewal process crumbles any sense of safety and “normal” that I have created for myself.

And so, the renewal process is nothing less than a psychological nightmare.

It’s the reason why I write this in July despite my sixth renewal and approval having happened in February and March of 2023. DACA, the renewal process, and the fragility of our country’s immigration system are painful every time I have to come face to face with them. 

The [DACA] renewal process crumbles any sense of safety and “normal” that I have created for myself. It is nothing less than a psychological nightmare.

Propina

Given this week’s focus on DACA renewal, we are sharing the United We Dream fund to support undocumented youth. The reality is that it remains incredibly expensive and time consuming to sustain DACA. Many folks have difficulty even affording the renewal fee. 

We’ll see you next week!