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But why? I think. Why focus on school if we can’t afford to send me to college anyway? Not without a scholarship, and we all know I can’t get one if I’m not a citizen or a legal resident. All the federal and state aid grants require a social security number and proof of legal residency or citizenship—of which I have neither.
I’m going to miss the UC application deadline that’s coming up, but I can’t worry about college right now. With my mom out of work, I have to do something. I can’t let them lose the house. I can’t let my little brothers suffer. I’ve been so selfish this whole time, thinking about only my own dreams and fears. In cheer you can’t let one person take on the weight of the whole team. It’s the same with family. Everyone needs to support each other.
“Why not?” I ask. “I can do it.”
“Absolutely not,” Mom says. She reaches across the table and grabs my hands. “You need to keep your focus on school. There must be scholarships or grants other than government ones. Maybe we can take out a private loan or something.”
She’s in denial, I think.
“We’ll figure it out. You deserve to go,” she tells me.
“And you deserve better than cleaning up other people’s messes, Mom,” I say. “You could get a different kind of job.”
Dad scoffs. “That’s not going to happen without citizenship. Or at least another set of fake papers.”
“I’m tired of lying,” Mom says. “We need to do things the right way.”
Mom tells us that she’s found several lawyers who help undocumented people, but they’re all shady. “It’s a scam. They want too much money. Isn’t there an alliance out there of lawyers who want to help people like us who are already here and have been for years?”
“Better to leave it alone,” Dad says. “Fly under the radar. These issues are debated on the news every day. Politicians never solve the problems. They just talk. Worrying about it isn’t going to fix anything.”
“What if your boss finds out you’re illegal?” Mom asks. “How do you know my supervisor won’t call your boss? How do you know they won’t send someone to the house? Is that how you want to live? Just waiting for the hammer to fall?”
“There’s no hammer,” Dad says. “We just got unlucky. Thousands of undocumented workers live in Los Angeles. What are they going to do? Deport all of us? Take a month off. You need the break.”
“No,” Mom says. “We need the money. I’ll get another job. I’ve done it before. I can do it again. It just might take time to find the right one.”
Despite our arguments, I love how my mother can be so tough. She may have a little breakdown, but then she’s back up on her feet, fighting for herself again.
I’m a fighter too.
I go back to my room and turn on my computer. With a start, I realize that tomorrow is the last day to turn in the acceptance form for the National Scholarship, as the awards dinner is next weekend in D.C.! I have to go. I earned it, like Millie said. But how? I can’t fake a social security number. Maybe I’ll just say I need more time to turn in the acceptance form, but that I still want to go to the reception? If giving them the wrong information on the form is too risky, at least I’ll still be able to meet the president.
I pull the award letter out of my jewelry box. There’s a contact email at the top. Suzanne Roberts. Liaison for the United States Department of Education.
I immediately type out an email apologizing for being so late and wondering if I can still attend the dinner. Can they schedule a last-minute flight for me? Am I too late? Did I miss the greatest opportunity I’ve had in my whole life?
Send.
“Jasmine!” Dad yells. “You left your backpack in the middle of the living room! I could have tripped over the damn thing!”
I go back to get it. Dad has just kicked Isko off the television and changed the channel to MSNBC, when it’s suddenly announced that a new immigration reform bill could give millions of undocumented workers legal status. This is the bill my parents were talking about earlier.
Dad’s excited and turns up the volume loud so we can all hear.
“Pilar! Come here!” Dad shouts.
“Why are you turning that up?” Danny asks. “The news is so boring.”
Dad ignores him, and the boys run out to play video games as Mom comes into the room.
The TV news anchor has a large forehead. His foundation has been heavily applied and his eyes are bulging from his head, probably due to those crazy clips they use under their hair to stretch the skin smooth (I’ve seen YouTube tutorials, natch). He looks like a pale pink fish. “Possible good news for undocumented workers in the US,” he says in his dull pseudoexcited voice. “Our political analyst Jessica Hart has the full report in our special segment ‘Immigration in America,’ brought to you by Carl’s Jr. and Watson Worldwide Construction.”
Jessica wears a starchy bright yellow dress. All I can focus on are her blindingly white teeth as she greets the news anchor.
“Wasn’t she the weather girl last week?” Dad says. “How can she be a political analyst?”
“Be quiet,” Mom says.
Jessica stares into the camera. Her face is suddenly serious. “Immigration Reform Bill No. 555 passed the Senate last week, which means there’s only one hurdle left, and that’s a rather big one in the climate of the current House of Representatives.”
The screen shows Latino field workers and housekeepers.
“Why do the news stations always show Latinos?” Dad complains. “There are a lot of immigrants in this country. Filipinos, Burmese, Turkish, Nigerian, Iranians, Chinese, Ethiopians...”
“Dad!” I say. “I can’t hear.”
He throws his hands up. He can never win when Mom and I are around.
Jessica is still talking. “The bill, according to Washington analysts, includes tightening border security on high-risk rural areas where drugs and undocumented aliens are routinely smuggled...”
“The same old story,” Dad says. “It’s not my fault this country is addicted to drugs! You can’t blame me for that. Even the radio reported that immigrants were the least likely group of people to commit a crime.” He starts shouting at the TV. “Check the facts!”
Mom elbows him.
Jessica continues reading from the teleprompter scrolling the words for her. “Section 2011b establishes registered provisional immigrant status, granted to eligible aliens who apply within the application period and pay the fee, including any application penalty fees, both of which may exceed $500...”
She’s still talking when I hear a beep go off on my phone, signaling that I’ve gotten an email. When I see who it’s from, I raise my eyebrows. Suzanne must work late, because I’ve never gotten a response that fast. I open the email, preparing myself for bad news since her answer is so short.
Ms. de los Santos—
We’re so happy to hear from you! I’m ready to book your flight from LAX to Dulles. Please send me your information so I can do so. And there’s plenty of time before the grant forms are due. I can answer any questions you have about it either over email or in person when you arrive. Looking forward to meeting you.
Suzanne Roberts
Department of Education Liaison
P.S. Remember to pack warmly! It’s starting to get chilly here in D.C.
I’m barely listening when Dad begins making sarcastic comments about extraterrestrials. “Aliens, huh?” he says. “You think those guys who crash landed in Roswell could afford that fine?”
Mom and I both shake our heads. Now Dad just wants to show off.
“To be eligible,” Jessica says, “aliens must have been physically present in the United States since January 1, 2012, except for certain limited absences.”
“Thank God,” Mom says, sighing. “There’s hope for us.”
“This is good?” Dad asks. Though he’s usually the positive one, he seems unconvinced. “We’ve been here long enough, but we’ll probably go bankrupt just applying to stay here.”
“There are also criminal grounds for ineligibility,” Jessica adds, “including felony, multiple misdemeanors, and other crimes. Aliens must pass background checks and be financially sustainable above the federal poverty level.”
“You see?” Dad complains. “They’ll make us go bankrupt, then kick us out anyway.”
“Stop it,” Mom says. “This is good news!”
This is great news. I’m smiling, actually. For the first time in weeks, I feel like there’s a real way out. This means something, even more than the trip to D.C. The bill is a ray of hope. If it passes and becomes law, we can apply for green cards, and once we get those, after five years, we can apply for citizenship as well.
“I have some more good news,” I blurt.
“About what?” Mom asks.
“I’m going to Washington, D.C., next weekend for the National Scholarship Award.”
I realize that for once I didn’t even think about asking for permission.
Dad turns down the volume on the television. “Excuse me? And just how do you think you’ll do that? You don’t have a social security number.”
“I didn’t say I was going to fill out the grant acceptance form,” I say. “But they don’t need documentation for the recognition dinner and weekend activities. I can go to those at least. I’ll just have to figure out the rest later.”
“I don’t know,” Dad says doubtfully. “How will you get on an airplane?”
To my surprise, Mom backs me up instead of supporting Dad. “You stop worrying,” she says, touching him on the shoulder. “She’s right. She should be able to go to D.C. Be happy for your daughter! Besides, I still have our passports from the Philippines. Jasmine can use that for identification. She doesn’t have to tell anyone about her status.”
I smile. Dad will always go along with Mom’s approval. Now I just have to figure out what to wear to the fancy dinner.
“Just think,” I say, buoyed by the thought of actually being able to go on the trip, “once that bill passes the House, I can go wherever I want without having to worry. I’ll legally be in the US. We’ll all be.”
Please, God, let it happen.
9 (#u4afabb2e-99d7-5a54-a074-ee1622a50d47)
When I discover who I am, I’ll be free.
—RALPH ELLISON, INVISIBLE MAN
THE NEXT DAY, I stop by the college counseling office to tell Mrs. Garcia I’m leaving for the National Scholarship reception on Thursday. “That’s wonderful, Jasmine, have a good time. Like I told you before, I’m so proud of you,” she says with a huge smile. “But I have to tell you... A couple of your teachers mentioned that you haven’t seemed like yourself the last few weeks,” she says. “What’s going on?”
“I guess I’ve been kind of busy,” I say, hesitant to reveal anything more.
Honestly, I’m upset to hear that. I’ve never had teachers complain about my performance. Apart from the B+ in Calc, I’m still pulling the usual A’s. Although I have been a little quiet in class, not raising my hand or offering my opinion on things, and I guess they’ve noticed. It’s not that I’m disengaged, it’s that I’m consumed with finding a way out of my family’s mess.
Every spare moment I’m not at school, I’m online, trying to determine how we can fix the situation we’re in, how illegal aliens can become legal in this country. If the new reform bill doesn’t pass, the news is terrifyingly grim on that front. My family is breaking the law, and apart from leaving and trying to come back under proper work visas, there’s not much we can do. In my parents’ minds, they weren’t doing anything wrong but were trying to do the best for their children, to give them a new, American start in life. Do I blame them for that? I don’t know.
I can understand the other side too—that Americans who were born here, or were born to American parents, don’t think we deserve to be here. I get it. But it doesn’t make it any easier. I thought we were here legally, and to think that we’re as good as criminals in the eyes of the law...it’s stomach-churning. I feel so helpless.
But I can’t share any of that with my college counselor. “Regionals are coming up soon,” I tell Mrs. Garcia. “And we really want to win Nationals this year.”
“Of course, and senior year is a lot of pressure too,” Mrs. Garcia says. She’s across from me, and she reaches for my hand. “You know I’m here for you,” she says, giving me a squeeze. “Are you sure that isn’t all it is? You seem worried about something.”
“Uh...” I’m so overwhelmed I don’t even know where to begin. I thought this was going to be a happy moment, telling her about going to Washington, D.C., but now all of the stress of the last few weeks is bubbling up again.
I live in fear that the tiniest little thing—like going to a party and getting caught drinking underage—could get my family in trouble. What if I get caught jaywalking? Littering? I suddenly wonder about Mrs. Garcia. Is she an immigrant? Are her parents, or grandparents? Does she have to deal with people thinking she doesn’t belong here too? But everyone in America is from somewhere else, right?
So maybe we’re all aliens, like Dad was joking about during the news. He says if we were from the great beyond, we would have fewer problems because everyone would at least want our technology. Mom, of course, says that even space aliens would have trouble finding jobs in America.
“I’m sorry, Jasmine. I didn’t tell you about your teachers to stress you out more. That wasn’t my intention at all,” she says, leaning forward in her chair. “How’s everything else going? Did you turn in your UC app?”
“Not yet,” I say.
“Well, don’t delay, the deadline’s coming up and the sooner you apply, the better your chances.”
“I know, I know.”
“I know you’ll get it done,” she says. “And remember, if it becomes too much for you to handle, there are people who care about you. You don’t always have to rely on yourself. There’s an entire community here for you.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Garcia, but I’m okay.”
Mrs. Garcia squeezes my hand again. “You know where to come if you want to talk.”
“I do,” I say, thanking her.
Dad said schools are safe zones for illegal immigrants, but I’m not ready to tell her about my status. Not yet.
* * *
After school, I tell Coach Davis I have to go to D.C. to accept my award while the girls warm up. She’s excited for me, though she knows this is a minor bump for the team.
“It’s a difficult weekend to miss,” she says. “We’ve got a football game and pre-Regionals this weekend. We have a real shot at Nationals this year, but it’s up to you girls to get us there.”
“I know—I’m sorry. I’ll put in extra time in workouts and practices when I come back.”
“I know. But I need someone to lead the practices while you’re gone. And I’ll have to pull up a flyer from the JV team to take your spot. I’ll ask Courtney to be interim team captain when you’re in D.C.,” she says.
I get that she has to name a captain while I’m away because the team needs one. But I’m surprised that she’s chosen Courtney, a junior, to lead in my place.
“Why not Kayla?” I ask. “She’s got seniority. She puts in the time...”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Coach Davis says.
“She’ll be disappointed,” I add.
“Too bad,” Coach says. “Kayla hasn’t been on point lately and she’s even missed a few practices. The other girls won’t look up to her like they do you. What’s going on with her? Do you know?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Her parents split up.” And she’s got a new boyfriend, but I don’t mention that.
Coach nods. “That’s rough. I hope you’re there for her.”
“I am,” I say. Even though I haven’t seen her outside of school lately. She’s always with Dylan, but I know I’m just using that as an excuse. I’ve been avoiding her too. I want to tell her what’s going on with me, but I’m embarrassed. Of the two of us, I’ve always been the one who had her life together—the tighter family, the better grades. I can’t tell her I’m a mess, that it’s all a big lie. I have too much pride.
