03 Mar Dreamers

All families harbor secrets. If you are fortunate enough to belong to a tribe, whether blood related or by choice, there is a time where you gain a kernel of knowledge that can consume your entire existence- if you allow it.

The elders’ hushed tones when I walked into the room were always a sign of an adult conversation. Having arrived in America less than a year, there wasn’t much to discuss but a single topic that weighed on my khandan (tribe) like the heavy, bleak winter season that we had barely managed to survive. While wrapped in secrecy and bone-chilling cold, on most mornings we huddled around the kitchen stove, watching the chai bubble, gaining heat from one another and the gas stove which provided more warmth than any other room in the house.

“When illegal immigrants were mentioned in our home, no matter how hushed the tones, there was a sense of doom, a darkness that covered my mouth where I couldn’t speak let alone scream.”

Even though the blanket of snow receded away to show bursts of green, the excitement of a new season wasn’t enough to pull away the shadow of dread. I am a curious creature, so it was no surprise that I was able to glean kernels of the conversation that I wasn’t privy to- visa, illegal, and documents. Most English only speakers, seven years of age would struggle with those words. Being bi-lingual those words were literally foreign to me and yet I instinctively knew they were of value and importance.

As a child the meaning of words have less insight than the feeling one gets when hearing them. When illegal immigrants were mentioned in our home, no matter how hushed the tones, there was a sense of doom, a darkness that covered my mouth where I couldn’t speak let alone scream (which is what I desperately wanted to do!). The fact that my elders were visibly shaken when they talked about visas, deportation, and authorities gave me reason to fear for my safety.

As spring gave way to summer, my false sense of security was shattered once again when the elders gathered around to discuss our faith in Umrica. Having just finished a marathon game of Uno with my friend Tanessa on her front porch, with a jaunty, red Kool-Aid mustache, I skipped into our kitchen only to find the adults in my family sitting and standing around the table as if someone had died. The last bit I heard before skipping in, hopped up on sugar (good-ole fashioned sugar) was “illegal immigrants”.

There is a moment when a human being, especially a small human, cannot carry the weight of her family any longer, doesn’t want to harbor any secrets, and releases the kernel of knowledge in the air like the dandelions she has blown all summer long. Barefoot, I leapt out the kitchen back door, allowing it to slam on my elders and their secrets, and yelled at the top of my lungs, “We are illegal! We are illegal! We are illegal!” I was free. For as far and long as my scrawny, mocha-colored legs would carry me, I ran and yelled my way to freedom. I don’t know when I got home. I don’t know who was there. All I know is that everyone let me be. I was free.

“These ideals are what we should be striving to achieve, supporting one another during times of peace and unrest. “

Soon thereafter, President Ronald Reagan openly discussed families such as mine on an evening broadcast, during which my Dada and Dadi openly wept, realizing that the President of the United States of America was securing their children and grandchildren a patch in the tapestry of this great nation. Congress, with bi-partisan legislation, enacted the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986. After much documentation proving our residency, showing proof of having paid our taxes, not having committed any crimes, as well as years of saving up money to pay for the immigration fees, both my grandparents became citizens as well as their children and grandchildren. Dada became a citizen less than 18 months before he passed away. I proudly became a citizen in my early twenties with my then boyfriend by my side (I married him a few years later).

Since the winter of 1979, every single member of our khandan has worked and paid taxes, we had a family business in Illinois as well as two in Southern California, two generations have served in the military, every grandchild has completed high school, and the majority have gone on to college, with over half of the granddaughters (the last one is finishing up her studies) securing a masters in their respective fields. Now my children are weaving their own patch to add to this great nation’s quilt of colors.

I was a Dreamer. I am still a Dreamer. It is our duty to live up to the ideals that the founders presented and which course through our veins, no matter if we were born citizens or choose to become citizens. These ideals are what we should be striving to achieve, supporting one another during times of peace and unrest. The American Dream is alive and well but we must secure it for future generations, allowing them to see the beacon shining in New York harbor. Do not shroud her light but allow her torch to shine into the shadows giving hope to those seeking asylum.