Brenda is a chirpy, lighthearted 20-year-old undergraduate at the University of Colorado Boulder. She studies psychology & education, and loves working with children. One of her child care jobs involves teaching kids about how the brain works and how to take care of it. She enjoys music. She’s played piano since seventh grade, inspired by “Dulce Locura,” or “Sweet Craziness,” a Spanish ballad Brenda’s father played for her when was little.
But all of that belies her real story — somewhere between the shadows and the life of a normal student, between family and country, between Mexico and the U.S. — the insecure existence that thousands of young immigrants endure in the absence of comprehensive immigration policies and reform.
Brenda (who asked to be identified by first name) came to Denver from Baja Sur, a Mexican state south of California, with her family when she was 5 years old. She left Mexico by bus in 2000, and has lived undocumented in Colorado since then.
“We didn’t really have intentions to go back. I remember not really understanding what was going on, we were just going to a new place,” Brenda recalls of the bus ride. “I remember spilling Skittles everywhere.”
Her family arrived in Colorado on a travel visa. Brenda’s father, who had relatives living in Denver, began contracted labor as a painter. Later he sold fruit at a flea market, but immigration and labor crackdowns started in 2004, due to election politics and conservative pushback on Bush’s guest worker program. Brenda remembers that it became too risky for people without papers to work or use others’ social security numbers for employment.
“Things got more strict, they weren’t gonna let anything slide anymore,” she said. Her uncle, a U.S. citizen, legally adopted her older brother. This helped her parents secure a business license to sell fruits and vegetables through her brother’s name.
The introduction of the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) in 2012 gave Brenda a glimpse of a life with staples for American high school students: obtaining a social security number, driver’s license and a job.
“I was so excited because I thought okay, maybe I can go to school, maybe this is possible,” she said. “I was just hopeful. I thought maybe this was the path that would get started to citizenship,”
The DACA program, created by the DREAM Act passed in 2012, was the victory of a hard-won battle by Latino communities and activists for immigration reform political change in the U.S. This movement culminated on May Day in 2006, when hundreds of thousands of Dreamers took to streets to further immigrant rights, protesting legislation that aimed to strengthen illegal immigration penalties.
Although praised by policy reform advocates, DACA is far from a path to citizenship or even permanent residency. In addition, the application and renewal fees are costly at $465 every two years. The process is exhaustive and outcomes for the application are uncertain.
“It was a really difficult process. It did make me a little nervous. Like okay, well now that government knows. They have all my information, could they actually…?” She trailed off. “It was something that was in the back of my mind. I would try to think there’s nothing wrong. What if they don’t accept this proof? What if they want more?”
The death of Justice Antonin Scalia in February left several Supreme Court decisions in a holding pattern, and as the GOP continues to block President Obama’s nominations for the vacant spot, the future of policies like DACA remain unclear.
“It feels like I have to prove myself every time. I feel like I have proved myself all my life, so it just feels unfair that I have to keep doing this until somebody does something,” she said.
One of the most difficult hurdles for Brenda and other undocumented individuals is access to health care. The catalyst for her uncle’s adoption of her older brother was so that he could obtain treatment needed for a medical condition. Her mother also struggles with mental health issues, but has no health care access.
“It’s really hard to see that. People break because they can’t get what they need. It’s denied for money reasons or for legal reasons, and that’s just frustrating and kind of heartbreaking.”
In Colorado, 46 percent of uninsured children come from immigrant families, the ninth-highest percent in the country. Options for Medicaid and CHIP access are only available to “qualified” immigrants, those who entered the U.S. before August 22, 1996, those with refugee status, and a few other exceptions.
Despite these challenges, Brenda’s hopeful. She wants to be a teacher, but is unsure what impact her immigration status and policy changes will have on her ability to pursue her career goals.
“It’s really stressful. You know when you just feel your chest tighten? All the time you just wonder. People always talk about ‘Oh, where do you see yourself in 5 or 10 years?’ Thinking about that now, I don’t know. I wish I could make a plan for my life.”
Recent ugly rhetoric on the campaign trail from conservative contender Donald Trump has stirred the sleeping beast of federal immigration policy in the U.S., which hasn’t changed since 1965. Brenda wants people to have perspective and compassion.
“Think of your family. Just imagine seeing yourself and your kids on the other side of that, looking at you like ‘What happened?’” she explained. Earlier this year, the Obama administration conducted sweeping immigration raids in several states nationwide. Brenda often thinks about the reality and fear of imprisonment and deportation for many immigrant families.
“You just wanted to restart, maybe have a better life. Everyone always talks about the American dream, so why is it that we allowed certain immigrants to take that American dream? What about the ones now?,” she asked. “It’s not that they want to take your jobs or be lazy somewhere, it’s that they want to restart and make a better living for their family or for themselves. Give them the chance to.”