The Hard Truth

Unable to contain the excitement I screamed jumping up and down, like a kid demanding more cotton candy at the annual fair.
"I passed! I passed! I passed! With a 100%!!! Beat that brother!!!
My brother had not done so well on his written test during his driver's ed course, as I reminded him how exceedingly well I had done on mine.
"Mom can you take me to the DMV tomorrow? I'm gonna need my birth certificate and my social security card. Can you please find them by tomorrow?"
Mom had always kept important documents locked in a file cabinet. Half the time she couldn't even remember where she stored stuff. She stayed silent and didn't seem nearly as excited as I was. Of course this was understandable: driving would mean a new kind of freedom; and parents, well, they aren't exactly ecstatic when it's the chick's turn to leave the next.
"We can't go to the DMV, you don't have a social security card," Mom answered with a grave look on her face after a few moments of silence.
"Ok, well I'm still gonna need my birth certificate and . . . brother, do you know what else I can bring instead of my social security card? I asked carelessly throwing aside what my mom had just said thoughtlessly as if flicking a pesky mosquito or an annoying strand of hair in my face.
"You don't understand, if you don't have a social security card, you can't get your learner's permit or a license," the ever-knowing brother replied.
"What do you mean?" I didn't understand. I had just scored the highest grade in class on my driver's ed written test. How could my success and vast DMV handbook knowledge go to waste?
"You need to show proof of legal residency or citizenship to have a permit or a license issued. And we haven't become residents yet," Mom clarified.
"Oh." Bummer. Eh, no biggie, right?

Wrong.

No car. No certainty of college education. No guaranteed job after college (assuming I'd go to college in the first place). No ID to get a blockbuster account. No ID to watch an R-rated movie. No ID to enjoy a drink on my 21st birthday.

Like thousands of students, I am an American living in the shadows. I leave no trace in this country.

Ni de aqui ni de aya

Born in Queretaro, Mexico, I was brought to the U.S. at the age of one. Sadly I retain no early memories of the joy, pain, tragedy, or happiness of Mexican life. I grew up in the land of McDonald's the land of Chuck E. Cheese's, the land of Looney Toons. But I was always happy. Happy with my Happy Meals, happy with my pizza, happy dressing up as a witch and trick or treating on Halloween, and happy setting out milk and tamales para Santa Clos.

But I am not American. And my merits and my contributions to this society go unacknowledged. Uncared for. Unrecognized. And I'm on the verge of not caring. But that would be selfish and unfair to the 20 years of struggle that my parents have endured in bringing us to this country. Sometimes my father's voice quivers and he looks down and says, "It's my fault for bringing you here."

"I thought I could provide for you here what I couldn't in Mexico, but all that's been provided are obstacles and frustration. I'm sorry."

No Dad. I'm Sorry

I'm sorry for almost giving up. And I promise that I'll keep looking forward and give you something to be proud of, something worth those twenty years of manual labor. The DREAM act doesn't encompass the dreams of students only; with it lay the sweat and blood, the sacrifices, and the dreams of parents. And that's the reason I still care.