I'm an Undocumented Student Working in the U.S., and My Future Is Completely Uncertain

The DACA program lets Harvard student Sonia Espinosa work legally and out in the open without fear of repercussions. But what happens when it ends?

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There are an estimated 11.2 million undocumented immigrants living in the U.S., 1.4 million of which are 18 to 30, according to the Pew Hispanic Research Trends Project. Immigration has long been a hot-button issue that's divided people regardless of political affiliation, but stuck in the middle are people like 21-year-old Harvard student Sonia Espinosa, who is undocumented. Brought to this country as a baby, Espinosa is allowed to go to school and work as a recipient of Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), but she sees no easy path to citizenship. Here, Sonia shares her experience with Cosmopolitan.com.

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My family is from Mexico, and that's where I was born, but my parents brought me to the U.S. when I was a baby. We moved first to Colorado, because my mother had friends and relatives there, but eventually we settled in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, when I was 12.

The first time I realized something was weird was when I tried to look for an after-school job when I was 16. I had told my father that I wanted a job, and I remember his reaction was really weird. He told me, "No, you don't have papers, so you can't get a job." But I didn't really understand what that meant. I was really naive. I remember thinking, That doesn't make any sense. All I want is a cashier job. What do I need papers for? I went to this fast-food restaurant and filled out an application, and then I straight-up told the manager there, "I don't have papers." And I'll always remember this: He said, "I'm really sorry, I would really like to hire you, but I don't want trouble, and without papers, there's nothing I can do." And I still didn't really understand it, but that was the moment I knew it was real. Everything I didn't want to believe was true. I hated myself, and I hated the idea of being undocumented.

Everything that's associated with being undocumented is negative. All you ever heard about undocumented immigrants is that they're criminals or that they're taking people's jobs or that they're the people who clean your toilets or wash your dishes. They're just painted in a very negative light, and I remember thinking, If that's all I know that it means to be undocumented, is that me? Is that all I'm supposed to reach for? I just didn't want to believe that. It's very admirable for people to wash your dishes — people should appreciate it more — but I had other dreams.

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Then it came time to apply for college. All my friends were really excited about the process, and I was just avoiding it because I didn't know what to do. I didn't feel like I could talk to my parents about it. So I decided to tell my high school counselor, Mr. Bly. I told him, and even though he had no idea what to do, I remember he said, "I don't know what that means, but we're going to figure it out." It was such a relief! All I needed was someone to say, "It's going to be OK." I wanted someone to validate my existence and tell me that even though I was undocumented, I could go to college.

My high school had never had an undocumented student before, so Mr. Bly and I had to learn what it meant to apply for college "without papers" together. Here's what it is: a farce. There's no federal law that explicitly prohibits undocumented students from going to college, but many states require proof of citizenship for admission. State schools in Wisconsin require undocumented students to pay out-of-state tuition, which my parents couldn't afford. At the time, my dad was a Pizza Hut delivery driver, and my mother, a cashier at Chipotle. My parents couldn't help me with the process either. They didn't really understand it, and they kind of had this mindset that I'd just apply and things would work out.

I was basically going to give up, and then one day, when I was Googling something, Harvard came up in the search results. I became curious about it and did more research, and I found out that the university would cover tuition with a full scholarship if I was accepted. I didn't even know whether I should apply — the chances of getting in were something like 6 percent that year — but I went to Mr. Bly and said, "Please don't laugh at me, but I want to apply to Harvard." And he didn't laugh. He just said, "OK." I actually turned in the application online two hours late, because I started doubting myself and wasn't sure if I was actually going to hit "submit."

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I will never forget the day I found I had been accepted to the university. It was kind of funny: I was checking my phone in class one day when I received an email from Harvard that said, "Congratulations on your recent acceptance to Harvard. We see you haven't filled out your financial aid packet yet..." As soon as I could, I ran to Mr. Bly and told him about my acceptance, and the first thing he says is, "Call your dad." So I do, and I tell him about it, and my dad just says, "OK." He's always been the kind of dad who just asks, "Tienes dinero?" and sometimes, I just want to be like, "No, dad, how are you? How are you really?" And he doesn't say anything, but this time I can hear the tears in the back of his throat.

It was such a weight off of my shoulders, and I was so excited to attend. Harvard welcomed me with open arms, but I soon realized that it wasn't going to be completely easy: Going to Harvard didn't offer me a way to apply for legalization like I had thought, so I still had to go through the Harvard universe as an illegal alien, which is a lonely and isolating thing to experience, especially because I didn't know if there were any other undocumented students there. If there were any, I didn't know who they were. Plus, while Harvard paid for tuition, I was still responsible for paying for personal needs, which meant that if I wanted to eat or buy tampons, I needed a job, and that meant asking professors or others to potentially jeopardize their careers by hiring me.

I had started at Harvard in 2011, and in 2012, during my sophomore year, President Obama announced that an initiative called Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) was being implemented. DACA allows immigrants who meet certain requirements to obtain a driver's license and a social security number. It's valid for two years and can be renewed for another two. I would finally, finally, finally be able to legally work.

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However, DACA is aBand-Aid, and depending on what happens with midterm elections next week, may not even exist soon enough. This fall, I decided to take a year off and work full-time out in the open, without shame or fear. I took a leave of absence, which means I can go back to Harvard any time I want — and I will — but if DACA expires, I won't be able to work legally. I'll miss graduating with my friends in 2015, but this could be my only chance for a long time to experience living life to the fullest legally. So far, I've interned at a magazine, done data entry, and taken a coding class, and I've gotten to meet some incredible people; after all, it's not every day you get to help Spike Jonze find his phone backstage at the Metropolitan Opera House!

But these experiences will come to an end when DACA does, and then I don't know what I'll do. People say to "get in line," but in reality, it's not that simple, and no such line really exists. There are very few options for people to gain citizenship legally besides marrying a citizen or applying for asylum, and the ones that could make it easier — such as the Dream Act — have gotten shot down for political purposes.

Immigration is unavoidable. It's like osmosis. It's very dependent on the economy, obviously, but people don't know how it benefits the country. Immigrants pay taxes, but people don't know that. They use immigrants — who often live in fear of being separated from their families or live with limited access to resources like hospitals — as scapegoats. But I'm done living in fear. I want to contribute! Running away from my status is not something I can do. I am here, and I'm ready to live.

Follow Alanna onTwitter.

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