Papers

2021-09-27

I first became involved with the With Wings and Roots project in 2015. Through the years, I found myself drawn back to the initiative both because I believed in its mission and because I saw so much of myself in it. When I first watched an early cut of From Here, I immediately connected to the stories of Akim, Miman, Sonny and Tania. It was like watching four versions of myself all at once, all distinct, but all authentic. So I figured, if Akim, Miman, Sonny and Tania are gracious enough to share snapshots of their stories, it would only be fair for me to do the same. Here is part of my From Here story.

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I was ecstatic. I carefully took the paper out of my backpack and showed it to my mom, practically bouncing with excitement. She briefly looked at it, placed it on the table and continued on with what she was doing. I was confused; why wasn’t she as excited as I was? I picked up the sheet once more, concentrating on the few words seven-years-old me could read and trying to understand why my mom wasn’t as excited about the paper as I was.

I’ve heard my parents and their friends talk about “papers” almost always in reference to them not being able to do something because of the lack of said papers. I would catch snippets of conversation as my mom spoke to her mother on the phone, reassuring my grandmother that she would visit as soon as her papers came through (and they would come through any day now!). My parents spoke of these mysterious papers in tones of both longing and resignation. Now, here I was handing my mom her coveted paper and she barely glanced at it.

I was undocumented. The ‘papers’ they always spoke of were permanent residency, or more commonly known as green cards. Years later I’d realize, with a mix of amusement and embarrassment at my naivety, that the paper I so proudly gave my mom was just a regular print-out for parents from my school. Yes paper, but not that paper.

It wasn’t until I was eight that my father told me outright that I myself was paperless – undocumented. I of course didn’t fully grasp what that meant. The only thing I truly understood about our situation was that I was never to tell my friends or anyone at school about my status.

I suppose it is partly because of that early concrete understanding of the importance of keeping my family’s secret that I find it so hard to write about it. I feel as if I am disobeying my parents, and worse yet, that my disobedience might endanger us even today.

But mostly I hesitate writing this because I’m not ready to fully confront my story. Even now in my late twenties, a U.S citizen, and relatively successful in my stage of life, the feelings are too raw. I can only look back at my youth in small snapshots at a time. For to confront every aspect of my narrative and look at the complete story all at once leaves me breathless and overwhelmed into near paralysis. Irrationally, I fear that by putting my story on paper I would be making permanent and visible something I have actively tried to shield: that by writing it down I am forced to confront its reality.

So for now, I’ll focus only on the small, yet significant, snapshot of ‘papers’, actively choosing to ignore all the rest.

As I grew up I began to understand what it was truly like being paperless. I dreaded summer breaks as I played host year after year to visiting cousins from abroad knowing that I could never travel as they did. As I entered high school, I watched in frustration as options began expanding for my friends while narrowing for me. I couldn’t get this job, or apply to that scholarship, not because I lacked merit, but because I didn’t have the right papers. I felt angry at having to work hard knowing that there would likely be no opportunities for professional improvement or protections like health insurance or social security. I felt stuck.

I sought salvation in those papers. I thought that if I could only get them, my problems would be solved. I would no longer feel adrift struggling to understand my place in a country I desperately wanted to claim as my own but viewed me as an intruder. With papers, my family could finally be reunited. With papers, we could be whole.

I tied all my hopes into those elusive papers.

But my longing for papers was also my yoke. I avoided prolonged conversations about my family, afraid I might slip up and say too much. With teachers and friends I masterfully played the role of the hopeful teen talking about my grand plans for college and career, all the while knowing that was probably not going to be my reality. I began censoring my ambitions to avoid the very real prospect of their unfulfillment. I started to measure and plan my life in relation to having papers.

The thing with being undocumented is that it forces you to view your life and your options in light of what you can and can’t do without papers. Your life decisions are no longer yours, you are not bound by your own talents or ambitions, but rather a seemingly arbitrary technicality that excludes you from owning your full self. Papers become both a symbol of freedom and a reminder of your captivity. Living with that duality can be crushing. Yet, for the sake of your own survival, both actual and psychological, you cannot dwell on the sheer magnitude of the injustice and pain.

Luckily, now I can talk about my wanting of papers in the past tense. Through a series of persistent legal filings and massive luck (an indictment on the absurd and inconsistent U.S immigration system), I am a U.S citizen. You can say I received the ultimate paper.

Naturally, I am relieved to find security and stability for myself in my citizenship. But, I think about the millions of undocumented immigrants in the U.S, especially the nearly 800,000 DACA immigrants, and the millions more migrants around the world facing uncertainty, and I’m once more overcome with the fear and anxiety that colored my early years.

As we contend with near daily hateful rhetoric and harmful policies rooted in xenophobia and fear from leaders throughout the world, I struggle once more to reconcile myself with my environment. I feel relieved to no longer be bound by the search for papers, but I feel a kind of survivor’s guilt when I know that there are millions more still in dire situations. And as my own country seems taken to recidivist and anti-immigrant fervor, I find myself questioning how secure my new status is. My papers were begrudgingly given through years-long legal negotiations, not awarded by birth. How permanent are they really?

The particular details of my story may be unique to me, but the emotions – both complex and ambivalent – are shared by millions in similar positions. I am not special. My story is replicated in the stories in From Here, it is mirrored in the experiences of Khorshid, and halfway across the world it is kept alive by Marijana and Mehmet. But growing up, I did not know of this shared bond; that there was an entire world that felt as I did and that fought the same internal battles as me. Maybe knowing this would have loosened the yoke. It would have helped me realize that I was not as alone as I thought. That there was no shameful secret to keep. That it was okay to feel scared and guilty and angry and lost and hurt. That I could claim my own self. That I was more than papers.

So whether it is about papers or something grander, tell your story. There is no shame. There is only the opportunity to reclaim yourself. In the process, we will break down the walls of isolation and create a more inclusive realization of citizenship and belonging that goes beyond documents.