I grew up scared that my parents would be deported
No child should have to worry that they'll wake up one day to find their parents gone
My parents' version of “the talk” was not about how babies are born — it was about what to do if one or both of them got deported.
In the United States today, more than 16.7 million people share a home with at least one family member, often a parent, who is undocumented. Roughly six million of these people are children under the age of 18. The ever-present threat of deportation and separation have significant physical, emotional, developmental, and economic repercussions for millions of children across the country. They also have serious consequences that affect children and extend to entire communities and the country as a whole.
As a daughter of immigrant parents I have watched them struggle, and I have struggled with them. Financial hardships were always present in my family. My clothes and shoes were always hand-me-downs or items I found pretty at a yard sale, thrift store, or stockyard. Like the white shirt with little flowers in every shade of pink I owned when I was ten. I always made sure to match it with some platforms whose straps were also white with pink flowers. Looking back at it, that had to have been my peak as a fashionista.
I have always been appreciative of the effort my parents made to provide me with the best they could. However, I was not immune to my classmates' hurtful remarks. The typical, “Lizbeth what are you wearing?” Or how I questioned my identity because I was not good enough for my classmates. “Maybe if you weren’t Mexican you would be taller.” And my personal favorite, “Do you braid your arm hair?” I shaved my arms for a month after that comment.
I knew my parents sent remittances to our impoverished family in Mexico. I knew they took extra shifts. I knew they did everything they could even though they spoke broken English. Yet I resented them. I am embarrassed to admit I let my classmates’ ignorant comments paint a distorted picture of my parents.
I saw bigger problems than just not fitting in at school. The problem was getting home from school to a cold, empty house. My older sister took care of my younger brother and I until one of our parents came home. Babysitters and daycares were a luxury we could not afford. My dad would tell us we were old enough to take care of ourselves anyways. Compared to how my parents grew up in Mexico, my siblings and I were living our best lives, or so they would say.
The problem was growing up scared that one day my parents would not come home because they had been detained by Immigration and Customs Enforcement, ICE. My parents had sat my siblings and me down on various occasions to discuss what actions to take if one, or both, of them were deported. I hated those conversations. Imagining a life with the neighbor while my parents were hypothetically detained always brought tears to my eyes.
Instead of playing outside, I learned how to cook, clean, change a tire, and many other everyday activities and skills. Only years later did I realize that my parents had prepared us to live on our own, fearing they might no longer be around.
The problem was watching my mother cry every Mother’s day because she has not seen her mother since she came to this foreign land. The problem was staying up all night with my mom to do a rosary for my grandpa who had become ill out of nowhere. He passed away the next morning, and she broke down. The last time she hugged him was over twenty years ago. Now, she fears she will have to relive that experience, but with her mother. A guilt formed inside of my chest because I know she decides to stay so I can have a better future.
The problem was watching my father breakdown at the dinner table when he received the news that his mother had passed away after a long battle with cancer. My guilt grew because he was not able to go to her and say a final goodbye.
My parents, and millions of other undocumented immigrants do not want to grow old on this foreign land. They want to go home, get in touch with their home land and spend time with their families. Poverty, war, natural disasters, and tragedy is what convinces immigrants to stay.
Which is why this country needs an immigration reform, legislation that allows immigrants to visit their loved ones in tragic circumstances, legislation that prioritizes family unity and reunification, legislation that prohibits the path to citizenship to begin after 21 long years of contributing to this country’s prosperity.
I am the product of my parents' suffering, of their effort, and of the dreams they were never able to accomplish. They taught me how to be a hard worker. I started out as a helper with my mom’s sale of tamales, I helped her make them and go around offering at flea markets ever since I can remember. They showed me how to work under the sun in the fields picking produce, as a housekeeper, in landscaping, and in roofing as early as eleven years old.
They always told me that as an American citizen, I had the golden ticket to opportunities. Having the opportunity to attend Stanford University was a bigger blessing to them than it was for me, because I know they felt as if all their sacrifices were worth it. Now, everything I do is for them because their sacrifices have to be worth it.
“Do not turn out like me,” my parents always told me— referring to their lack of education. However, I do want to be like them. I want to be hard-working, humble, and family driven. I want to give it all in everything I do, but most importantly, I want to remain resilient in the most difficult situations.
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Everyone has a right to these, but not everyone has access to them. The government has a responsibility to stop separating families, whether it is at the border or within its borders. And stop criminalizing us. It is my human right as a child to live in peace with my parents and the rest of my family.
Unfortunately, it is a right I have to fight for, but I will not stop fighting until the estimated six million children do not have to go to bed afraid, the way I did so many times. Afraid a piece of paper would strip my parents away from me.
Lizbeth Hernandez is a rising sophomore at Stanford University. This story was initially recorded in May 2022. Click here to listen on Apple podcasts. Click here to listen on Spotify.