Toward a Better Life

by Peter Morton Coan

  She was born in Lusaka, Zambia. After relocating to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, she came to the United States with her mother. After the death of her mother when she was fifteen, she came to study at St. Anne's—Belfield School in Charlottesville, Virginia. She excelled at St. Anne's and earned a scholarship to Hamilton College in New York. “I would like to give a voice to other individuals in my situation in terms of getting involved in nonprofit organization work {and} speaking at other forums such as this…without fear of backlash.”

  Good morning. My name is Martine Mwanj Kalaw. I am a proud New Yorker employed as a financial analyst with the New York Public Library, and prior to that I was a budget analyst at the New York City mayor's Office of Management and Budget. Although I have lived in the United States for twenty-two years, I have an immigration nightmare I'd like to share with you. In August 2004, I was ordered deported.

  My mother brought me to the United States on a tourist visa from the Democratic Republic of the Congo when I was four years old. She fell in love with and married my stepfather when I was seven years old. When I was twelve, my stepfather died, and three years later, when I was fifteen, my mother died. My mother had been granted a green card and was in the process of applying for permanent US citizenship at the time of her death. However, neither she nor my stepfather ever filed papers for me. Thus, when my mother and stepfather died, I was left not only without parents, but also without a path to citizenship.

  Although I had no home, I was able to excel through my academic performance and through self-parenting. I attended prep school in Charlottesville, Virginia, with the assistance of a judge, who acted as my benefactor. After graduating from St. Anne's—Belfield School, I attended Hamilton College in upstate New York on a scholarship and graduated in 2003 with a concentration in political science.

  All of this time, I knew that I had immigration problems, but it wasn't until I was in college that I came to fully understand the extent of those problems. I needed a new Social Security card in order to secure a part-time job on campus. But when I naïvely went to the Social Security Administration for the card, they referred me to INS. The next thing I knew, I was in deportation proceedings. I persevered while my case was pending, despite the looming prospect of removal to a country in Africa where I would not be fully accepted and do not know the language.

  Soon after college graduation, I was a recipient of the Margaret Jane White full scholarship, which allowed me to graduate with a master's in public administration from the Maxwell School at Syracuse University in 2004. Academia became my security blanket that allowed me to be something other than that scarlet letter “I” for “illegal immigrant.”

  Despite my academic record, I cannot escape the stifling nature of my immigration status and have therefore been unable to fully explore my full potential. My experience foreshadows what happens to immigrant students if legislation is not adopted to squarely address our status: we will be left in limbo, with a lot to give back to America but without provisions that will allow us to effectively do so. While I have been uplifted by the US education system, I have also been marginalized by the US immigration system.

  In 2006, I met other potential DREAM Act beneficiaries who, like me, were facing deportation. They included Daniel Padilla, who graduated second in his class from Princeton University last year, and another young man who finished law school last year at Fordham. A third boy, a sweet and bookish teenager and honors student, talked about how it felt when the ICE agents came to his home in a case of mistaken identity but ended up arresting him anyway. He said, “They made me feel like a criminal…and I am not a criminal.”

  I sensed the desire that many of these students share—to absorb all that there is to offer from the US academic system and then to give it back to their communities tenfold. Unfortunately, instead of support they face a constant struggle to fight for legal representation, for a work permit, and for a future.

  My particular story has a happy ending, I think. In summer 2005, I began to work closely with Susan Douglas Taylor, my current counsel, beacon of hope, and constant support. In the spring of 2006, the Board of Immigration accepted my application for adjustment of status and remanded my case back to the immigration judge for a background check. Unfortunately, the immigration judge put me through a series of hearings and sent my case back to the Board of Immigration Appeals to reconsider their decision. This nearly broke my faith.

  Just last week my lawyer, Susan Taylor, informed me that the Board of Immigration granted me an adjustment of status and my case is won. However, I am apprehensive, and I do not know how to process this information because I have been let down so many times with immigration law that my heart fears any more disappointment. Furthermore, the timing of the decision also means that I may not qualify for work authorization after May 24 and I may lose my job.

  Although my immigration nightmare may almost be over, it is just beginning for countless others. I was very apprehensive about coming to speak with you today in this very public forum. I worry, perhaps irrationally, that it might in some way have a negative impact on my case. Lord knows that I have gone to the depths of human frailty in trying to deal with my immigration struggle. But it is my obligation to do what I can to prevent this anguish for other students. So I am here today on behalf of many talented and hardworking students who, like me, have grown up in the United States, but who cannot tell their own stories because if they did so they would risk deportation. I hope that hearing my testimony will help them by making it more likely that the DREAM Act will become law this year.

  She was born in Germany after her parents fled Vietnam. Her family came to the United States to reunite with other family members here. In December 2006, she graduated from UCLA with a degree in American literature and culture with college, departmental, and Latin honors. She has worked as a full-time film editor and videographer. “I would like to get my PhD in American studies and start a production company that translates academic work into the film media,” she said. “I would also like to get involved with a nonprofit organization and create an oral history for individuals of marginalized communities.”

  I hate filling out forms, especially the ones that limit me to checking off boxes for categories I don't even identify with. Place of birth? Germany. But I'm not German. Ethnicity? I'm Vietnamese, but I've never been to Vietnam. However, these forms never ask me where I was raised or educated. I was born in Germany, my parents are Vietnamese, but I have been American raised and educated for the past eighteen years.

  My parents escaped the Vietnam War as boat people and were rescued by the German navy. In Vietnam, my mother had to drop out of middle school to help support her family as a street vendor. My father was a bit luckier—he was college educated—but the value of his education has diminished in this country due to his inability to speak English fluently. They lived in Germany as refugees, and during that time, I was born.

  My family came to the United States when I was six to reunite with relatives who fled to California because, after all, this was America. It is extremely difficult to win a political asylum case, but my parents took that chance because they truly believed they were asylees of a country they no longer considered home and which also posed a threat to their livelihood. Despite this, they lost the case. The immigration court ordered us deported to Germany. However, when we spoke to the German consulate, they told us, “We don't want you. You're not German.” Germany does not grant birthright citizenship, so on application forms, when I come across the question that asks for my citizenship, I rebelliously mark “other” and write in “the world.” But the truth is, I am culturally an American, and more specifically, I consider myself a Southern Californian. I grew up watching Speed Racer and Mighty Mouse every Saturday morning. But as of right now, my national identity is not American, and even though I can't be removed from American soil, I cannot become an American unless legislation changes.

  In December, I graduated with a bachelor's degre
e in American literature and culture with Latin, departmental, and college honors from UCLA. I thought, finally, all these years of working multiple jobs and applying to countless scholarships, all while taking more than fifteen units every quarter, were going to pay off.

  And it did seem to be paying off. I found a job right away in my field as a full-time film editor and videographer with a documentary project at UCLA. I also applied to graduate school and was accepted to a PhD program in cultural studies. I was awarded a department fellowship and the minority fellowship, but the challenges I faced as an undocumented college student began to surface once again.

  Except the difference this time is I am twenty-four years old. I suppose this means I'm an adult. I also have a college degree. I guess this also means I'm an educated adult. But for a fact, I know that this means I do have responsibilities to the society I live in. I have the desire and also the ability and skills to help my community by being an academic researcher and socially conscious video documentarian, but I'll have to wait before I can become an accountable member of society. I recently declined the offer to the PhD program because even with these two fellowships, I don't have the money to cover the $50,000 tuition and living expenses. I'll have to wait before I can really grow up. But that's OK because when you're in my situation you have to, or learn to, or are forced to make compromises.

  With my adult job, I can save up for graduate school next year. Or at least that's what I thought. Three days ago, the day before I boarded my flight to DC, I was informed that it would be my last day at work. My work permit has expired, and I won't be able to continue working until I receive a new one. Every year, I must apply for a renewal, but never have I received it on time. This means every year around this month, I lose the job that I have. But that's OK. Because I've been used to this—to losing things I have worked hard for. Not just this job but also the value of my college degree and the American identity I once possessed as a child.

  This is my first time in Washington, DC, and the privilege of being able to speak today truly exemplifies the subliminal state I always feel like I'm in. I am lucky because I do have a government ID that allowed me to board the plane here to share my story and give voice to thousands of other undocumented students who cannot. But I know that when I return home tonight, I'll become marginalized once again. At the moment, I can't work legally even though I do have some legal status. I also know that the job I'm going to look for when I get back isn't the one I'll want to have. The job I'll want because it makes use of my college degree will be out of my hands. Without the DREAM Act, I have no prospect of overcoming my state of immigration limbo; I'll forever be a perpetual foreigner in a country where I've always considered myself an American.

  But for some of my friends who could only be here today through a blurred face in a video, they have other fears, too. They can't be here because they are afraid of being deported from the country they grew up in and call home. There is also the fear of the unknown after graduation that is uniquely different from other students. Graduation for many of my friends isn't a rite of passage to becoming a responsible adult. Rather, it is the last phase in which they can feel a sense of belonging as an American. As an American university student, my friends feel a part of an American community, that they are living out the American dream among their peers. But after graduation, they will be left behind by their American friends, as my friends are without the prospect of obtaining a job that will utilize the degree they've earned. My friends will become just another undocumented immigrant. Thank you.

  Postscript

  Three days after Tam Tran spoke out on her immigration plight, ICE—in a predawn raid—arrested her family, including her Vietnamese father, mother, and twenty-one-year-old brother, charging them with being fugitives from justice even though the family's attorneys said the Trans had been reporting regularly to immigration officials to obtain work permits. The family was released to house arrest after Representative Zoe Lofgren (D-CA) intervened, but the Tran family was forced to wear electronic ankle bracelets just the same. “Would her family have been arrested if she hadn't spoken out?” Lofgren said of Tam, who was not at home at the time of the raid. “I don't think so.”

  In May 2010, Tam Tran, who was attending Brown University as a graduate student, was killed in a car accident in Maine. She was twenty-seven years old.

  As America moves forward into the twenty-first century, its recent immigration patterns suggest its future demographic makeup. The US Census Bureau conservatively projects that by 2050, nearly 25 percent of the US population of more than four hundred million people will be Hispanic, largely fueled by emigration from Latin America and Mexico. To put this in perspective, in 1900, when the US population was seventy-six million, there were fewer than five hundred thousand Hispanics, or less than 1 percent. But it was a different world then.

  When you look back to the Ellis Island era, you see a period in history greatly influenced by totalitarian regimes that had a huge bearing on immigration to this country. Germany and Russia alone had an enormous impact on the outcome of events in the twentieth century. The human suffering caused at their hands was both profound and incalculable, from the pogroms of the 1890s and World War I, to World War II and Stalinist Russia, Hitler's Germany, and Mussolini's Italy. Is it any wonder that those who fled the dictators and fascism of Axis countries comprise the largest portion of America's genealogical profile? How different would the face of America look today if the regimes of those countries had not so totally dominated the human landscape?

  You also realize what a special breed our European ancestors were. They had to be. Theirs was a true test of Darwinism, for only the fittest survived, and those who did went on to help build this nation into an industrial and economic superpower that became the envy of the world. Their genetic code—so concentrated and so pure—gave America its ambition and work ethic, its persistence and determination, and its genius that made it a leader in all fields of endeavor, from science and technology to groundbreaking inventions that changed how we live our lives.

  Over time, though, this European heritage thinned with each passing decade and year, as subsequent generations became more “Americanized” and further removed from their ethnic roots. Simultaneously, the gene pool experienced a sharp rise in new immigrants from all corners of the globe, which contributed a broader multicultural perspective and enriched the variety of the American mosaic.

  We now look to these new immigrants to take the lead. To make their mark. To move this country forward in new directions and elevate us with their unique gifts and contributions. You have heard from many of them in these pages. It is up to them, and others like them, to help America redefine itself and enhance its prominence in the eyes of the world. The American Dream demands nothing less.

  - Represents zero or not available.

  1 Data for years prior to 1906 refer to country of origin; data from 1906 to 2009 refer to country of last residence.

  2 Data for Austria and Hungary not reported separately for all years during 1860 to 1869, 1890 to 1899, and 1900 to 1909.

  3 From 1899 to 1919, data for Poland included in Austria-Hungary, Germany, and the Soviet Union.

  4 From 1938 to 1945, data for Austria included in Germany.

  5 From 1899 to 1910, included Serbia and Montenegro.

  6 Currently includes Czech Republic and Slovak Republic.

  7 From 1820 to 1910, included Corsica.

  8 Prior to 1926, data for Northern Ireland included in Ireland.

  9 Data for Norway and Sweden not reported separately until 1869.

  10 From 1820 to 1910, included Cape Verde and Azores Islands.

  11 From 1820 to 1920, data refer to the Russian Empire. Between 1920 and 1990, data refer to the Soviet Union. From 1991 to present, data refer to the Russian federation, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Belarus, Georgia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Moldova, Russia, Tajikistan, Ukraine, and Uzbekistan.

  12 From 1820 to 1910, included the Canary Isl
ands and Balearic Islands.

  13 Since 1925, data for United Kingdom refer to England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland.

  14 Currently includes Bosnia-Herzegovina, Croatia, Macedonia, Slovenia, and Serbia, and Montenegro.

  15 Prior to 1911, data refer to British North America. From 1911, data includes Newfoundland.

  16 Land arrivals not completely enumerated until 1908.

  17 No data available for Mexico from 1886 to 1893.

  18 Data for Jamaica not reported separately until 1953. Prior to 1953, Jamaica was included in British West Indies.

  19 From 1932 to 1972, data for the Panama Canal Zone included in Panama.

  20 Included in “Not Specified” until 1925.

  21 Includes 32,897 persons returning in 1906 to their homes in the United States.

  Note: From 1820 to 1867, figures represent alien passenger arrivals at seaports; from 1868 to 1891 and from 1895 to 1897, immigrant alien arrivals; from 1892 to 1894 and from 1898 to 2007, immigrant aliens admitted for permanent residence; from 1892 to 1903, aliens entering by cabin class were not counted as immigrants. Land arrivals were not completely enumerated until 1908. For this table, fiscal year 1843 covers nine months ending September 1843; fiscal years 1832 and 1850 cover fifteen months ending December 31 of the respective years; and fiscal year 1868 covers six months ending June 30, 1868.

  * * *

  Source: US Department of Homeland Security

  Page numbers in bold indicate photos and figures.

  pre-1890s, 11–14

  charging head tax, 12

  Civil War (1861–1865)

  decline in immigration after, 11