Eric B.

Harvard University, Class of 2013
Molecular and Cellular Biology
Texas

“Silencio! Shh!” His father’s voice was soft, almost muffled by the sounds of the river lapping at the raft. The boy could feel his parent’s fear, mixed with his four-year-old’s sense of adventure. Through the gaps in his hiding place – the pile of bags and sacks containing all they owned – he could see the sun rising over the water. Soon they would be across, in el norte.

The boy did not know that his father was running away from danger, in fear of being killed by Mexican police. He did not know he would probably never see Tía Laura and Tío Javier again. He could not know that his mother would soon have to take him and his younger brother and sister to the safety of a small town in the Texas panhandle, away from his father’s abuse, drug addiction, and criminal activity.

Growing up, the boy came to lead a divided existence. In school he learned English quickly, did well academically, and was encouraged and supported by his teachers. In his language, attitudes, and behaviors, he became indistinguishable from his White classmates. At home, however, he spoke only Spanish. Although his mother encouraged him, she was not able to help with homework or talk about what he was studying. She spoke no English, had only an 8th grade education, and worked long hours cleaning other people’s houses. She depended on the boy to look after himself and his little brother and sister.

When the family moved to San Antonio, however, the schools were larger and more chaotic; most students were Hispanic or African-American; and the street culture of the surrounding neighborhoods devalued academic achievement. Maintaining his study habits and grades no longer earned the boy the admiration of his classmates. More and more he came to look inward to stay motivated.

His sense of isolation, of being on his own, only increased as he began to realize that he was not “legally” an American. For example, he discovered that he could not get a driver’s license. Although he often drove anyway to keep his mother from having to be in three places at once, he had to be very careful so that he wouldn’t be pulled over by the police. Meanwhile, his friends were driving like normal teenagers. And when he began thinking about college and applying for scholarships, his lack of citizenship or legal residence really hit home. With no money, how could he continue his education? Could he even get on an airplane to fly off to college? Even if he did, what would he do after finishing his education? Who would hire him?

Fourteen years ago, that boy on the raft was me. I never imagined that I would one day be at a university as prestigious as Harvard and living the dream I hoped to achieve as a high school student. My experiences have given me an ambition to reach out and help others who belong to this invisible underground of “first generation” Americans because that is essentially what we are as undocumented students. Our futures are uncertain and we cling to the hope that the DREAM Act will pass so that we may serve the country we have known as home for all of our lives either in the military or in the professions we are passionate about. This is what we mean when we say we want to help our communities. It is not just a broad statement, the United States is where our friends and families are and we want to continue being part of our communities by contributing to them in a positive way. We need all the help we can get. This is not amnesty for we are here through no fault of our own and we consider ourselves Americans. We wish to stay and continue being part of this great country.