SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE (Opinion)
By Julio Navarrette
November 1, 2012
On June 15, I joined more than 100 undocumented students in effectively shutting down the Immigration and Customs Enforcement building in downtown Los Angeles. Dozens of police officers blocked off the surrounding streets, redirecting traffic. Immigration agents formed a perimeter around the building, shouldering their guns. We sat in the middle of the street, holding brightly painted protest signs and chanting, louder than their sirens, for just immigration reform. A helicopter circled above us, and countless cameras, microphones and reporters hovered.
That same morning, President Obama made the historic announcement that his administration would be granting deferred-action and work authorization to eligible undocumented youth.
Finally, undocumented immigrants who came to the United States before the age of 16, have lived here for at least five years, are under the age of 31, have graduated from high school and have a clean criminal record are able to request protection from being deported and can also receive permission to work. Hundreds of thousands of undocumented students, supporters and allies celebrated this milestone "victory."
A few days later, when I arrived back home in San Jose, my mother, who cleans houses for a living, greeted me with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. She knew what this policy change meant for me.
She had seen how difficult it was for me when I lost my dream in January 2011; after four years of working as a high school Spanish teacher, I was let go when the school found out about my immigration status. That experience ignited a flame that continues to burn within me; that is when I decided to take a stand and become involved in the movement.
My mother had pictured me in the classroom once again, teaching Spanish and mentoring students. But, in that moment, as I stared into my mother's eyes, I thought: "This is not a victory."
I was 8 years old when my family moved to San Jose from Mexico in 1992, fleeing poverty and persecution to pursue a better life, a life without fear. Twenty years of hard work in this country were evident on my mother's Clorox-stained clothes and chemical-coated hands. It reminded me that we still have much to fight for.
President Obama's announcement came just months before the presidential election, and knowing that the deferred-action program can be terminated at any moment, without reason or notice, terrifies me.
This sort of temporary immigration program is nothing new. In 1942, in response to the shortage of laborers brought about by World War II, the U.S. and the Mexican governments instituted the "bracero" program. My grandfather, who had worked in agriculture his whole life, joined millions of others to work as a bracero, planting, cultivating and harvesting cotton and other crops in the United States. He still remembers the harsh working and living conditions he endured. The program ended in 1964, and braceros were simply asked to go home.
To me, deferred action is a modern-day bracero program for talented and educated young immigrants. It does not change our status; we will continue being undocumented, an underclass of immigrants working and contributing to our society without any long-term protection or benefits.
Today, when people ask me why I haven't submitted my application under the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program, I say that I haven't had time to collect the documents that validate my existence and prove that I qualify. But the truth is, I refuse to partake in these temporary benefits, knowing that my mother and millions of others continue to be excluded. I won't apply for deferred action or any other Band-Aid program until all hardworking, undocumented immigrants are treated with respect and dignity. I want nothing short of a comprehensive and humane immigration process. Only that will truly mean justice for all.
Julio Navarrete is pursuing a master's degree in education from the National Hispanic University in San Jose.
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