As a daughter of immigrants, I know the ache of quiet fear, the waking mornings when my parents pull on shoes worn down by labor, the nights they lie awake wondering if the sirens outside spell danger for us. My parents came here carrying more than suitcases; they carried dreams: dreams of a better life, of dignity, of being seen. Es un orgullo ser hija de ellos.
They knocked on doors of opportunity even when the threshold trembled beneath them. They learned, they sacrificed, they stayed up late, worked early, answered every “¿cómo estás?” with hope. They taught me honesty, amor, perseverance, el valor de mi voz y nunca rajarse. And all I ask now is to be seen as human, with hopes, fears, values. We are not animals. We are humans with dreams.
But today, I watch our community live under another kind of fear: the fear that the next knock on the door might be from U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE); the fear that the new rules meant to “protect” could break a family. I’m not writing to persuade you to take our side; I write so you might understand what it feels like when the country that promised freedom makes you flinch.
In the United States, more than 16.7 million people live with at least one family member who is undocumented, and about 6 million of those are children under 18. That means millions of kids go to bed worried their parents may not come home. It means home isn’t always a safe place.
Since the so-called “zero-tolerance” era, as many as 1,360 children remain unreunited with their parents, even six years later. In a nation proud to say “freedom for all,” these children still wait. Hundreds of thousands of families have been ripped apart because of policies that treat them like they must be punished to keep others safe.
And yet, immigrants build this country. We farm the fields, we teach the children, we tend the sick, we clean the offices, we raise the next generation. We carry faith, my faith, strong in God, teaches: “And the second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’” (Matthew 22:39). If that is not just a line but our guide, then when our neighbor trembles under fear, we too are wounded.
Por mis padres, por mi familia, por mi gente: I speak. Todos los sacrificios sí valieron la pena. Just because it’s not your struggle doesn’t make it less real. People whose only crime is seeking hope should not be forced to hide in plain sight, trembling in the land they helped build.
I’ve watched my parents’ hands bruise with effort, their eyes wear with worry, yet their spirit flickers like a candle. They believed in this country and its promise of opportunity. They believed that if you worked hard, you could matter. So do I. We want safety. We want dignity. We want to be counted.
We are not expendable. We are not to be feared. We are here, strong, faithful, resilient. I carry the wisdom, battles, and courage passed down for generations. And I carry my own voice. Voy a ponerme las pilas porque ellos lo hicieron para mí.
In this place we call home, we must live that verse, not just speak it. I believe the daughter of immigrants should one day wake up without fearing the knock. And know: you are seen, you are valued, you are home because we are family. Because we are a community. Because we love. Y seguiremos adelante.
