For the first 16 years of my life, I did not know my mother’s story. More specifically, I did not know she was once undocumented.
Growing up, my father’s booming voice echoed throughout our house, recounting the buildings he leaped out of to reach San Francisco and proclaiming the day he left El Salvador a holiday. My mother, on the other hand, told her story softly and sparingly.
Her past did not seem to be a secret – it only took a high school project of mine for her to reveal to me that she was undocumented – but my knowledge of my family’s history was undoubtedly skewed. I knew my mother went to college in San Francisco, but the fact that she was an undocumented student escaped the dinner table anecdotes.
When I learned her story, I was astonished by the hostage buses she escaped while leaving El Salvador, the prison extortion schemes she evaded while passing through Mexico and the windowless white van she prayed in while crossing the United States border. When I arrived at UCLA 40 years later, I couldn’t help but wonder if my undocumented peers had experiences anything like my mother’s.
After interviewing four undocumented Bruins, I can say one thing with certainty: they share her resilience.
According to the Bruin Resource Center, there were around 750 undocumented students at UCLA during the 2021-2022 school year. I imagine the small population size might be why – at least in part – it was difficult to find undocumented Bruins willing to speak about their experiences. From my mother, I know many undocumented immigrants are hesitant to disclose their status to anyone, let alone announce it in an article.
Yet, Juan Maya Hernandez, now an alumnus, was willing to speak to me about life as an undocumented student for over an hour. He first arrived in Los Angeles at around two years old, when his family emigrated from Mexico to find treatments for his epilepsy. Hernandez did not realize he was undocumented until a high school internship asked for a work permit – a document he did not have.
"That’s really when it really hit me," he said. "Up to that point it never crossed my mind."
Despite the shock of his undocumented status, Hernandez remained undeterred in achieving his goal of attending a four-year university. With the help of undocumented student support from his high school, he was accepted into UCLA – his dream school. However, at the time, Hernandez did not have DACA status.
Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals is an Obama-era policy that offers protections against deportation to undocumented immigrants who came to the United States when they were children. It also enables some undocumented students to become eligible for work.
Hernandez’s lack of DACA status prevented him from qualifying for work authorization. Left with no choice, he worked as a jornalero, or a day laborer, before his freshman year to afford tuition and board.
Hired and paid by the day, jornaleros have little job security. Hernandez often found himself standing outside of Home Depot for hours at a time, hoping that contractors or homeowners would hire him to help with the heavy lifting on their projects.
Although the work was grueling and the pay uncertain, Hernandez saw his sacrifices pay off once he arrived in Westwood. Filled with dance rehearsals, club soccer games and sincere friendships, his first year was a satisfactory college experience, Hernandez said.
Beyond finding friendship in college, some undocumented Bruins have also found community. Student A, an alumnus who asked to remain anonymous so as to not disclose her status, immigrated to LA in 2000 at age 26. Although she is older than the average student, she still found solidarity amongst her undocumented peers.
Being from South Korea, Student A initially attempted to forget she was undocumented as she lived in the LA Korean community, she said. For years, she was reluctant to seek academic resources and opportunities because those around her deemed undocumented people responsible for their circumstances.
It was only when Student A entered community college that she no longer felt guilty about her status. Through her class assignments, Student A embraced the opportunity to explore the experiences of undocumented immigrants. She realized there is no shame in pursuing an education as an undocumented student.
"I am undocumented," she said. "I am eligible (for an education) because I am paying my tax(es). I have that opportunity, and it is mine."
Like Student A, many undocumented immigrants have taken advantage of educational opportunities in the U.S. But their diplomas have often come with substantial hardship. While attending community college 31 years ago, my mother waited tables and scrubbed bathroom grime until the skin at her knuckles cracked. Despite countless hours of labor, she barely had enough money to cover her tuition every semester. Five years later, my mother continued a balancing act as she attended night classes at San Francisco State University while pregnant with my brother and still working as a nurse.
Decades later, many undocumented students labor just as tirelessly for a college education.
Yri, an alumnus who asked for her last name to be omitted for the safety of herself and her family, spoke with me about the heavy pressure to succeed in school placed on undocumented students. Before coming to LA, Yri grew up in a small Indiana town after her family emigrated from Guadalajara, Mexico. Although she started community college in Indiana, Yri eventually moved to California. Her undocumented status required her to pay out-of-state tuition wherever she lived in the U.S.
While Yri’s DACA status allowed her to work taxable jobs, it did not exempt her from the challenge of financing her education. After clocking in at 11 p.m., she would work the graveyard shift as an IHOP waitress until 6 a.m. before attending classes on her 19-unit schedule during the day. Yri then spent her nights fulfilling 420 hours of non-credit classes to receive the benefits of Assembly Bill 540 – a bill that allows undocumented students to qualify for financial aid and in-state tuition in California. She spent the rest of her time in bed before repeating her grueling schedule the next day.
"‘I have to do well in this country because that’s why we came here,’" she said. "So I was just putting a lot of pressure on myself."
Yri’s efforts allowed her to receive an associate’s degree in just one year. After fulfilling the AB 540 requirements, she could begin transferring to a four-year university. But her hard work extracted a heavy toll.
"That whole year, I was not doing well," she said. "I couldn’t breathe."
As Yri explained how her lifestyle impacted her mental health, she began struggling to recount her story. After a few moments and a couple deep breaths, she requested a break on the verge of tears.
I told her she could take all the time she needed. As I sat in silence, my thoughts drifted back to my mother, who used to half-jokingly tell me that her experiences as an immigrant probably gave her post-traumatic stress disorder. If somebody asked her to relive her trauma, how many deep breaths would she take? Would she need a break?
Yri was not the only student to share how her undocumented status affected her mental health. Like many of his classmates, Hernandez set high academic expectations for himself. But, unlike most college students, his undocumented status exacerbated the pressure to succeed. By his second year, Hernandez’s performance in the classroom declined, and he was placed under academic probation.
Hernandez’s academic struggles weighed heavily on him – his family could not afford failure. Extra classes meant more money, and this money would not come easily.
"That’s when it really hit me: the ‘Oh, you’re undocumented, you can’t work,’" he said. "And I was like, ‘How am I gonna get $1000, man, like how am I gonna do that?’"
Day laboring was an option, but it would not cover all the costs this time. Hernandez channeled his creativity, turning his passion for photography into a business. He eventually earned the funds needed to pay for the extra classes following his academic probation.
But the COVID-19 pandemic amplified Hernandez’s struggles in his fourth year. His entire family tested positive for COVID-19 simultaneously, and he struggled to complete his schoolwork amid anxiety attacks and shelter-in-place orders. Hernandez was now subject to dismissal.
"You know when you go to like a roller coaster, before you get on it, you get the stomach feeling?" he said. "I had that every single morning."
Yet, what struck me during our conversation was not the magnitude of Hernandez’s hardships but the positivity with which he chose to view them. Even as he reflected on opportunities lost due to his status, he remained focused on the possibilities that remained available to him. Hernandez’s determined outlook reminded me of what my mother has often said: Immigrants are often given no other choice, and in the absence of alternatives, work is survival. Like my mother, Hernandez’s determination to succeed was born out of necessity.
"It was just me against me at that point," he said.
Persevering through one of the most difficult times of his life, he ended his fourth year with the best grades of his collegiate career, embodying the mantra he repeated so many times throughout our conversation.
"You could take the 720 (bus route) to go to UCLA, (or) you could take the 20, and that’s how I view life," he said. "There’s more than one way, but really it’s about awareness and learning."
Overcoming her own hardships, my mother would eventually graduate with a nursing degree from San Francisco State University in 1999. Like her, many of today’s undocumented students grapple with taking what they learned back home or committing to a life in the U.S.
Rising third-year international development studies and public affairs student Aimee Benitez is just one such student.
Benitez said that, growing up, her family encouraged her to take pride in being an immigrant. Although they immigrated to the U.S. when Benitez was four, she and her family have every intention to return to Guatemala – their home.
"Nacistes donde nacistes," she said. You were born where you were born.
However, the family decided to remain in the U.S. after noticing Benitez’s academic potential in middle school. Empowered by the support of her family and community throughout her high school years, Benitez was eventually accepted to UCLA.
Since coming to Westwood, Benitez has continued her long-standing devotion to political organizing – a passion that practically poured through my computer screen during our interview. Fighting for undocumented rights and immigrant empowerment, Benitez has formed close connections with organizations such as the Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights, the Central American Resource Center and the AB540 Project.
Throughout our conversation, Benitez emphasized the importance of recognizing the stories of not just undocumented students but the undocumented community at large. Undocumented Bruins like herself hold a level of privilege that must be acknowledged, she said.
"It’s prettier to hear about Aimee Benitez, who went to college and is now double majoring and has a prospective future ahead of her, than the story of an immigrant person who is sitting in the streets (in front) of Home Depot and can’t find a job," Benitez said. "That immigrant that is sitting in the street, trying to find a job, is just as important as that immigrant who is now a lawyer."
Benitez said she feels a strong sense of responsibility to support immigrant communities. While carrying the weight of her parents’ sacrifice, she is accruing knowledge and experience, she said, preparing to return home and apply what she learned.
"Our plan was to learn and adapt, and hopefully one day make sure that my country, Guatemala, will one day be freed of the suppression and the imperialism," she said. "So that one day these cycles of migration stop and eventually we’re our own self-sustaining country."
While not all undocumented folk intend to return to their countries of origin, many hope to serve others where they currently reside. Both Student A and Yri said they aim to work in education, motivated by their experiences as undocumented students. Student A said she plans to work in early childhood education, sharing her identity as a Korean teacher with her students. Yri hopes to work in counseling for community college students and eventually direct a Dream Resource Center.
Hernandez has also drawn inspiration from the obstacles he encountered during his academic journey. In response to his own challenges searching for a job as an undocumented student, Hernandez founded PREPARE, a start-up company dedicated to connecting people, regardless of their documentation status or nationality, to employment opportunities.
"I’m on a mission now to help as many people as I can," he said.
Toward the end of my conversation with each student, our discussion became increasingly casual. We would share our aspirations and cultural turmoils, and I would tell them about my mother and how she served as an inspiration for this story. I found myself confessing the nervousness I felt in accurately and compassionately writing about the undocumented community. I wanted to share my peers’ stories with the same kindness my mother professed when I was young.
Growing up, she drove me to school each foggy morning. Just before I would step out of the minivan, she would impart the same piece of advice.
"Be good, be kind, be gentle," my mother would softly say. "Go save the world, one little step at a time."
Years later, my mother’s remarks continue to amaze me. She was met not by the golden gates of San Francisco, but by xenophobia and racism. Even as people screamed at her to go back to where she came from, she continued to clean their floors and wait on their tables. But it eventually became clear that there is strength in her kindness. In the face of adversity and hatred, my mother chose compassion as a form of resilience.
It was equal parts heartwarming and astonishing, then, to see that same resilience in the undocumented students I spoke with. Just after they said their hardship suffocated them, they professed a conviction to help the community. After speaking of the weight of their family’s sacrifices, they vowed to change the world.
Benitez summed it up nicely.
"Yes, there is sadness in (my story), but I also see empowerment and I see strength and resilience, and I think I choose to see that every day," she said.