Hiding in plain sight: my life as an undocumented American | Leezia Dhalla | TEDxSanAntonio

This talk was given at a TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized by a local community. Learn more at http://ted.com/tedx

Leezia talks about US immigration laws from a unique perspective: someone for whom America was the only home since early childhood, suddenly learning that she's become an illegal immigrant due to recent immigration law reforms.

An executive communications specialist at Rackspace Hosting, Leezia oversees the company's speaker’s bureau for the Americas region. She is a first-generation American, of African and Indian descent, who immigrated to Texas from Canada in 1996. Leezia's interest in writing and foreign affairs led her to Northwestern University, where she earned a bachelor's degree in journalism and political science. Leezia is also the weekend cops reporter for the San Antonio Express-News and serves as secretary of the SA2020 Commission on Education. As a news reporter, her work has been published in The Washington Post, The Huffington Post, and the San Antonio Express-News, among other media. In April 2014, Leezia’s research with Northwestern University’s Medill Innocence Project, a journalism think tank that investigates cases of potentially wrongful convictions, contributed to the release of an inmate who spent nine years incarcerated in an Illinois prison. Her work helped Medill to win the Investigative Reporters & Editors Award and the Peter Lisagor Award for best online feature story.

Four years ago, I almost got deported.

It was a couple of days
before my 21st birthday

and I had just come home from a ski trip
in the mountains with my college friends.

I remember pulling
my suitcase up the stairs

and just as I pushed opened the door
to my childhood bedroom,

I heard my dad's voice from behind.

That's when he said four words
I'll never forget:

"You don't have papers."

In his hand was a letter
from The Department of Homeland Security -

a notice to appear in Immigration Court.

The letter said
that I had overstayed my visa

and now had to go before a judge

who could issue me a ten-year bar
from re-entering the only home I know.

How do you prepare yourself
for the realization

that you are less than legal?

That suddenly, you're an unwelcome
guest in your own home?

Facing eviction.

That moment of truth sent me flying
into a new chapter of my life

that I never wanted or imagined
I could ever be a part of

because I had heard
about those illegal aliens,

how they're criminal, they take our jobs,

they don't even speak English!

But my dad's words exposed me
to a reality that wasn't mine,

until suddenly it was.

And suddenly, that illegal alien was me.

Today, I want to take you
on that journey of transformation.

To help you understand what it's like
to be undocumented in America.

My story starts about 300 miles north
of the Montana border

in Edmonton, Canada.

My family didn't have much money,

so in 1995, when I was five years old,

my dad went to the US
to search for something more,

while his wife and his
two young kids stayed behind.

In Florida, he made five bucks an hour
behind a counter of a Dunkin' Donuts.

It wasn't glamorous
and the future was really uncertain,

but my dad believed in the American dream.

The American dream is -
it's what you tell your kids

or maybe what your parents told you -

that if you just stay in school
and if you eat all your vegetables,

you can be anything you want
when you grow up.

It's the idea that if you just work hard,
you can do great things.

And our founding fathers
believed in the American dream.

And did you know that none
of our founders were born American?

They all became American over time.

In fact, many of our nation's
immigrants were paperless,

but their dreams of prosperity

gave their children
and their children's children

the ability to call themselves American.

Many of those children
are in this audience.

I was six years old in 1996,

when my dad got me a visa to come here.

And I can still remember
learning the words

to the Pledge of Allegiance
on the first day of school.

I remember when I traded in
my snow boots for cowboy boots

and when "washroom" became the "bathroom".

And when I learned
"The Star-Spangled Banner"

and how it replaced "O Canada."

I remember how in elementary school,

I spent five years learning
how to square-dance,

which, by the way,
is not a transferable skill -

I can't take that to Canada with me.

Yeah.

My parents loved it here
and they wanted to stay.

So they hired an attorney,
filed the paperwork,

they paid the fees
and they waited for an approval

that just never came.

We never imagined our attorney
would file the paperwork late.

Or that an employer
would refuse to sign a document

in the final stage of a years-long
application process.

Things went wrong.

But we played by the rules

and 18 years later,
we have nothing to show for it.

Not even papers.

You know, handling immigration paperwork
is sort of like filing taxes -

it's an adult's issue, not something
you would concern the kids with.

So I didn't know I had overstayed my visa,

because I was left out
of that decision-making process.

And instead, I focused
on other things, like school.

I got accepted to Northwestern University

and when I left for college,
my parents came with me

to make sure there's air conditioning
in my dorm, which there wasn't.

But also to make sure
there were no boys living in my dorm,

which there were.

(Laughter)

But that was the last time
they ever got on a plane,

because a couple of months later
their driver's licenses expired

and that's really when their life
of invisibility began.

You know, living in this country

without a valid, government-issued
ID card, is hard.

Because while my parents
can't renew their driver's licenses,

they still pay car insurance.

They can't open a savings account,
can't get a credit card,

can't sign up for Obamacare,

and forget retirement
without social security.

My parents have a 20-year track record

of paying income tax,
sales tax, property tax,

Medicaid tax, Medicare tax,
Social Security tax,

and yet we are still undocumented.

Growing up, I felt the burden
of being undocumented

in so many other ways.

I felt it when I took out
six figures in loans to pay for college

because I didn't qualify
for federal financial aid.

I felt it when my parents
wouldn't let me study abroad

because what they knew at the time,
and what I didn't,

was that if I left the country,
I wouldn't be allowed back in.

I was sitting at my college graduation
ceremony in June 2012

on the day that White House
launched a new program

that allowed young people
brought to the US, including myself,

to get our work permits.

And it was a huge sigh of relief,
because before then,

I didn't know what I was going to do
with a diploma in one hand

and without a work permit in the other.

But that work permit
is a temporary solution

to a much longer-term problem.

Because it expires in two years.

And beyond then, my life is uncertain.

How can you really plan for a life,

when that life can come
crashing down at any moment?

It's scary knowing your status
is a secret you always have to hold.

That you always have to fear.

So, we hide in plain sight.

We drive below the speed limit,

we stop at every yellow light.

And we try to stay positive,

but it's hard to keep your head down
and your chin up at the same time.

I feel American.

I always have.

But every day I'm reminded that I'm not.

I was reminded when I got called in
for jury duty a couple of years ago,

and during election season,
since I can't vote.

I was reminded a few months ago,

when immigration officers took my dad.

I had to rip up my student loan check

and re-write it to
the Department of Homeland Security

to get him released
from behind barb-wired fence

surrounding the South Texas
Detention Center.

That's a kind of place
where you're given a dirty white jumpsuit

and known by your serial number.

How did we get to a point in this country

where 11 million people
are living in the shadows?

Eleven million people!

That's the population of New York City
and Los Angeles combined.

It is a massive number.

Here's immigration in a nutshell.

About half of the undocumented population
came here without authorization -

there's no record of them
having crossed the border.

The other half, including myself -
we came here legally.

But over time, things like 9/11
made immigration laws more complex.

And so while we waited
for our applications to process,

we developed strong ties
to our communities.

So we never left.

The numbers are pretty stunning, actually.

About 60% of the undocumented population
has lived here for at least a decade.

25% of the undocumented population -

they've lived here for more than 20 years.

Twenty years!

For some of you, that's a generation.

For me, twenty years is a lifetime.

A couple of months ago
I went to SXSW, the festival in Austin.

And I went to a panel
on immigration reform.

One of the questions that came up was,

what do we do about the 11 million people
who are living here without papers?

A senator responded, and he said,

"You know, I wish those immigrants
would just go to the back of the line."

So when the floor opened up for Q&A,

I took the mic and I said,

"Senator, what does the line look like?"

He didn't have an answer for me,

because the truth is, there is no line.

It has to do with how old you were
when you got here,

the kind of visa you came in on,

what country you're from,
what your occupation is,

and a whole host of other factors.

But for people like me, who were
brought here when we were children,

there is no line.

And that's why immigration reform
matters to so many people.

Because it gives us
a chance to get in line.

You know, my dad had the guts

to step into total darkness with nothing
but big hopes and a bold dream,

when he made that decision
to come here legally,

twenty years ago.

And I'm glad he did.

Because even though no one asked
my permission or my opinion

to bring me here when I was six years old,

I know that I'm American
in every single way,

except by virtue of birth.

I think that we all owe a debt
to those who came before us,

because somewhere in your lineage

someone took a leap of faith
to come to America

and they gave you the chance
to fulfill your dreams.

So as I walk off the stage today,

I want to leave you
with just one simple question.

Will you please help me fulfill mine?

Thank you.

(Applause)