Years ago, I remember driving up to a “safety stop” in Roswell with my husband, shortly after Georgia implemented a law cracking down on undocumented residents. Though I was born and raised in the U.S. — maybe thanks to my olive skin and curly hair — I had to stop and show my license and registration as proof that I belonged every time I went through.
As we pulled up that day, I looked on incredulously as the officer waved my husband through as I sat shotgun. He didn’t have to show his license or car registration. He was able to just drive through. What was the difference? I am Latina. My husband is white. It was one of the moments when I began to feel like a guest in this country, and not at home.
I have been thinking a lot lately about the notion of who belongs here, as I watch the startling images of the 57,000 children stuck on the U.S. border. Many are fleeing dangerous situations in South and Central American and potentially face deportation. Many come from countries shaped directly by U.S. policy, whether from our support for various regimes or the fact that the U.S. is the largest importer of illegal drugs, as the Huffington Post reported.
Even coming from my relative privilege as an Emory professor with a doctorate, the coverage of the crisis has forced me to ask the same question: Who really belongs here?
My mother came to the U.S. from Mexico illegally 40 years ago and married my U.S.-born father of Mexican descent, who was from the southern Rio Grande Valley and labored as a migrant worker in Michigan.
We may not “look” like a typical American, but who is a typical American? At some point, many of us had family members who emigrated from other countries. We came looking for something better. Is it so easy to throw these people away because they supposedly don’t look like us?
I was lucky. My dad knew English and understood the importance of education and emphasized that early on. He knew that it meant I would have a totally different life. I remember his stories of feeling odd when he encountered separate drinking fountains for people of color. He didn’t really fit into either category, black or white, so he shared that he would get funny looks from both sides.
What he didn’t foresee is that I would encounter many of the same prejudices. He also couldn’t possibly have guessed I would be picked on for sounding “white” while growing up. Or that people would say I have gotten to where I am because of programs for minorities.
I am thankful for what I have, but it hurts to see those who look like me so easily discarded. The immigration issue can’t be solved that easily. But when we start to relate to each other as humans, maybe we can open the doors to a more humane policy.
Imelda Reyes is an assistant clinical professor in nursing at Emory University and a public voices fellow with The Op-Ed Project.
