Despite Security, Still Living in Fear
“Come with me.” The only three words that, other than “I love you,” make my heart race. I am standing on the port of entry line at Miami International Airport after a 10 hour flight from São Paulo. It’s been a long month. I was in London for my job for three weeks, making quick stops in Paris and Cambridge while there. This was followed by a week in Brazil where I was reunited with family I had not seen in 16 years. And now here I am, back on American soil not knowing whether or not I’m about to be deported because I’m an illegal immigrant.
I arrived at Miami International Airport in the springtime of 1999. I remember going through the same line with my mother, who like myself, spoke no English. All we could say was “Disney World.” A year prior to our departure from Brazil, my father relocated to Miami, following in the footsteps of a friend who promised a new life full of opportunities in the United States. And with much luck and patience, my mother and I also managed to get a visa and made the decision to join him.
At that time, America meant nothing to me. Michael Jackson, the New York City skyline and its steam vents erupting from the streets, Bill Clinton — these were the only things I associated with America. But at seven years old, I did not realize the importance of Bill Clinton or Michael Jackson or New York City. I was preoccupied playing pretend and getting into trouble, like any little mischievous kid should. It didn’t click that we were about to change our lives when we got on the airplane (my first) to meet my father 4,000 miles away.
Immigration let us through because even the guys at border patrol could sympathize with a little kid and her desire to meet Mickey Mouse. And we didn’t lie — my parents did take me to Disney World a few months later. But time passed, and as I grew and assimilated to the culture — from learning the language to introducing Burger King and McDonald’s into my daily diet — I started to realize that our lives were different from everyone else’s. At Sears, a sales clerk asked for my mother’s Social Security number as we attempted to buy furniture. Instead of saying “I don’t have one,” she grabbed my hand and we left the store. A neighboring Brazilian family fresh from London asked us to visit them when they moved back to the UK but my parents kindly refused their invitation. So life went on like this: little, white lies here and there. Lies that began to really bother me as I grew older and understood my situation: that albeit having a better life in America, I was trapped. I felt like a prisoner behind imaginary bars that nobody could see but myself. Lies that, after the failure of the DREAM Act in 2007, I couldn’t stand anymore.
I could get away with most of these lies in high school: I don’t have my license because all my other friends drive and my parents won’t buy me a car. I want to travel abroad but I’m too afraid of flying and it’s too expensive. I’d love to get a summer job but I have to babysit my little sister so Mom and Dad can work. But I couldn’t really get away with these lies in college, that is, if I could even attend college. After much research, disappointment, and later hope, I finally did go to college. I did not attend Brown University or New York University as I had hoped, because I didn’t apply out of fear of getting in and not being able to afford it. Illegal immigrants are not allowed to file for student loans. I went to a college that my father could pay out of pocket for. I made sure I did well and applied myself in every aspect of academic life I could while I buried my secret deeper and deeper.
But for the first time on June 15, 2012, I cried out of joy. The Deferred Action for Childhood Arrival policy was introduced by President Obama and the Department of Homeland Security — much to the outrage of conservative Congressmen and Americans. My life was about to change. With only two years left of college, I was beginning to wonder how I would ever work post-graduation. Who was going to hire an illegal immigrant with a bachelor’s degree in business? My guess: no one. But thankfully, it never came to that and after the paperwork had been filed and the fees all paid for, I got a spanking new Social Security card (I couldn’t wait to pay taxes) and New York State ID. I had an identity, and for the first time in my life, I wouldn’t have to rely on my parents for money. If anything, DACA gave me a sense of independence.
Four months out of college, I landed my first full-time position at a startup company, helping to oversee all aspects of content production in the U.S. markets. The fateful day finally came in February 2015, as I was waiting to catch a flight back home from Orlando (having, for the fifth time, just gone to Disney World with my family). An email from my CEO asked that my co-workers and I travel to our London headquarters to meet the rest of the team. I did not know whether to be happy or nervous. But the minute I was back in my Brooklyn apartment, I began filing all the paperwork I needed to travel abroad.
Under DACA, I am able to leave and re-enter the country under four conditions: education, humanitarian work, for my job, and to aid ailing family members. Traveling for pleasure is not an option. I accepted this back in 2012, nonetheless, and prayed that I would find a job in the near future that would allow me to travel. Letters were sent to the Department of Homeland Security, with advanced parole papers neatly filled out, a work letter from my boss, a packet of medical papers proving that an uncle was dying of cancer in Brazil, a personal statement as to why I was asking permission to leave, two passport photos, and of course, a $360 application fee. If approved, I would be traveling for both work and familial purposes. If not, I would lose the money and go back to thinking that despite living in the Land of Opportunities, I wasn’t lucky enough to have the one opportunity I yearned for: to see the rest of the world.
After an excruciating month, my approval letters came in the mail and my flights were booked for the following day to Heathrow. Needless to say, I cried when I landed, I cried when I saw Big Ben, I cried when I saw the Eiffel Tower, I cried at the preserved campus of the magnificent Cambridge University, I cried when I saw my poor grandmother and what was left of a once strong and powerful uncle. My month-long journey was exhausting, overwhelming, and eye-opening. I also realized my love for travel and that although I loved my family very much, I felt out of place in Brazil and America was truly home. But despite all of this, negative thoughts quickly infiltrated my mind as I stood in line to return home at Guarulhos Airport. “Where is your visa to enter the United States?” said the man at the desk. “I don’t have one.” So I presented him with the approval letters from the Department of Homeland Security. To my surprise, the man said jovially, “This works just fine, honey.” The fear did not subside, not yet.
There I was again, at Miami International Airport, 16 years later. Without my mother and more impatient than my seven year old self, I faced the border patrol security alone. I felt my heart beating quickly inside my chest as I handed the sleepy guard my passport and the letters. He asked me questions, realized I was a DACA case, was quite nice about it but when he said, “Come with me, I have to take you out back to be stamped through,” my knees went weak and all I could muster was an, “Okay.”
I sat in a room with a handful of people fresh off the same flight and a television with a perky meteorologist. I could barely focus on the news as I listened to four immigration patrols debating my letters. One man described that I was DACA, that this was an advance parole re-entry. It was going to be 85 degrees and muggy in Miami today. More whispers of uncertainty. Someone got stabbed at a parking lot last night outside the city. I looked at my watch six or seven times. More guards came over to the computer and whispered. Nobody asked me any questions. What was only 10 or 15 minutes felt like hours. I started to sweat. My lawyer said everything would be fine but I’m a firm believer of seeing it to actually believe it. I started to imagine being put on a flight back to Brazil, never seeing my parents again, losing my job, losing my life…until I heard a man say, “Miss DeSouza.” I went up to the window and a man, handing me back my passport, said, “You’re all set.” I was in such disbelief that I blurted out, “That’s it!?” “That’s it.” Although that man may never know it, my “thank you” was the deepest, most meaningful “thank you” I’ll ever say in my life. Even though I didn’t need to, I ran to my connecting flight. I wanted to get as far away as possible from customs and immigration. I called my mother at my gate, “I’m through. It’s okay.” Absolute relief.
I’ve lived most of my life in the shadows, lying to people, seeing opportunities come and go, and sitting there feeling powerless. I did not choose this life at age seven, nor do I blame my parents for bringing me to the United States because my life would have amounted to nothing had I stayed in Brazil. If you’re a parent, you would do anything to see your children succeed and I’m lucky to say my parents are those parents. My time in America may or may not be limited but for the time being, I’m okay. The anxiety of getting in line at an airport has been something I’ve suffered throughout my entire life — and I know for a fact I’ve shared this experience alongside millions of others in my situation. Nobody likes a liar, nobody likes to lie, but sometimes you’ve just got to say, “Let me through and I’ll be on my way.”
