By Manuela González
I was born in Venezuela and lived there until I was 7. That was a time when everything felt like it would remain the same. When my life felt stable, and I didn’t have to think about “what came next” — I had everything I needed, I was surrounded by everyone I needed. And then, suddenly, that stability went away.
My parents made the decision 22 years ago to leave Venezuela for the United States for one year — my dad was in the Venezuelan military and there was a special program at the time allowing him to come to the U.S. for training.
I was scared to be in the United States at first. We landed in San Antonio, Texas — I did not speak any English. My fears were many: would anyone be able to speak Spanish with me? What if I never learned any English? Would I make any friends? My mother bought me bilingual Mickey Mouse videos teaching me the basics of English. I watched Dora la Exploradora in the inverse — Dora taught me some of the first English words and phrases I ever knew. I started feeling somewhat prepared. But I thought we would go back home to Venezuela and found that my family was a rarity in Texas, since many people did not even know where my native country was on a map.
By summer 2001, my parents understood the political situation back home was highly uncertain, and decisions had to be made. Both of my parents, amid a separation, were at odds with what came next. My mother knew she wanted to stay in San Antonio however my father, tied down by his position in the National Bolivarian Armed Forces of Venezuela, knew he had to leave at the expiration of his one-year visa.
Perhaps at the time my mother did not fully understand the possible repercussions of staying past an expired visa in the United States in a post-9/11 world. Perhaps immigration systems in Venezuela at the time worked in ways that were reasonable, and humane. What she surely did not know was that her one decision to stay would set the course for the rest of our lives.
My mother, brother, and I stayed in San Antonio and went on to be considered “undocumented.” Despite being very privileged immigrants given our visa access and our arrival to the country, there were other social, economic, and racial intersections that heavily impacted our quality of life here. I was made aware of the stark ways in which the United States determines the existence of the haves and the have nots, the structural inequality baked into the system, and the disadvantages to access.
After a long bout with doing our best to exist with being undocumented, my mother gained residency status first, followed by my brother and I through DACA. As many immigrants know, we faced our share of fraudulent lawyers, complex applications, and documentations, and struggles with general access — after all there is no simple line to wait in for citizenship.
Twenty-two years after I left Venezuela, in reflection of the times spent wondering where a future without documentation would lead us, I write this piece as a naturalized citizen of the United States — my naturalization ceremony was held in March 2023. Those are words that for a long time I felt would never come out of my mouth let alone become a reality. However, the change is not as sweet as it would seem it should be from the outside looking in.
I think often about the life I would have had at home, with family, and what that could have signified for the person I would be today in that reality. I think about the family I left behind, separated by man-made borders, and how they are no longer with us today. I think about the large swath of people who also deserve to have this access, but they may never will. And with this I fight with a mix of emotions from joy to guilt to peace. What does this mean for me moving forward?
I will continue dreaming of and working toward a better, more just world that seeks action for the people I think of who deserve this just as much as I do. I want this access for everybody who seeks it.
