Dear Friends,
It is raining today. I am sitting by a window in the library, watching the people come and go. My eyes are strained and my hands have gone cold. Four weeks ago, America welcomed a new administration. A campaign founded on the expulsion of my people. While I am trying to come to peace with my new reality, I have grown tired of being hunted in the process.
Much like prey, you have declared open season on us migrants in hopes that our death will satiate your hunger for order. But why do you choose to hunt us? What about me makes you believe that I am a criminal? From the moment my family decided to call the United States home, we have done nothing but give our sweat and tears to this nation; yet now you ask for blood. How can I explain to you that the blood of my family will not protect yours?
It has become difficult to remain focused in my classes knowing that the university cannot guarantee my safety. My shoulders are tense and at times I can’t seem to find my breath. Being undocumented takes a toll on your mind, body, and soul. As I walk around campus, I envy how comfortable you all seem. You’re dreaming of life post-grad, smiling at pictures of last night’s party, complaining about your workload this semester. You all make being a dreamer look so easy; it was easy for me too once. You labeled me a Dreamer, claiming that I was American in every way except paperwork. Now the nation I dreamt of is the same nation that keeps me awake at night.
Friends, you have forgotten that I am someone’s child. This is true of every migrant on this campus. I am a son, a brother, a friend but you’d rather call me a criminal, an illegal, an alien. I watch how you all treat my brothers and sisters. We might not all speak your language, but your hate needs no translation. The cactus on my forehead is now no different than a target on my back. As I look in the mirror, I find it hard to think of a time when my head had no bounty. All I ask for is mercy, before it is too late. You’d do the same if you were in my position.
Someday, I will be sitting next to you at our graduation. Long black robes, degree in hand, and a ridiculous hat on our heads. And in that moment, you’ll find it difficult to distinguish the difference between hunter and prey.
Until then,
Anonymous
Fingerprints is a collection of anonymous letters curated by Alejandro Cruz and Taelyn Pauley. The opinions expressed in the column, as well as those published in The Nevada Sagebrush, are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Sagebrush or its staff. To get involved, contact Cruz at cr***********@***il.com for more information!
