DACA: I Was a Dreamer, but I Was White
I was proud to have my card; it was the first time I had an ID. I had it with me when I took my brother’s car for a drive. Up Guerneville Highway on my way to the coast, a policeman stopped me. The car had no license plate on the rear. He asked me for my driver’s license and I had to admit I didn’t have one. I was only fifteen and a half. He said, “Well, let me see some ID,” and I handed him my green card. He handed me a ticket for driving without a license and told me to turn around and drive straight home. I went to court and the judge told me my sentence: “Get your license the day you turn 16 and until then, don’t take your brother’s car.”
Two years after high school graduation, I filled out an application and stood again before the judge. I swore allegiance to this country and was made a citizen of what had always seemed my home.
What is the difference between me and the young DACA’s of today? Sixty years in time and an indescribably racist system. I could walk safely in comfort without any fears. I could be forgiven for my youthful imprudence without it becoming a crime. I never had to worry my parents would be taken or that someone was following them.
Then again, my skin was pale. My hair was blonde and my eyes were blue, not brown like the beautiful eyes and skin of this century’s Dreamers. They registered their dreams for tomorrow as they were told they could do, and now they have to shudder and wonder what the capricious thoughts of others will do to them next year. Shouldn’t they, as I did, have a path to citizenship and the chance to achieve their promise and the American dream?