By Dr. Felecia S. Russell, PRISM
There are currently more than 619,000 Black undocumented people in the U.S. The undocuBlack population is about the size of Las Vegas, yet almost no one talks about them.
I know this from experience.
I am a Black Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) recipient, one of hundreds of thousands of immigrants who are too often ignored and overlooked.
The 2012 DACA executive order issued under President Barack Obama provided me and many of my peers who arrived as young people in the U.S. access to limited-term documentation and renewable employment authorization. To remain an active DACA recipient, one must avoid criminal activities and seek authorization for travel outside the U.S. Being a DACA recipient is a rollercoaster of anxiety. There’s constant trepidation when traveling with identification that has a two-year expiration date, not to mention the plethora of expenses because one can only live two years at a time. The current cost per DACA application is $605 for paper filing, a drastic increase from the 2021 cost of $495. It’s a lot of hoops to jump through—and on top of that, the program is in constant limbo.
The Trump administration rescinded DACA in 2017, sending advocates into fight mode to protect this population known as “Dreamers.” Immigrant justice organizations, higher education institutions, and the media trumpeted the successes of DACA recipients. Their stories were riveting, resilient, and impressive. Yet, Black undocumented people were rarely included.
The end of DACA would cause chaos in the lives of 580,000 recipients—causing us to lose our work authorization and potentially subjecting us to deportation. Terminating DACA would also negatively affect the economy. The Department of Homeland Security estimates that if DACA disappears, the U.S. economy stands to lose more than $400 billion over the next two decades—and that is just from the cost of DACA renewals alone. Let’s also not forget that DACA-eligible individuals contribute $4.9 billion in federal, state, and local taxes each year.
The court battle for DACA rages on at the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals, where last year a judge ruled that the program is illegal. The ruling does not impact current protections or the ability to renew, but if the court finds it fit to upend the policy, I will lose access to my work authorization and sense of belonging in America. I also know undocuBlack people like myself will seldom be mentioned. You will not see Black undocumented stories in the news. As the media have done for decades, their coverage will center Latinx voices. These are needed voices, but they are not the only ones, and one-sided narratives have long flooded the immigration space. You’d never know it, but the undocumented community is diverse, and Black undocumented people account for about 6% of the population.
My existence in America is defined not only by my Blackness but also by my undocumented status. I live in the crosshairs of anti-Blackness, racism, and xenophobia.
UndocuBlack immigrants were twice as likely to be deported than non-Black undocumented immigrants, and they accounted for 20% of the population facing deportation on criminal grounds. UndocuBlack people live on the margins; we are erased from immigration narratives because we are invisible to politicians, policymakers, and higher education leaders, none of whom account for us.
This erasure is dangerous.
We are disproportionately criminalized in the immigration system, and our erasure as undocuBlack immigrants only further marginalizes us. Under the Biden administration, bond payments for Haitian immigrants have been 54% more than the average for all other countries. This is the natural result of being unseen, and these realities are rooted in anti-Blackness and racism in America. This is a country that ignores Black lives.
I became the epitome of Black excellence in my quest to belong. Some would consider me the poster child for the American Dream—the elusive belief that anyone, regardless of class or race, can attain their own version of success.
I was born in Jamaica in 1991 and immigrated to California when I was 12 years old. I had no idea I was undocumented until my sophomore year in high school. At the time, I could not fathom what it meant to be undocumented in America. I later learned that, unlike my U.S. citizen peers, I could not access federal financial aid for college. Only 24 states and Washington, D.C. provide in-state tuition to undocumented students, including California. Nine states currently deny undocumented students access to in-state tuition, and three states actively ban them from enrolling in all or some public colleges.
My access to California Lutheran University was made possible due to my hard-earned stellar grades and extracurricular activities. I went on to study political science, legal studies, and later public policy at Pepperdine University. I eventually earned a doctorate in higher education from Temple University.
I don’t want my success to give a false notion of meritocracy. People often work hard and still cannot afford higher education. People can be hard workers and still be killed for the color of their skin by police or racists or neighborhood vigilantes. People can work tirelessly in the U.S. and still get deported by Immigration and Customs Enforcement to a country they only know in theory. People like me with extraordinary stories can still find themselves sidelined by the larger immigrant community.
As Black immigrants, we are just as valuable as other immigrants; our stories are just as inspiring, yet we are constantly ignored and disregarded. We can change this by amplifying Black undocumented voices through media, policies, and within higher education.
There was recently a missed opportunity to highlight Black undocumented immigrants when members of Congress invited Dreamers to attend the State of the Union. None of these young people were Black.
Higher education leaders can diversify hiring to support undocumented students by mirroring the diversity of the undocumented community.
The immigrant community and immigrant justice organizations can support Black immigrants and dedicate funds and resources to amplifying their stories and uplifting their leadership.
In my new book, “Amplifying Black Undocumented Student Voices in Higher Education,” I discuss even more actionable steps to amplify Black undocumented voices. Black undocumented students on college campuses across the U.S. are denied a sense of belonging. Outside the walls of higher education, this feeling of being forgotten rings true across all of the spaces undocuBlack people occupy.
If you take anything away from my story and my work, I hope it is this: Don’t forget us. We are here, too.
