Not all my friends were concerned about going to college. They were all mostly eager to start making money for themselves as soon as the public school system set them free. Tommy was different. He cared deeply about his higher education. That meant that at the end of our junior year, Tommy and I worked tirelessly to get our university applications finished in time for the admissions deadlines. It was great to have a friend to go over all the paperwork with. My parents didn’t understand any of the American college application process, or—quite frankly—if I could even attend college. I applied anyway. I tried not to think of the consequences. Tommy and I dropped off our completed applications in the mailbox at the same exact time.
As I entered my senior year, I finally came into my own. I allowed my natural hair to grow back. I couldn’t work legally, I couldn’t drive legally, I couldn’t leave the country for legal reasons, but I was popular at school and that’s all that mattered to me. I was the senior class president and almost everyone at school knew my name.
At home, my dad and I were still at odds with each other. My mom tried to smooth things out between us, but it was no use. We were like two alpha dogs living under one roof—we should’ve been kept outside until we learned to coexist! Not to mention that my dad’s mood worsened when my seventy-year-old maternal grandma came to live with us. Post Tata’s death, my grandma started spending months at a time with each of her children in California. These particular months in the fall were our turn.
As I checked myself out in my bedroom mirror one morning, my grandma walked in holding an aloe vera plant. She tried to apply some on my hair, but I was able to dodge all her advances à la Oscar De La Hoya. I’ve always prided myself at having pretty good footwork. While known as “Mami Viola” to everyone in the family, my grandma allowed me to call her Abuelita, a privilege she did not grant most of her other grandchildren.
“Abuelita, how do I look?”
“You look good,” she said, a little disturbed. “But why are you putting all that processed junk in your hair?”
She feared I was going to lose my gorgeous wavy black hair that way.
“Embrace the curls,” she said. My grandma tried to apply aloe vera on my hair again, but she couldn’t reach my head fast enough. I was much taller and a lot quicker. “Fine,” she said, finally giving up, “at least put it under your eyes so your skin glows.” The aloe vera plant was clearly a cure-all for my grandma.
As she applied the cool, natural ointment under my eyes, I wondered out loud, “Why is it so important that I have good skin?”
“So you can attract a good girl and get married this year,” she clarified.
I laughed. I was two months shy of turning seventeen. I didn’t need to get married. “I’m only married to the game,” I pronounced, hoping my grandma would understand my hard-core street vernacular.
“What game! Marriage is a holy covenant. And you should not wait too long.” She then took a bite of her aloe vera plant, which she claimed was also good for digestion.
At school later that day, seniors were asked to attend a seminar on how to fill out the FAFSA: Free Application for Federal Student Aid. As the senior class president, I had to attend. I smiled through the entire presentation, knowing too well that I would not be able to complete the FAFSA myself.
Post Operation Rafa, I became well known around school. I was starting to be popular, and I loved it because it made me feel less of a stain on our immigration system. When Winter Formal came around, I was voted onto the court. One of the perks of being on the Winter Formal court was that you didn’t have to pay for your own tuxedo as long as you did a catwalk fashion show for all the students at lunch. Celebrities never have to pay for anything, and I first learned that during Winter Formal.
I was subsequently crowned Winter Formal king at our first official school dance. If that wasn’t bad enough, when prom came around later that school year, I was also voted onto that court. The teacher assigned to validate the results of the students’ votes pulled me aside and a tad bit miffed said, “You got on the prom court, too, but no student is allowed to be on two courts.” I knew she was lying because there were never any bylaws written to regulate student dance court voting, but I let it slide. I was technically already the king.
A week later, I received two important pieces of mail at my home. The first was from Columbia House offering me twelve CDs for the price of a penny. That seemed remarkable to me! Only in America could you get a music deal this good. The second piece of mail was a letter from the University of California-Irvine. I held my breath before opening their official communication. Being accepted by a major California university was the final piece in my puzzle of becoming an all-American student, and I had secretly been holding out hope that the colleges I applied to would see past my immigration shortcomings. I was hoping universities would accept me for all of my high school achievements. Come on! I was the Winter Formal king, the class president, and an honor roll student. What university would not want me? I thought, as I opened my letter only to find a message that stated: “You are our perfect candidate, but can you please send us your real social security number.” Despite all my hopes and wishes, I was the all-American high school student with one small exception: I wasn’t American at all.
My dad came home from work that evening and found me sitting at the dinner table depressed. The UC Irvine letter was open and lying just an arm’s reach away from me. We would normally just ignore each other, but for whatever reason, he cracked open a beer for himself and sat down next to me. He picked up the letter, glanced over it, and then put it back down.
“I went to the social security office last year,” he said with a softer tone than usual. “I told them that we never got a social security number for you when we first came to this country and that they shouldn’t punish you for my mistake. They said there was nothing they could do. But they did give us a Tax ID Number for you.”
“What is that?”
“I don’t really know. I guess for paying taxes.”
I listened intently, knowing full well that going into a federal building was one of my dad’s biggest fears. That and being vulnerable.
“I came here to be a doctor,” my father explained. “I was put on this earth to save children’s lives. But I can’t do that here. The American Dream that everyone talks about, it’s not for me. Maybe it’ll be for you. If not, we might have to go back.”
That night, I had the worst dream of my life. I was in math class, feeling despondent and detached, when MJ of all people leaned over from the desk behind me and asked if I was okay. I didn’t respond. I was upset. Why would any girl want to be with me now that I wasn’t USDA certified? But then she whispered, “My parents are out of town. You want to come over after school?”
I snapped out of my funk and said, “Yes, yes I would.”
At that moment, the classroom door slammed open and seven immigration officers barged into the room in full military gear, guns drawn, yelling: “This is an immigration raid—”
I woke up in a pool of sweat. A little disoriented, I looked around my room, relieved to know that it was all just one big nightmare. I glanced out the window and saw Ramon cutting the hedges. He looked over at me and then joylessly—almost knowingly—tipped his hat.