Eduardo Samaniego
Mexico

I am a student at Hampshire College in Western Massachusetts. My story begins in a small town in Mexico where I was raised by my grandparents. My mother was a single mom who had to work very far away from home to pay the bills and help support our family. Even with her financial help, we lived in poverty. Most days I had to wake up at 5:00 a.m. to do the daily farm chores before going to school.

I got the idea to come to the United States because everyone I knew described the USA as a country of freedom and liberty where all of your dreams would come true. That has certainly changed now, but back then, I desperately wanted to follow this dream to get an education. Over and over again my grandpa would see me in the corral where all the animals were, and I would be crying. My grandpa would call out to me and say, “Don’t worry, Eduardo. Just go to school, and everything you want will become a reality.” I thought he was just saying that to calm me down, and I didn’t believe him. I became so frustrated that one day when I was around fourteen, I gathered all the pills in my house, locked my door, and swallowed them. I thought I would never go to college because my family would never be able to pay for it, and I would never have the money to pursue my dream to travel to the United States. I tried to take my life because I thought none of my dreams were possible.

Obviously, I survived my suicide attempt, thank God. My mom kept asking me, “Why would you do this? Your family loves you so much.” I knew my family loved me and we were close, but I was terrified I would spend the rest of my life just piling up manure. After I recovered, my family realized that I needed to go to America. It was their wake-up call. My mom was a kindergarten teacher by then, and she worked so hard to try to help me. She was the only one out of eight children in her family who was able to finish her education. My family saved money for about three years and when I was sixteen, I applied for a visa to go to America. I was shaking with fear when I went for my interview at the U.S. embassy in Guadalajara. I thought if they didn’t give me the visa, it was going to be the end of everything for me. But my visa was approved. It was approved! I started crying, and my mom started crying, and we left the embassy with the paper that meant I could come to the United States.

When I came to Georgia, I was planning to stay with my uncle, but he got deported just before I arrived. Instead, I had to stay with my aunty, who I had never met. After three months with her, the great recession of 2009 happened. She lost everything and told me that she couldn’t take care of me anymore. I gathered all of my stuff, went to school, and found a space to sleep for the next three or four days. A teacher found out, and she got me a place for me to live with a pastor from a local Baptist church. I lived with him for eight months, and he supported me through my last year in high school.

At this time, I didn’t realize that I needed to renew my visa. I was undocumented, but I didn’t know that. I assumed that my first visa to come to America meant I could stay here as long as I needed to. I was just trying to survive.

Before I came to the USA, I would struggle just to find a pen to use, but here at my new school, there were not just pens, but computers and libraries. I would walk into the school and begin to cry, and when my teacher would ask why I was crying, I would say, “This school is just so amazing.” There is no way to grasp the feeling that a child coming from total poverty has when they walk into an American high school. To us it means everything. Even just getting into a school bus, I felt like I was in a dream. Several of the American students sat with me right away, and even though they didn’t speak a word of Spanish, they would try to talk to me with their hands. Those are some of the best memories I will ever have: the humanity of young people coming to help someone who needed it. They weren’t thinking about whether or not I was an undocumented immigrant. I think that kind of humanity is something that has been forgotten by many people in the United States. We are born so good and so kind-hearted. It is unfortunate that politics poisons the minds of so many people.

In my classroom, there were students from Italy, Vietnam, and China, and we were all communicating with our hands because none of us spoke a word of English. It was a complete disaster, but it was also great because everyone was willing to help us. The school was such a welcoming place. Mind you, I was in South Georgia, and this is how it was. I studied so hard that I learned English in two years, and I was elected student body president in my senior year. I was the president of the Hispanic Honor Society and volunteered in many ways in my community. I wanted to give back.

When it was time to apply to college, I went to visit the University of Georgia. They recruited me to come for a week-long visit, and when I got there it was beyond anything I could have imagined. The professors I met there told me that I would be the perfect student. After I returned to high school, I filled out the application, got my recommendation letters, and wrote my essay. My guidance counselor read it and she started crying. She told me, “This is the most inspiring essay I have ever read.” Then she said all she needed to complete the application was my social security number. I explained that I didn’t think I had one. I was naïve and this was a new concept for me. We had a long conversation and then she said, “I’m sorry, but you are an illegal alien, and you can’t apply to the University of Georgia.”

Everything I had worked for all those years didn’t matter. All the struggling, being homeless, learning a new language, not having my family nearby, and walking three hours to school so I could get there early… none of it mattered because of a nine-digit number. Without it, I couldn’t go to college. I learned that there was a policy that prohibits anyone without a social security card from even applying to the top five colleges in Georgia: the same colleges that banned African American students in the 1950s from attending. And if I went to a state school, I wouldn’t be eligible to apply for the in-state tuition. There was no way I could pay the much higher cost of the out-of-state tuition fees.

During my last semester of high school, I worked forty hours a week at a fast food restaurant to save enough money to pay for my cap and gown and to bring my mom there for my graduation. I remember my graduation day. My mom was a river of tears the whole time because everyone walked up to her and said, “You have a great son.” Even though she couldn’t understand a word, she was crying because she could feel the good vibes. I had a 3.9 grade point average so at the graduation ceremony, I sat next to my principal on stage. I addressed our graduating class, and yet I knew that I wasn’t going to college.

My mom went back to Mexico three days later, and I was all alone. I fell into a very long and deep depression. I still didn’t understand anything about racism, politics, or immigration policies. I just thought that I wasn’t worth anything and that I was destined to go back to Mexico. I ended up working at the fast food restaurant full time, and then I got a second job at a construction company. I worked from 7:00 a.m. to 2:00 a.m. for about two years. I wanted to save enough money to go to New York, because I had heard that I could pay in-state tuition at their community colleges. One day I saw a Facebook page saying, “If you’re undocumented, and you want to fight for immigration reform, join us.” The immigration bill had just come before the Senate. I reached out and learned it was the Dreamers— named after the DREAM Act bill (Development, Relief, and Education for Alien Minors Act)—who were organizing this fight, and I decided to go to a meeting. I quit both of my jobs and met them on the steps of the Georgia Capitol building. Before that day, I thought I was the only undocumented person who couldn’t go to college because they didn’t have a social security number. But there were about thirty aspiring students with similar stories. We went to Washington, DC, and on the steps of the Episcopal church next to the U.S. Supreme Court, I saw thousands and thousands of students gathering for a march. I never imagined how many students were out there fighting. I remember a moment where students started walking up to the microphone and saying, “My name is such and such, and I am undocumented and unafraid.” They were coming out of the shadows. We started marching, and I was afraid the police around us were going to deport all of us. I was so scared, but as we were passing the U.S. Capitol building, I remember that I started chanting, “I am Eduardo and I am undocumented and unafraid.” That moment was so powerful. And after that, my life changed completely. I met so many students who were fighting for immigration reform. My spirit had been revived. I felt the fire again.

I went back to my jobs in Georgia. One day when I was driving the forklift, I was looking at my phone and I saw a message saying, “Breaking news: The Senate has passed a bipartisan immigration reform bill with 68 votes.” I thought, “Oh my God.” I remember everyone started screaming and yelling. Then the bill was supposed to go to the House of Representatives for final approval. John Boehner was the Speaker of the House, and he never put the bill up for a vote because he knew it would win. But this setback didn’t stop me. I began organizing for immigrant rights and access to education for undocumented immigrants. Eventually President Obama announced DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) for Dreamers. For me, it was both wonderful and personally painful. Since I had come to the USA when I was sixteen, I didn’t qualify by a few months, but I continued to advocate for in-state tuition for undocumented students. I spoke at many universities.

One day the University of Georgia invited me to speak about access to education for immigrants. You can imagine my reaction. Like, really? Three years ago, you denied me entrance here, and now you’re bringing me to talk about access to education? Fortunately, I did go. After my talk, a professor came up to me and said, “I can’t believe your story! I can’t believe this would happen in our state. I’m going to help you.” And she did. For the next three months she kept at me until I started applying to college again. Thanks to her, I ended up applying to Hampshire College.

I was doing some organizing work in Georgia for a few months, and when I went back to my trailer park there was a package waiting for me. I opened it up and it said, “Congratulations. You have been accepted to Hampshire College.” I started crying and crying and crying, but then I realized I couldn’t go, because there was no way I could pay for it. But then someone handed me a second packet. It said, “We are happy to inform you that we have gathered donations and through the efforts of many people, we are able to offer you a full ride scholarship of $270,000 to come to our college for four years.” I started classes in 2014, and I had an amazing first year. Hampshire helped me remember that I wanted to have a career and help other immigrants. I gained my life back again. I ran for student body president my first year, and I won.

After I finished my first year of college, I got a placement at the Washington Center in DC to do a certificate in Politics and Public Policy. While I was taking classes there, I was also advocating for rural fieldworkers through a coalition just a block away from the White House. I began to give keynote speeches, including one for the Democratic Party of Georgia. I spoke about my story and why we needed immigration reform. The speech was on a Saturday night in Dalton, Georgia, and on Sunday I was taken to Plains, Georgia to meet former President Jimmy Carter. It was amazing. He was great!

At about 9:00 in the morning on August 31, 2015, I was staying with my friend Giovanni and there was a huge gas explosion in the apartment where we were sleeping. I woke up on fire. Forty-three percent of my body was burned—my neck, my face, my legs, everything that wasn’t covered by the sheet was burned. I got up and tried to walk towards my friend’s room, but when another explosion happened, I jumped out of the second-floor window. I fractured my hand and my vertebrae, lost consciousness, and woke up in the hospital ten days later.

This was the most horrific painful experience I’ve ever had. But the good thing was because of my advocacy for immigration reform, there were many people supporting me. My mom came, and the aunty who I had stayed with in Georgia came, and they took care of me along with my friends. Giovanni was also burned very badly, but we both survived, thank God.

During my hospitalization, I experienced overwhelming support from Hampshire College President Jonathan Lash and my fellow students. They organized a writing-letter day for me. I got hundreds of letters and books and flowers and chocolate and Mexican food that I couldn’t eat. It was the power of community. I remember I would wake up and the nurse would be whispering, “Who are you? There are a hundred people in the lobby right now.” And I was like, “Oh wow.” I had never experienced so much support.

I got out of the hospital after a month, and I had to learn how to walk again. I also had to learn how to use my hand again, through therapy. At first I couldn’t even move my hand, it would just stay flat. Month by month, I worked on my grasp until I was able to grab beans. I remember sitting on the living room floor at the rehab hospital, and everyone else was between 70 and 85 years old. They would ask me, “What are you doing here?” And I would just say, “Long story.” And they would say, “Oh Lord, God bless your heart.” Trying to recover would be so frustrating at times that I would start crying, and the old people would tell me, “It’s okay, just have patience.” I had to wear a back brace for four or five months. I took a semester off of college, but eventually I came back for spring semester in 2016. I continued to struggle, though, as I couldn’t walk much.

Physically, life has been a real challenge since then, and the medical bills are huge. As an undocumented immigrant, I don’t have access to affordable health care. Undocumented immigrants may receive treatment, but we have to pay the full cost. We can purchase private insurance, but it is way too expensive for a person like me to afford. About a week after I got out of the hospital, I got a bill for $411,000. The bills kept coming: $8,000, $17,000, $10,000. It’s been two years, and they haven’t stopped coming. Now we have a lawsuit against the gas company and the apartment complex, and I just had my first deposition a month ago. Hopefully my medical expenses will be reimbursed. But I am still in recovery, and I still don’t have access to health insurance. I pay for everything out-of-pocket if I need to see a doctor.

On top of that I always worry about being deported. I am afraid to go on a plane or bus. I’ve seen videos of people being stopped by ICE on public transportation. We live with such uncertainty, it’s inhumane. I don’t know if I’ll be able to finish my studies at Hampshire because the current president is trying to end DACA. Even in sanctuary cities like Amherst, Massachusetts, even with a full scholarship to an American college like I have, if the federal government wants, they can come in and deport me. I am not protected.

What is happening today is cruel and inhumane and dehumanizing to so many groups of people. But then I think, “Oh my God. Could the good people in the United States just do it one more time? We’ve broken so many barriers. We can do it again.” That is the hope I still have. But so many people are being deported, or threatened with being expelled from the armed services because they are members of the transgender community, or their rights are being denied because of their religion. It’s tough. It’s hard to live in a world like this.

As politicians know, the overwhelming majority of Americans support a fair and just path to citizenship for the Dreamers —the eleven million people who have lived here, who have contributed to their communities, who have families with mixed status. Most people believe that these undocumented people deserve a path to citizenship. I would like to tell our elected officials to listen to the 73% of overall voters who support DACA and want to protect the Dreamers. This is what the great majority of Americans want. Give people five years to apply for a green card, and after five more years they can apply for citizenship.

Right now, there’s a proposal in congress called the 2017 DREAM Act. It has bipartisan support and it’s gaining steam. Through the Pioneer Valley Workers Center, I’m advocating for this to pass. It would protect all those people who came to America before they were eighteen, like me. I’m using my story to work for its passage.

My story is not special, not at all. Most immigrants could achieve the same things if they were allowed to. They would be in college. They could have great jobs, great careers, and support their communities as they already do, but in a much stronger way. Sometimes people talk about how immigrants are victims and say that they can’t take care of themselves. But we are serious heroes. Even though the system is so heavy and overwhelming that it crushes dreams, we continue to fight.

I see comprehensive immigration reform passing, and then I see the eleven million getting on a path to citizenship. I see these wonderful people continuing on in their daily lives. I see myself graduating from college and going on to law school. I want to be a lawyer and use our constitution to ensure the rights of every American.

Immigration is a natural movement of people, a process that’s been going on for thousands of years. People are meant to move. If you look at our planet earth from space, you don’t see any borders. At the end of the day, I think that’s what we need to remember. Look at history and you will see the waves of immigrants before us—from China, from Italy, from Ireland, from all over the world. We call so many people “the other,” and we make them feel unsafe, just as we did to these immigrant groups in the past. But these “others” that we feared for so long are now us. This is what keeps America going—the contributions of immigrants, from Albert Einstein to the parents of Steve Jobs. We all were immigrants at one point other than the Native Americans. And we have only made this country better. Now we have to figure out how we can build bridges instead of building walls.

Update on November 11, 2020 : Eduardo was captured by ICE, held in a detention center for several months, and then deported to Mexico. He writes:

It was a tremendous challenge to hold multiple identities while living in the United States. I have loved this country deeply and with a passion every step of the way but there have been times where I’ve had to put aside my aspirations to live happily as a gay man due to challenges arising from me being brown, undocumented, and living in the deep south.

I’ve never been in a relationship because I thought education was my key to becoming an American citizen and I set out to get a full ride scholarship to college. As a result, I’ve rejected the love offered to me by others I cared for deeply. Furthermore, because I needed to organize a rally, a march, a protest or a vigil in favor of immigrant rights, because I had to fight every day for my right to simply live a life with dignity in the state I called home, I chose to forego the chance to explore my gay identity and what about it specifically makes me happy. I assume it’s like this for most of my LGBTQ community members who are also undocumented.

Often, I chose to keep my opinion on gay issues to myself in order to continue to speak for immigrants. In my personal experience, the obstacles of being brown and undocumented have overshadowed the obstacles and struggles I’ve faced as result of being gay. Yes, I’ve been bullied, ostracized, and rejected for being gay. Despite that, I picked my battles and I even self-censured about my gayness in order to continue my work for immigrants. I still hold that nobody should have to choose between one struggle for equal rights or another or suffer more for the color of their skin than because of their gender or sexual orientation. Ultimately nobody deserves to have to choose between citizenship and love. Today I find myself with much more room to explore my gayness and enjoy this journey guided by my LGBTQ friends to heal old wounds and rediscover happiness.

On October 18, 2018, I was in Georgia visiting friends. I got arrested after leaving my wallet at home and being unable to pay a cab driver twenty-seven dollars. The cab driver refused to return me back home where I told him I could get my wallet and pay him. Instead, he called the police. Aware of the daily human rights violations Kennesaw, Georgia police officers committed on a daily basis and their rabid disdain for the US Constitution, I implored the taxi driver not to call the police, He rejected my pleas and the police officers arrived. After I explained the situation, the police officers turned to each other and while laughing, they put handcuffs on me. Police officers in Cobb County Georgia for many decades now have refused to use their discretion to solve issues without use of arrest or violent force, and instead they’ve become the main sponsors of human trafficking by sending into private-for-profit prisons countless people such as myself.

My visa was still active, but I had been fighting to renew my permit for years. As soon as the officers realized this, they imprisoned me. For three months and a half I was tortured relentlessly as a result of my national activism for immigrant rights and human rights. Police officers denied me water for days at a time, sometimes they would only hand me cups of ice, many times I was denied food for days and I was put on solitary confinement for two months. Georgia police officers knowingly use solitary confinement as torture, and they used it as such on my body and mind. I was thrown in a dark room, sometimes at below freezing temperatures in the months of November, December, and January. Refusing the overt countless sexual advances by police officers offered in exchange for blankets, I slept at this below freezing temperatures wearing only a thin shirt and thin shorts. Often, I assumed they wanted me to die while there.

While in solitary confinement I was beaten, given rotten food to eat, and forced to take showers with hot scalding water that left burns across my body. My hand needed surgery after a police officer almost fractured it and my clothing was stripped away from me after protesting when police officers started to bring immigrant children to be locked up with us at Irwin Detention Center. After the despicable torture I experienced and others still do, we’ve come to know Cobb County prison system as “Little Guantanamo.”

I had several hearings to find a way to get released from jail. My lawyers argued that I was a model citizen, a straight A student, and that I had never committed a crime. They explained that nothing was gained through my imprisonment. Unfortunately, I was at the mercy of very conservative appointed judges. My accomplishments didn’t matter to them, even though one of them was Asian American. They were and are adamant about continuing to enable human trafficking of immigrants into these private-for-profit prisons in Georgia. I deeply remember the best side of Georgia during my worst of days. Many of the people of this state made me a better human being, but I continue to be seriously worried about and infuriated by the inhumanities Georgia police officers are doing in our flawed and inhumane prison system.

Today I live in Mexico City. I am living next to my beloved family and I am surrounded by an abundance of love and appreciation. My eyes have been opened to the immense beauty Mexico has to offer and I continue to be immeasurably thankful for my life and for everyone around me. I am endlessly thankful to everyone who fought for my life: the thousands who marched across California, Georgia, New York and Massachusetts, everyone in the country who wrote and spoke words on my behalf, and the tens of thousands who signed the petition for my release. While I was eventually deported, thanks to all of these people, I did not die in a Georgia prison. For all of you who supported me, I want you to know that I continue to be full of aspirations and good light that I want to use to help others. §