My mind is never quite at ease. At any given moment, my mind is buzzing with thoughts, anticipating the next moment. I think about a lot of things, about the past, the present, the future, my dreams, my worries, my concerns, my friends, my family, my life – everything really. It’s hard to be present, I have too many things in my mind, but lately only one thing weighs on my mind. What can I do about my situation? I have a Bachelor's degree and yet nothing has changed. I fear the passage of time. Some days I feel the excruciating weight of every second of the day and other times it’s a blur. All I know is that leisure is a luxury I can simply not afford. It doesn’t matter what I do, but I have to be extraordinary. The word rings in my head like a chant. Extraordinary. Extraordinary. Extraordinary. I need to be extraordinary. I am twenty-one years old now and while when I was younger I could ignore what it meant to be undocumented that is no longer the case. The more I think about it, the more I realize how hopeless the situation is, but I don’t allow myself to wallow in self-pity, it’d feel too pathetic. If I approach the situation logically, there are 8 ways through which I could be granted citizenship. Given my situation, I really only have two options. I either get a green card through my family or through employment. My parents are undocumented – so that’s one less option. I suppose my younger sister could claim me, but it wouldn’t be another four years until she turned 21 years old that we could file a case. This places me in the fourth category (F4) – the bottom tier. If all goes well, I’d be lucky to become a citizen within the next decade. But if I get married, I’m considered an immediate relative and my chances to receive a green card increase drastically, not to mention that the processing time would be much faster. Realistically, this is a possibility, but not one I’m interested in. This leaves me with one path. Legalization through employment. If I thought the previous option was bad, this one is laughable. If I want to be considered a first preference immigrant worker, I have to “have extraordinary in the sciences, arts, education, business or athletics” or be “an outstanding professor or researcher” or a “multinational manager or executive who meets certain criteria”. It’s infuriating. I couldn’t help but laugh when I read through the pages. Not a small chuckle, but a full-blown laugh, the type where you can’t help but feel the muscles of your stomach contract. My parents escaped a war ravaged country, they saw first-hand the destabilization of Guatemala. They, of all people, know how terrible US interventionist policies have been to our country. As much as the US likes to paint the narrative that we are all economic migrants, that's far from the truth. It’s not about the American Dream, it was never about that, it’s about survival. Since coming to this country, everything we have done has been a matter of survival. I mean if we thought that the situation back home would get better, would they have risked leaving everything behind? They handled their situation the best they could, all they ever wanted was for their children to be safe. To me they are everything, so I have to be extraordinary.
A week ago I graduated from the University of California, Irvine. Less than 24 hours after my graduation, I was getting kicked out of my apartment. Only 18 hours separated my graduation from the end of my lease. If you subtract the length of the actual ceremony and my dinner celebration my parents insisted I had, I had about 10 hours give or take – that’s how much time I was given to pack all my bags. Granted, my lease ended in June, but an extra day to move out would’ve been nice. I could’ve actually organized all my belongings instead of shoving them in whatever box or bag my parents got their hands on. It’s a good thing I made sure to pack my most important belongings first, the last things in my apartment were hardly handled with care, they were thrown into whatever part of the car they could fit.
Two days after graduation, I was boarding a plane headed towards the capital of the US. It is impossible to be in two places at once, but it certainly felt that way. Physically my body is in DC, but mentally I was stuck in California replaying my last moments with everyone. Looking back at it now, I realize I didn’t have a chance to give anyone a proper goodbye. I was so preoccupied with packing and leaving that I not only half-assed my assignments but everything else too. My parents wanted to throw a party, they thought that graduation was a big accomplishment and should be celebrated as such, but I refused. I’ve never liked being the center of attention and aside from the fact that I didn’t want them to spend so much money, there was simply no time. In the end, my graduation celebration consisted of a visit to my local Cheesecake Factory to which I had made reservations the morning of and barely managed to arrive on time. It was a bittersweet moment. I was caught between feeling joy that I had graduated and sad that I was leaving. We didn’t talk about me leaving, we just sat there and ate as we basked in each other's presence. I technically couldn’t go back to the apartment, since I had already turned in my keys, but two of my roommates were still there because their graduation was the same day as my flight so I stayed the night. My last night in California consisted of more last-minute packing and chatting with my roommates about how much we would miss living with each other. Everything was happening so quickly, I had no time to process, no time to cope. I couldn’t mourn the end of my college years because I was starting the next stage of my life, before that one had even ended. I didn’t have a chance to give anyone a proper goodbye. No chance to grieve. I thought that the time in my airport would be sufficient to process everything – I told myself I would use that chance to write – to cope, but I was too tired to think about anything. As uncomfortable as I was sitting in the middle seat in between two strangers, I slept through the entire flight. My tailbone was sore and my neck was cramped, but I slept like a log. It was the first time I had slept more than 4 hours in weeks. I had been running on adrenaline, the anxiety of unfinished projects, assignments had kept me up, and now it felt like I could finally catch my breath.
I have no concept of space or time. I’m 2,000 miles away from home, on the opposite side of the country in an entirely different time zone and I’ve all but processed anything that has happened this month. I’m scared, but excited. I’m having fun, but I’m overwhelmed. In moments like these, I find solace in the idea of the multiverse, in the idea that in another universe my life was completely different. In this universe, I’m a UCI alum who double majored in Political Science and Sociology. I wrote an honors thesis on the government-media connections on the portrayal of Northern Triangle migrants, I served as the managing editor for LUCID and I was a student staff at the Basic Needs Center. Perhaps in an alternative universe, I’m not even a student, maybe I’m an artist holding exhibitions. In another, I am in a traveling symphony playing the clarinet. But these “alternative universes” are nothing more than a figment of my imagination, a delusion created by me to indulge in the idea that a different version of me has it better. Projections of how I wish my life would be, of what I wish I could be doing. But I guess there’s no point in thinking about what could be, I’ve learned to let go of the things I can not control. But if the universe is a deck of cards, with each life being a different hand, I wish that the universe reshuffles the pile and hands me a better set. Maybe if I wish hard enough, I can transport myself to a different universe, one in which the pressures of the world don't consume me. Or perhaps I’m not thinking big enough, I’d like to live in a world where teleportation is possible, a world that transcends dimensions. Media about the multiverse teaches us the universe we exist in, is the best version, but could that really be true? Or is it just another way for society to keep us at bay, to keep us from hoping for a better world, to make us think that we should be happy with the way things are, to prevent us from achieving our true potential?
Yet, a part of me can’t help but think that if I had the chance to live a different life I wouldn’t. Status aside, I’ve managed to live a decent life. I am content with it. I’ve lived as best as I could and taken advantage of every opportunity that came my way. I never once thought I wasn’t capable of doing any task I set my mind to and I didn’t let my status limit or define me. Beyond my desire to be extraordinary, there was an insatiable greed to experience the wonders of the world. If life had a purpose, for me that would be to feed my curiosity, to learn. I wanted to read every book ever written, watch every film created, consume every piece of media. Academia was merely a part of that journey, I learned just as much through my experiences. Basing the success of my life on the interactions and connections I’ve built with everyone, I could say I won in life. I was endlessly grateful for everyone I had crossed paths with. I like to think that I carry a piece of everyone with me everywhere I go.
I am confined only to the spaces in this country and by the brevity of my time on Earth.