My driver’s license is only valid for two years, which always adds a level of angst when traveling through the airport. It feels like a beacon, alerting anyone of my undocumented status. Most recently, this fear was palpable as I made a trip to Houston. While in the airport and in my Lyft, I was hypervigilant, keeping an eye out for law enforcement. My trip was on the heels of the Supreme Court ruling in favor of SB 4, a law that would essentially require Texas officials to racially profile undocumented immigrants and promote overpolicing of Black and brown immigrants.
As a teenager, I did not understand how I, a Black person, could be undocumented.
I was traveling to Houston from my home in Los Angeles for an immigrant rights meeting and was all too aware of the risks. As a Black and undocumented immigrant (undocuBlack), my participation in any act of solidarity or movement can come with grave consequences. I’m more likely to be criminalized as a Black person, and said criminalization could also lead to my deportation as an undocumented immigrant. According to the Pew Research Center, while overall deportations decreased in 2017, they increased for Black immigrants — and that’s after a decade in which Black immigrants were already overrepresented in deportation proceedings. Black immigrants are simultaneously affected by the criminal justice system, the immigration system, and the intersections of race and status.
But I knew it was important to participate. In 2020, I had faced a similarly difficult decision as I considered the Black Lives Matter protests. Would I bravely march for Black rights and visibility, or would I make a heart-wrenching but safer choice to hide and support from the digital sidelines?
Both times, I chose to put my body on the line because I believe in fighting for a world in which people like me aren’t invisibilized. After all, I am one of the more fortunate ones; I have Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA). And what good is it to defy the odds and thrive under the false notions of meritocracy if I do not advocate for those who continue being pushed into the margins of society, narratives and thus history?
June 15 commemorates the 12th year since DACA was introduced, marking a significant yet complex milestone in immigration reform. DACA, while not perfect, has been a transformative force in the lives of over 800,000 people who arrived in the U.S. as children, myself included.
Introduced by President Barack Obama in 2012, DACA provided a lifeline by offering work permits and a form of identification to its beneficiaries, thereby facilitating access to employment, housing and a semblance of stability in a nation they call home. Its economic impact is undeniable, with DACA recipients contributing an estimated $45 billion annually to the U.S. economy.
And as we edge closer to another election cycle, the future of DACA hangs in the balance amid legal challenges and political debate.
My personal journey underscores the transformative power of DACA. I immigrated from a small village in Jamaica to the United States to the U.S., the land of opportunities, a few days before my 12th birthday. As a young teenager, I lived in Inglewood, California, with a single mother and my four siblings. It was in high school when I understood that I was undocumented. As one could imagine, this realization completely shattered any hope I had of achieving the American dream.
As a teenager, I did not understand how I, a Black person, could be undocumented. The media never showed images of Black undocumented immigrants; the depictions were always of non-Black Latinx people crossing the Southern border in the pursuit of happiness. Immediately, I felt alone, on an island all by myself. Where did I belong? It felt like the answer was nowhere.
Despite my continued search for community as I ventured to college, it still eluded me. I was always the only Black person in the undocumented student lab; none of the programming, guest speakers or dialogue centered on Black undocumented immigrants, our struggles, our realities in the intersections of race and immigration in America.
From multiple job roles to furthering my education and contributing to academia and policy discussions on immigration, DACA has been instrumental in shaping my path. Thanks to this program, I have achieved a level of success that once seemed out of reach. Most recently, I published my first book, “Amplifying Black Undocumented Student Voices in Higher Education,” one of the first books ever published by a Black DACA recipient. Still, DACA’s limitations are evident. For one, it was never meant to be a permanent fix. It was conceived as a temporary measure, a stopgap rather than a comprehensive solution to the complex issues surrounding immigration. The Trump administration halted new applications, and current legal battles threaten the program’s existence. This has left many, including myself, in a state of uncertainty. Now the future of DACA is before the 5th Circuit U.S. Court of Appeals, with a decision expected in the coming months. This means that my life and the lives of over 530,000 other active DACA recipients remain in tense limbo. After living in and contributing to this country for most of our lives, we may find ourselves stripped of protections and the ability to work, with the threat of deportation hanging over our heads. The recent Senate Judiciary Committee hearing on the importance of protecting Dreamers brought to light the critical role that DACA recipients play in the U.S. economy and society. It is a stark reminder of the urgent need for a permanent legislative solution that not only safeguards Dreamers but also recognizes their contributions as integral to the fabric of America. If DACA were to abruptly end, over 18,000 jobs would be lost every month for the following two years, causing a ripple effect on the American economy. As we reflect on the 12th anniversary of DACA, it is crucial to acknowledge both its achievements and its shortcomings. First, the current administration must work to streamline DACA renewals for current recipients, to ensure DACA recipients do not experience gaps in work authorization. In the absence of DACA renewals, the U.S. economy stands to lose over $400 billion over the next two decades. Additionally, if DACA were to abruptly end, over 18,000 jobs would be lost every month for the following two years, causing a ripple effect on the American economy. Supporting DACA is helpful not only to its beneficiaries, but also to the American economy. Second, administrative action will not suffice. We must urge congressional leaders to pass legislation to protect all Dreamers, including those with and without DACA. It is a call to action for policymakers and the broader community to work toward more inclusive and lasting reforms that uphold the dignity and potential of every individual, regardless of their immigration status. America is a nation of immigrants, and diversity includes immigrants from many different origins. DACA, while flawed, is brilliant. It represents a beacon of hope and opportunity for many, but our work is far from over in ensuring that America remains a land of promise for all who dream of a better future.
Dr. Felecia S. Russell
Dr. Felecia S. Russell currently serves as director of the Higher Ed Immigration Portal at the Presidents’ Alliance on Higher Education and Immigration, where she oversees resources, effective practices, research, and policy that serve not only undocumented students but immigrant, refugee, and international students more broadly. Her newly released book, "Amplifying Black Undocumented Student Voices in Higher Education," is one of the first books ever written by a Black DACA recipient, and centers a group that is often overlooked within the immigrant and DACA discussions: Black immigrants. She is also the founder of her own online platform, Embracing Undocumented. 
