STUDENT VOICES
IMMIGRATION STORIES
Geography Class
First day of geography class. Ninth grade. Smells of kids eager to impress a crush fill the room. I taste hairspray, gel, perfume, shampoo. The desks are like soldiers afraid to step out of line. I sit in the front row. I know very little about geography but I'm excited to learn. Mr. Castagnoli starts talking. My eyes and ears focus. He gives instructions for our first task. We will go around the room and everyone will say where they were born. I stare away into the white board. I'm nervous. No one in the room knows I was born in Mexico. People start pronouncing the names of their hometowns: Houston, San Antonio. Someone says Matamoros but I can tell he has papers. He is confident, popular, and I think his parents speak English. I think about the name of my birthplace: Ciudad Gustavo Diaz Ordaz, where the roads were made of dirt and hens warned me not to chase their chicks. This humble name will give away my immigration status. I look at the world map but I don't even know where the town is. It's my turn to share now. "Diaz Ordaz, Tamaulipas" I tell the teacher and the class. Is that a big city? the teacher demands. Yes, I lie. I've never heard of it, he replies. The next student speaks. I wonder if the class knows I'm illegal.
About the Author
Fermin is one of E4FC's 2010 Interns. He was born less than two miles south of the Rio Grande in
Tamaulipas, Mexico and immigrated to the United States at the age of
four. A Public Policy major at Stanford University, Fermin has advocated for
undocumented youth through the Stanford Immigrant Rights Project. He has also advocated
for LGBT rights as a member of the Stanford Students for Queer
Liberation and as a former volunteer in the "No on Proposition 8"
Campaign.
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