Description: How the whitewashing of 9/11 affects a minority family living in America. The “American” umbrella includes immigrants, and in my case, I want to speak up about my family’s post-9/11 experience as Hispanic/Latinos. We make up the nation’s largest minority group and our experience could shed light on what other immigrants living in similar situations have faced.
I remember going to a Marlins game with dad years ago. He tried to order a beer, and when the bartender checked his ID card, he noted it was expired.
“I’m sorry sir, I can’t sell you alcohol without a valid ID,” the man told my father. My dad didn’t argue with him. He walked away, embarrassed and unable to enjoy a beer like other Americans at a baseball game.
“How could the bartender not be more sympathetic?” I thought to myself, perplexed he wouldn’t accept my dad’s identification. I figured everyone knew illegal immigrants couldn’t renew their licenses after 9/11.
It’s September 11th again. Happy birthday to me! And rest in peace to the 2,977 people who were killed in New York City 14 years ago.
Each year, on my birthday, I reflect on what it means to have lived in America during this tragedy. I balance between elatedness, for being able to spend time with friends and family, and sadness, knowing that so many people died. Imagine what their loved ones have gone through.
Many Americans have attempted to whitewash 9/11, despite our “melting pot” of cultures, identities, religions, races and ethnicities. The umbrella of a sole “American” experience regarding 9/11 does not exist.
This is the first time I’ve publicly opened up about my family’s experience. My mother got her green card last week, my father last month, and I became a naturalized citizen November 2014. We no longer have to fear deportation. The biggest, heaviest weight we’ve been burdened with for years is finally off our shoulders.
Before this, I lived in the U.S. illegally for 14 years, my parents 19 years. They have a mortgage, pay taxes and work individually over 40 hours a week. I recently graduated from the University of Florida.
The time before 9/11 and after is clear as a crystal.
Before 9/11, my parents got their drivers licenses through their I-130 Family Petition. This petition was in process, my mother applying for legal residency through my grandmother, a naturalized American citizen. After 9/11, my parents said it was impossible to get their licenses renewed. Their application for residency was delayed for years. We still don’t really understand why.
While most of my high school peers got their drivers licenses at 16, I remember crying and feeling hopeless when my parents told me that I couldn’t get mine because I was ‘illegal.’
I felt alone and different from my American friends, even though I felt American in many other ways. Any remnant of a Spanish accent of mine was long gone. I was an A-student, and I dressed like most girls my age. I began identifying myself as an “Americanized Venezuelan,” understanding I was raised in America after moving from Venezuela when I was 4. We overstayed our visas, and Florida became our home.
How many other illegal immigrants have faced the dehumanizing and economically debilitating setbacks of living in the U.S. without government-issued identification? How many immigrant families have been affected by 9/11’s security chokehold, having their applications delayed for years, after having already waited years?
An essay by Pia Orrenius and Madeline Zavodny examines the effects of 9/11 on male immigrants from Latin America, who compose the bulk of undocumented foreign-born workers in the U.S. “Many states implemented restrictions on driver’s licenses to prevent issuance of licenses and state identification cards to undocumented immigrants,” the article states. These restrictions harmed Hispanic workers. No terrorists were caught.
My parents have been stuck working the same jobs since we moved to the U.S. They didn’t have the opportunity to apply for higher paying jobs after 9/11, lacking proper government identification. My mom is a nail technician; my dad works at a produce store in a flea market.
My father’s mother died two years ago. Because my dad was in the U.S. illegally, he was unable to travel to Venezuela to attend her funeral.
He talks to me about how the U.S. and Mexico were working on an amnesty for 11 million undocumented immigrants. Congressmen had agreed to pave a path for legal documentation after paying fees and penalties. 9/11 changed all of that. Suddenly, America wanted nothing to do with immigrants. They were the ones to blame for all of this. They were terrorists.
Despite the animosity toward immigrants, my family felt the pain of the tragedy as well. “Once you live in this country, it doesn’t matter if you have papers or not. It [9/11] affects you personally and emotionally,” my dad said.
I don’t know how my parents have managed to pull everything off the past 18 years, raising me and my little sister to live normal lives in America, but I am so proud of them and proud to be their daughter. This is our country and America is our home. Our Venezuelan, Ecuadoran, and American values are intertwined.
I’m not trying to prioritize my family’s experience after 9/11. I’m aware that other families have dealt with much worse. Researchers who study posttraumatic stress among 9/11 survivors found that minorities were particularly vulnerable to long-term trauma. A Sikh woman living in Wisconsin feels she has to prove she’s American enough to protect her family from hate crimes. Arab Americans are on a whole different spectrum to say the least.
I’m taking advantage of the fact I can finally speak up about our situation. It’s cathartic. I hope others will speak up too.
Happy Birthday to Me: How 9/11 Affected My Undocumented Family in America
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