PrernaLal.com

I do really well on most days. I fool myself into thinking that I’m not different and that I belong here, somewhere. I come across as well-tuned and well-adjusted most of the time. And I lie.

The clock ticks loudly but time doesn’t change. I retch into the toilet bowl every other night. There is a lot that I internalize without knowing. It happens all in a day’s work and sometimes I don’t even know it until my body manifests it in the form of an illness or chronic pain. I know I’m getting older because more things hurt, because I don’t have soft baby feet anymore but also because I can’t remember things.

I’m hiding a secret. Something I’ve developed over the years but I have been too afraid to tell anyone, too afraid to get help because help requires health insurance and a form of identification. And then I forget that I am hiding it.

I used to be attentive and remember every spoken and written word. There was a time when I had a razor sharp memory and could talk in long, elaborate sentences. But over the past few years, the super-computer upstairs has developed issues. It spaces out. I lose time. I don’t even have to un-hear things anymore. Sometimes I have difficulty forming sentences and words because I can’t grasp them as quickly as my mouth moves or I can’t remember what was said to me because I never heard it in the first place. I read words but I don’t know what they mean. I try really hard to focus even during the most interesting lectures, but I find my mind wandering.

It’s happening more and more frequently. I reassure myself that everything is alright because I still remember what I need to do on a daily basis without needing a planner. I console myself by noting that we live in a blink-and-miss culture. I tell myself that I may be losing time but I still remember moments and maybe that is all that matters. Most days, I pass out while doing nothing and wake up to see the lights on in the middle of the night and then I cannot go back to sleep. And yet, I remember a time I absolutely could not sleep with the lights on and slept soundly all night. Or maybe I just made up that one little thing about me because I can’t really remember. What’s happening to me?

Sometimes I miss a home that I don’t even remember. My notion of where I am from is so romanticized, mainly because I don’t recall having to deal with horrible things in Fiji. I was a kid after all. My formative years have been spent here. I can’t tell you the temperature of the place where I was born and spent close to 15 years. I know that it is humid and it rains a lot in the capital city but I cannot tell you how that feels. Is it really criminal to send me back? I don’t know.

Sometimes, I get really angry and unleash my wrath at someone, often justifiably. A couple days later, I don’t actually remember what I was mad about. It never even makes it into the part of my brain that stores information as memory to be accessed later. I write it, tweet it, sometimes blog it, so that I can remember the things that get me angry and get over it. But I don’t remember the incident through actual recollection — I remember it only because it is documented in some form.

I know it is from enduring so much that I have developed the ability to shut things out. The past decade is one big blur. Too many people, too many places. But I wonder if I am losing more than I realize, especially when I look up to see someone gazing at me questioningly, awaiting a reply, and I have no idea what was said to me, where I am or how I got there. Maybe I’m losing the ability to form words and sentences, because I don’t really have any words to describe what has happened with me. I shrug, I smile and I laugh. That’s all I can do. And then I cry.

My mind is running away from me just like I ran away from home. I’m still running. In a lot of ways, uprooting my life and moving across the country was something I had to do for myself. No one brought me to the District of Columbia. No one dragged me here kicking and screaming. It is my one chance to start over in the only way I can. I seem happy. I am happy. And yet, I know it is because I am forgetting something or other.

I’m forgetting years of institutionalized discrimination. I’m forgetting incidents of sexual harassment, abuse and a long battle with homophobia. I’m forgetting racial epithets and insults directed at me. I’m forgetting that I can’t really live here, can’t really leave here and that I really exist in a huge archipelago of detention. Just because it is pretty and decorated does not mean it is not a jail. I’m forgetting where I am from, where I am and where I need to go.

I’m done living here by next summer. I just don’t know where to go next. Maybe I’m destined to always be a migrant, to never put down roots long enough for someone to uproot them. I just wish I could recall better, but maybe it’s simply better to do what my mind does: to never remember long enough to forget.

Maybe I will recall this. Maybe I won’t. Maybe it really doesn’t matter as long as my heart is beating and I’m still breathing.

Like, seriously?

Well, that’s a tougher one to answer than “how does someone stay documented” but an easier one to achieve.

Overstaying a visa, knowingly or unknowingly. Losing your job when you are on an F-1. Divorcing your spouse when you are a dependent. Losing an asylum decision. Dropping out of school while you are on an F-1. Being exploited as domestic help by your employer. Getting placed in deportation proceedings for some minor crime you committed and served time for years ago. And the list continues.

Alvida.

I’m speaking at the South Asian Awareness Network (SAAN) conference this weekend in Ann Arbor, to a bunch of awesome young people.

I’ve charted a workshop that starts with exploring why people migrate, how they may become undocumented (including what that means), and created a timeline of South Asian immigration to the United States, which I hope people find fascinating. I’m hoping students place their own family’s immigration stories on the timeline.

While generally supportive, these are just some of the statements I’ve heard from my own community over the past few years. It’s rather nice:

1. “What, you aren’t smart enough to hold a visa?”
2. “Everyone knows about aging out. Your parents didn’t plan well. It’s their fault.”
3. “You seem angry at the U.S. That doesn’t reflect well on our people.”
4. “Your parents didn’t strike it rich in the U.S.? Maybe you should all go home.”
5. “Being undocumented is a character test. Think of it as a life lesson and you’ll go far.”
6. “I have a visa that took a lot of work. HOW is it fair that you get to go to school without one?”
7. “I can’t go to high school here on an F-1, but you can as an undocumented person? HOW is that fair?”
8. “So how exactly does someone become undocumented?”
9. “Your victimhood won’t get you anywhere. You just need to work hard. Become a doctor or engineer.”
10. “If you were a guy, I’d marry you” or “If you are less like a guy, I’d marry you.”
11. “You just make us all look bad. Be quiet and don’t say anything about your status.”
12. “I’ve never met an illegal Indian person! Wait, you are really only half illegal anyway.”
13. “Fiji is a great place. I mean, I haven’t been there but I’ve heard great things. Just go back.”
14. “Why don’t you just immigrate to another country, like Canada?”
15. “Look, you are pretty educated. Supporting you distracts from more genuine cases of injustice.”
16. “Your story just doesn’t add up. What did you do wrong?”
17. “You aren’t even really South Asian.”

Additionally, during my own research, I found out that it it is the 100-year anniversary of University of Michigan’s ban on South Asian students! This is on the timeline, among other awesome newspaper clippings that describe “Hindoos” as undesirable immigrants:

The timeline shows us that South Asians are part of a long history of exclusion directed towards people who are not “white persons.” We’ve certainly come a long way and yet there is still much work to be done. Today, we are still banning certain students from our institutions of higher learning because of where they were born, which is more acceptable than exclusions based on race.

I hope everyone has a blast even in the snowstorm!

I invited people to submit questions and received a bunch of them so I’m going to see if I can get through it all.

Here is the first installment. My video shooting skills will get better as soon as I learn how to use the new software to edit this.

You can submit questions here (even anonymously).

Signal boost for Julio Salgado, a talented queer and undocumented artist now living in the Bay Area.

In his own words:

“I am UndocuQueer!” is an art project in conjunction with the Undocumented Queer Youth Collective and the Queer Undocumented Immigrant Project (QUIP) that aims to give us undocumented queers more of a presence in the discussion of migrant rights.

If you want your own “I am UndocuQueer!” image, message me a photograph from the waist up of yourself and a quote telling us what it means to be both undocumented and queer to you to juliosalgado83@yahoo.com.
These images also serve as a great way to fundraise for your organization. I can e-mail you higher resolution versions so you can print them and sell them. Hit me up if you’re interested for this option as well.

I don’t know what to think about the truncation of undocumented and queer into “undocuqueer.” I also don’t think that either identity is permanently immutable, regardless of what “legal experts” want us to believe. Sexuality is fluid as is the political categorization of people into legal and illegal. But there is no doubt that Julio is talented and I support his work

Visit his Tumblr here (that is if it is not down due to SOPA).

The District is considering ending the cooperation between local law enforcement and ICE, and I was one of the many to testify at a hearing on Friday. I would like to thank Sarahi Uribe from NDLON for sharing her story and also for giving me a chance to speak at the hearing.

Dear Council Members,

Thank you for giving me a chance to speak on the Immigration Detainer Compliance Bill in front of you today. My name is Prerna Lal and I am one of the founders of DreamActivist.org, a national network of immigrant youth.

My parents immigrated to this country when I was about 14 and they became legal residents over time. Right now, I am pursuing my second graduate degree at The George Washington University Law School. And despite the fact that I appear accomplished on paper, I’m undocumented. I’m one of the thousands of immigrant youth who have grown up in this country and know no other home. And since I live in D.C., I am taxed without representation twice over.

Today I am representing immigrants like me across the country, who have been targeted, placed in deportation proceedings due to Secure Communities, and fighting to live in the only country we call our home. Every X-mas and New Year, when my law school peers are on vacation, I remain busy getting undocumented youth across the country out of detention facilities — young people who are mostly in detention due to minor traffic violations.

I don’t know how many of us can say that about ourselves but the reality is that undocumented youth can be detained and deported for as little as a traffic violation, due to Secure Communities. To give you just one example, In Texas, a young student was pulled over by the police for a broken tail-light. Since she did not have driver’s license, the local police held her in jail overnight and handed her over to ICE. This was two years ago. This particular student is still fighting deportation proceedings even while attending law school. And lets be clear about one thing: she has no criminal record.

The stories are many. The circumstances are similar. It’s hard to ignore the truth that this country has made criminals out of thousands of people. People like me.

“Secure Communities” is not about finding and deporting “dangerous criminals.” It’s about securing the country from the growing presence of immigrants who are mostly brown-skinned. And the real fugitive of this story is Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) — a rogue agency that is keen on deporting anyone who looks different regardless of their immigration status. Last year, our wonderful friends at ICE deported a 4-year old U.S. citizen girl to Guatemala and a 14-year old U.S. citizen teenager to Colombia. And these are not the only U.S. citizens they have deported. But like any agency, ICE has a litany of excuses.

We are mistakenly racially profiled. We are mistakenly arrested. We are mistakenly rounded up and sent to private detention facilities away from our homes and families. We are mistakenly deported thousands of miles to a foreign country, with little hope of ever seeing our families again. Mistakenly. It may be a mistake for local police and maybe even ICE, but that one mistake costs us our whole lives.

That mistake is the difference between whether a child ends up in foster care or has a stable family home. That mistake is the difference between a mother fighting to survive after the deportation of her son or a mother who is able to fund her daughter’s education so that the whole family can beat the cycle of poverty. That one mistake is the difference between my presence in front of you today or my deportation to a country where I can be killed for my sexual orientation.

As an undocumented resident who lives, works and attends school in the District, Secure Communities is a misnomer that only serves to make me insecure. If I am a victim of a crime, I cannot go local law enforcement with a program like Secure Communities in place for fear that they would report me to ICE. If I witness an accident, I am too terrified to come forward and help with a police investigation. If I get into an accident, my first reaction is always to flee the scene regardless of how hurt I am because the police may do more damage.

Logic then dictates that the real mistake is the so-called Secure Communities, which makes entire communities insecure and undermines both law enforcement efforts and community policing.

Therefore, I strongly urge the DC City Council to pass the immigration detainer compliance bill with the amendments suggested by Ms. Altman so that hard-working, productive people like me are not turned over to ICE by local police for minor infractions.

Photo Courtesy: Lizbeth Mateo

I was at an airport. I couldn’t find my ticket. I didn’t know my airline, let alone my confirmation code. I frantically looked at my clock but couldn’t make out the time. And I seemed to have misplaced my iPhone so I couldn’t look up any flight information.

The TSA officer shot me a puzzled look. “Where are you trying to go?”

“I don’t know.” I whispered. I had forgotten. I couldn’t remember how I got to the airport and where I was going. I just knew I had to be somewhere important and that I had to get there soon.

I picked up the scent of fresh linen. And then, it happened. I could hear her hushed, whispered tones in my ear telling me not to be late for our wedding.

“I’ve never missed a flight before. I’m not going to start now,” I replied.

Then, she asked me to travel safely. I had forgotten everything else.

“Wedding. I have to go to a wedding. My wedding.” I muttered, at no one in particular. And it was in a different country. I frowned. It made no sense for so many reasons.

I tried to recall how she looked. Maybe that would give me some clue as to where I needed to be. My mind drew a blank.

“You are getting married and you don’t know where it is?” His tone was incredulous.

Next, I found myself on a bed. In a sleepy haze, I only needed to ask myself one question. And it wasn’t the one asked by the TSA officer.

“You are still undocumented,” I said out loud to myself. That would mean I couldn’t fly out of the country. So there really wasn’t any wedding to attend.

I turned around and went back to sleep, satisfied and reassured. I didn’t need to be anywhere else but in my bed underneath the covers, sleeping soundly.

In case you missed some of my “wonderful” (or crappy) writing during this tumultuous year, I’m listing the very best. I went through 30 pages of my blog and rediscovered more reasons to write. Blogging is really a case study in charting my growth and reaction to adversity, while capturing intense emotions after they are long forgotten. In no particular order:

1. The Invisible South Asians in the Undocumented Immigrant Youth Movement – I see this as one of the more important blogposts I have written and I’m still trying to make sense of how model minority status compels an entire community into silence. If you are coming to the SAAN Conference in Michigan, do give this a read.
2. Finding Home Again: Published in Ambiente Magazine and my school newspaper, this documents my queer immigrant journey over the past decade.
3. USCIS Reinterpretation of CSPA: A Deference to Screwed Priorities. This piece is only on the list because it won an award. And maybe because it is the reason that I am undocumented and fighting removal proceedings.
4. Ground Zero in North Carolina: When Dream Freedom Fighters and (White) Cops Collide. This was a brilliant post about an action in North Carolina where a lot of my friends were arrested. HuffPost refused to publish it because it was controversial.
5. Gender Boundaries. This is almost on the emotionally heavy side and one about my gender identity and presentation and a brief glimpse into my life as a gender-queer person.
6. How To Place Yourself In Deportation Proceedings and How to be Jaded are funny, satirical pieces and you should read them if you have not already.
7. Love - This is a rare personal insight into who I really am beyond social media.
8. Critique of Professional and Decentering Citizenship. What is life without some deconstruction?
9. Sh*t My Mom Says serves as a constant reminder that mothers are amazing.
10. I feel, therefore I am Free

Have a great holiday season AND send me things you feel I should read!