Learning to be Legal: Transition Narratives of Joy and Survivor Guilt of Previously Undocumented 1.5-Generation Latinx Immigrants in the United States

ABSTRACT

Relying on in-depth interviews and ethnographic research in California (2011–2018), this article theorizes the experiences of politicized, 1.5-generation Latinx immigrants who have transitioned out of undocumented status. It shows that transitioning out of undocumented status comes with feelings of joy and privilege, as well as with feelings of survivor guilt, ontological fragmentation, and wanting to take up new responsibilities as a way of repaying, and standing in solidarity with, undocumented family and community members. I argue that the transitioning experiences of previously undocumented immigrants relate to (1) their mixed-status families in the context of uneven penalization of undocumented immigrants, (2) the immigrant narrative of struggle and sacrifice, (3) politicization, pressure, and social control within the immigrant rights movement, and (4) their durably embodied undocumented subjectivities. This paper thereby advances more relational understandings of citizenship, (political) subjectivity, and the profound effects of legal violence caused by the citizenship regime.

KEYWORDS:

• Undocumented
• 1.5-generation
• Latinx
• survivor guilt
• legal violence
• subjectivity

Introduction

I’m very thankful that I became a permanent resident in 2015, after being undocumented for 24 years in this country. But, it is such a bittersweet feeling, because my sister is a citizen, my brother is DACAmented, and my parents are still undocumented (Daniel, personal interview).

Much research on the undocumented Latinx¹ 1.5 generation, those who were born abroad but were raised in the United States, focuses on the problems undocumented youths face in their transition from the relative security and incorporation at school during childhood to the uncertainty of ‘illegality’ as they transition to adulthood (Abrego 2011; Gonzales 2011; Gonzales and Chavez 2012). This turbulent transition to ‘illegality’ has been described as ‘awakening to a nightmare’, a process that profoundly impacts identity formation, friendships, aspirations, and social and economic mobility (Gonzales 2011, 602). Undocumented legal status influences all spheres of life: work, health, relationships, subjectivities, family dynamics, domestic violence, vulnerability on the streets, and labor market position and wages (Abrego 2016; 2019; Enriquez 2015; Menjívar 2006; Menjívar and Abrego 2012; Menjívar and Lakhani 2016). Studies report alarming accounts of the severe mental health problems caused by detention, deportation, and family separation (Torres et al. 2018).

This paper, instead, analyzes and theorizes the experiences of politicized, 1.5-generation Latinx immigrants transitioning from an undocumented to a documented ‘status’ through Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), Lawful Permanent Residency (LPR) or naturalized US citizenship. I argue that, despite significant differences regarding the rights, opportunities, and sense of security that come with having DACA, LPR, or naturalized citizenship, the emotional experiences of gaining more rights and privileges than undocumented family and community members in a context of legal violence and politicization are surprisingly similar. While much research shows that a change in legal status brings with it new privileges, socioeconomic opportunities, and experiences of joy, wellbeing, pride, and belonging (Abrego 2018; Gonzales et al. 2018; Mena and Gomberg-Muñoz 2016; Patler and Pirtle 2018; Venkataramani et al. 2017), this paper shows that transitioning also comes at the cost of guilt, ontological fragmentation (or identity loss and confusion), and taking up new responsibilities as a way of giving back to, and standing in solidarity with, undocumented family and community members. As Daniel’s opening quote indicates, transitioning can be ‘a bittersweet feeling’ owing to the fact that previously undocumented immigrants continue to be affected by the legal violence of the citizenship regime as their undocumented family and community members are still actively targeted and penalized by that citizenship regime.

Thus, while much of the literature on the Latinx 1.5 generation rightfully emphasizes the positive opportunities and feelings that come with transitioning out of undocumented status, this paper shows that transitioning also translates into negative feelings, as the fragile fates of family and community members affect the emotional experience of the transitioning process. As such, my work shows the significance of family and community ties in resisting the individualizing and atomizing effects of the citizenship regime. It thereby challenges hegemonic notions of state-based citizenship as the ultimate form of individual, political subjectivity and advances more relational understandings and analysis of citizenship and the profound effects of legal violence caused by the US citizenship regime, effects that go beyond the simple dichotomy between documented and undocumented.

I thereby conceptualize the transitioning experiences of the previously undocumented participants of this study as experiences of ‘survivor guilt’ – that is, feelings of guilt for arbitrarily having been spared misfortune when others were not (Spurlock 1985). In doing so, I build upon the body of literature on survivor guilt and other challenges theorized in social mobility studies in a novel and original way (Friedman 2014; O'Connor et al. 2000; Piorkowski 1983; Spurlock 1985) by applying this conceptual framework to the case of the human suffering caused by the US citizenship regime, and by reconciling it with studies showing how ‘illegality’ affects all members of mixed-status (Latinx) families (Abrego 2016; 2019; Coutin 2000; Enriquez 2015; Gomberg-Muñoz 2016; López 2015; Lopez 2019; Rodriguez 2018). Following that, my findings and analysis show that these feelings of survivor guilt, ontological fragmentation, and taking on new responsibilities as a means of repaying their still undocumented families are related to (1) their mixed-status families in a context of uneven penalization of undocumented immigrants, (2) the immigrant narrative of struggle and sacrifice, (3) politicization, pressure, and social control within the immigrant rights movement, and (4) their durably embodied undocumented subjectivities.

The undocumented Latinx 1.5 generation

Currently, there are nearly five million undocumented children and young adults under the age of 30 in the US, the majority of whom (78%) are from Latin America (Patler and Pirtle 2018). The term undocumented 1.5 generation is often used in American immigration literature to describe those who were born abroad but migrated as children and were raised in the United States. Research on the undocumented 1.5 generation emphasizes how the experience of being undocumented in a punitive legal regime shapes every aspect of people’s lives, including people’s sense of self, their friendships and family dynamics, and their weak labor market position and chances for socioeconomic mobility (Abrego 2016; 2019; Enriquez 2015; Gonzales 2011; Menjívar and Abrego 2012).

Due to DACA, an executive order signed by President Obama in 2012 providing deportation relief, temporary work permits, driver licenses, and the possibility to travel and build credit for undocumented immigrants raised in the US, many individuals of the undocumented Latinx 1.5 generation were able to strengthen their socioeconomic position. Studies show that DACA decreases the distress and deportation worries of its recipients (Patler and Pirtle 2018) and positively affects recipients’ life trajectories and opportunities (Gonzales et al. 2018), as it allows recipients to avoid exploitative jobs and to acquire legal jobs, higher wages, drivers licenses, bank accounts, credit cards, and health insurance. DACA thus affects recipients and their families in ‘mundane, but cumulatively, meaningful ways’, thereby shifting entire families’ legal consciousness – that is ‘common-sense understandings of the law’ – towards a stronger sense of pride and belonging in the United States (Abrego 2018).

Moreover, although DACA is only temporary, highly unstable, and does not (necessarily) lead to citizenship, therefore keeping many DACAmented people in uncertain ‘liminal legality’ (Abrego and Lakhani 2015; Menjívar 2006), the Obama administration did make it possible for DACA recipients to apply for advance parole, a permit that allowed non-nationals to re-enter the country after travelling abroad for humanitarian or educational purposes. This provided a loophole for many DACAmented youths seeking to legalize, as they had now re-entered the country lawfully and no longer faced a ten-year ban when applying for citizenship after an eligible event, such as marriage to a US citizen. Consequently, some of the formerly undocumented participants of this study were able to become Lawful Permanent Residents or US citizens, due to marriage to a US citizen, after having DACA and travelling abroad through advance parole.

Whereas scholars stress that DACA allows recipients to let go of feelings of guilt and shame (Gonzales et al. 2018), I argue that the transition out of undocumented status needs to be theorized more profoundly as it also brings new sources of guilt, ontological fragmentation and identity confusion, and new responsibilities and pressures (see also Abrego 2019, 203). While I aggregate the experiences of previously undocumented, 1.5-generation Latinx immigrants with DACA, Lawful Permanent Residency (LPR), or US citizenship, I do not want to present their experiences as a single, unified experience. There are important differences between these legal categories and the ways in which they affect lived experiences, opportunities, and subjectivities. Most notably, DACA is temporary, contingent, and highly unstable. It is neither a form of legalization, nor does it offer a route to naturalization. LPR is also a lot less stable than naturalized citizenship, as evidenced by the fact that between 1997 and 2007, ten percent of all deportations were Lawful Permanent Residents (Asad 2020), and paths to naturalizations have become more difficult to access and more expensive. DACA recipients and Lawful Permanent Residents have technically become ‘documented and deportable’ and some immigrants have noted that their new existence ‘on the radar’, has made them ‘documented and afraid’, (Mena and Gomberg-Muñoz 2016), as their ‘system embeddedness’ – or ‘perceived legibility to formal recordkeeping institutions’ (Asad 2020, 135) creates new feelings of risk and unsafety.

Despite these significant distinctions, I nevertheless analyze the narratives of previously undocumented participants with DACA, LPR, and citizenship together because this is how it emerged from the field itself. The participants of this study chose to emphasize how they felt towards their undocumented family and community rather than focus on how they felt towards community members with other (for example more stable) legal categories. As such, I present the distinction between formerly undocumented and undocumented communities here in subjective terms by showing that the subjective experiences of transitioning to DACA, LPR, and naturalized citizenship, in a context of a highly punitive immigration regime and profound politicization, are surprisingly similar.

Survivor guilt and other challenges

The concept of survivor guilt is often used in relation to the survivors of large-scale atrocities, such as the Holocaust and Hiroshima, and other human suffering, such as the HIV/AIDS epidemic. It refers to feelings of guilt experienced by survivors for having been spared, while loved ones were not. Within medical-psychological studies, survivor guilt has been recognized as a symptom of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and it consists of two main conceptualizations: (1) experiencing guilt because of surviving the death of another and (2) experiencing guilt because of privilege and advantage over others (O'Connor et al. 2000).

But the term survivor guilt has also been used in relation to social mobility in the case of urban, low-income, first-generation college students in the United States (Piorkowski 1983) and in the case of working-class Brits who became middle class (Friedman 2014; Walkerdine 2003). As Walkerdine (2003) found in her study of British women who had moved from the working class into the middle class: ‘a common theme for these women was the issue of what we might call a “survival guilt” in which they felt that it was not acceptable for them to have survived and prospered when their families … had to live in poverty, illness, doing without’ (p. 343). This is also the case for first-generation Latinx college students (Covarrubias and Fryberg 2015) and high-achieving African Americans from poor families (Spurlock 1985). First-generation Latinx and black college students report experiences of guilt for escaping ‘psychological casualties’, such as jail, poverty, alcoholism, and premature adult death within their families (Piorkowski 1983).

As such, this concept is extremely pertinent for the transitioning Latinx 1.5 generation. By gaining these rights, protections, and socioeconomic opportunities – thereby achieving social mobility – they do more than escape poverty, with all its accompanying ills. For their change in rights and protections also signifies an escape from extreme forms of legal violence – detention, deportation, exploitation, denial of good health care – that their loved ones cannot escape from.

Survivor guilt essentially refers to guilt at having survived when others who seem to be equally, if not more, deserving did not. … there is often the feeling that the death of another has contributed to one’s survival – the grim quota asked by fate has been met by the other’s demise. One’s survival seems to be purchased at the cost of another’s (Ibid.: 620).

Research on people’s experiences of socioeconomic mobility shows that, in addition to experiencing survivor guilt, socially mobile individuals can also suffer ontological fragmentation or identity loss and confusion (Friedman 2014). Moreover, studies of the regularization process show that the legal regime can also have transformative effects on immigrants’ subjectivities and relationships, as immigrants can experience fundamental alterations to the self in their attempts to fit into neoliberal citizenship norms that reify notions of the ‘deserving’ immigrant (Menjívar and Lakhani 2016). The transition to becoming documented and gaining new rights and privileges can thus create existential or ontological fragmentation, – a painfully fragmented or split self – leading to feelings of identity loss and confusion (Ibid.; Friedman 2014).

Relational perspective on citizenship and non-citizenship

Whereas legal regimes grant particular immigration statuses, such as citizenship, based on their assessment of whether an individual political subject is a ‘deserving’ member of the nation-state, people’s actual lived sense of belonging and (political) subjectivity cannot be individualized or tied to the nation-state in such a way. This paper thus goes beyond the hegemonic notion of citizenship as an individual-centered concept and holds a more relational understanding, as ‘noncitizen status reaches beyond individuals to affect their family members both physically and emotionally’ (López 2015, 113). The survivor guilt experienced by the transitioning Latinx 1.5 generation is testimony to that relational and communal embeddedness. All members of (Latinx) families in which at least one person is undocumented suffer from ‘multigenerational punishment’, (Enriquez 2015) as they all share in the risks and limitations associated with undocumented status. Immigration policies and enforcement practices, such as detention, deportation, family separation, racial profiling, and immigration raids, deeply impact the private sphere and shape families’ interactions and well-being (Lopez 2019). They create shared pressures, burdens, tensions, and responsibilities, such as feelings of fear, guilt, rivalry, resentment, frustration, worthlessness, helplessness, abandonment, and insecurity among family members (Abrego 2016; 2019; Coutin 2000). Moreover, immigration processing is also a ‘family affair’ as the often complex, difficult, costly, and unpredictable legalization process involves all family members (Gomberg-Muñoz 2016, 10).

Methods

This chapter draws on my ethnographic research with the Latinx 1.5 generation in California, conducted in two different periods: six months in 2011–2012 and six weeks in 2018, that is, before and after the installment of the DACA program. This research included thirty-six in-depth interviews (of more than three hours each) with individuals from the Latinx 1.5 generation, 400 hours of participant observations in the undocumented youth movement, a discourse analysis of relevant online (social media) postings, and many informal conversations.

My main argument stems from the twenty-six interviews I conducted in 2018. I also interviewed seven of these interviewees in 2011 and 2012. Of these (previously undocumented) twenty-six individuals, six now have US citizenship, eight have Lawful Permanent Residency, and eleven have DACA; one individual did not apply for DACA despite being eligible. All participants come from working-class backgrounds and were raised in low-income, disadvantaged neighborhoods characterized by gang violence and under-resourced schools. Despite their strong educational qualifications, in 2011, most were stuck in low-wage jobs because of their undocumented status. However, in 2018, all of them had attained ‘middle-class jobs’ in the social, cultural, educational, and nonprofit sectors.

All digitally recorded interviews were personally transcribed verbatim and inductively coded and analyzed. By conducting open coding of the individual interviews, I first identified certain themes and then cross-compared my findings to look for common patterns. Through an iterative process of constant comparison, I arrived at the analytical concepts that best described common trends.

Experiences of transitioning out of undocumented status

DACA changed my life dramatically. It just gave me a lot of stability. So that was the first time where I actually had a stable income, the first time that I felt like an actual employee somewhere. It was the first time where I had health insurance. I had a social security number. So I could get like simple things, like my own cellphone plan (laughs). And after I got DACA, I started looking for my own studio. I could apply for an apartment. And I have credit now. So it brought a lot of stability in terms of the everyday necessities. So when I got my apartment, it was also like the first time of having my own like appliances, my own bills. I received a check with my own name (laughs). So it was like very simple things that you should probably get taken care of in your early twenties, like all of us were figuring out in our late twenties. So I had like a lot more opportunities, and that definitely improved my sense of happiness and self-worth.

This excerpt from my interview with previously undocumented Norma, who became a DACA recipient after being undocumented for twenty-six years, illustrates that moving out of undocumented status affects previously undocumented immigrants in mundane, but cumulatively, profound and meaningful ways (Abrego 2018). As Norma makes explicit: the opportunities that DACA brought improved her sense of stability, happiness, and self-worth. However, although all participants expressed how transitioning from a fully undocumented status to DACA, LPR, or citizenship brought newfound joy, privileges, and opportunities (see also Abrego 2018; 2019), many paradoxically expressed that it came with particular emotional challenges, such as feeling guilty towards undocumented family members and experiencing ontological fragmentation and identity loss and confusion.

Individuals stressed that they experienced guilt, because they felt it unjust that they had gained rights and were now more protected against legal violence, while their loved ones were not. Many participants underscored that these feelings of (survivor) guilt were exacerbated, because they had once politically mobilized around the ‘Dreamer narrative’² which, they now felt, emphasized their migrant ‘deservingness’ vis-à-vis the law at the cost of others. In my conversations with Uriel, a thirty-year-old DACA recipient for whom DACA meant that he was able to work as a urban planner for the city of Los Angeles and buy a home, Uriel also discusses the emotional complexities he experienced surrounding his transition from an undocumented status to DACA, particularly in relation to his undocumented parents. Uriel:

DACA has given me a normal life. I’ve never had that sense of calmness I feel. And I feel very fortunate to have been able to fall along this idealistic Dreamer narrative that I really don’t identify myself with. I still identify myself as undocumented. I always tell people how much I hate that Dreamer term and the reason why is that I still have my parents who are undocumented. I can’t forget about them and their sacrifices are the reason why I am where I am. If it weren’t for their support, I wouldn’t have had the foundation, the goals, the morals that I have to value education, to value family. I’m not worried for myself. I am worried for my parents, cause now they are going to target my parents. And I can feel really bad about that, like guilty for having pushed for something that caused that. I think they are going to figure out what to do with us, cause we are in limbo. They have thousands of us under DACA. They are not just going to deport us. They are going to figure out one way or another how to continue DACA or how to grant us some type of pathway to legalization. Who we really should be focused on now is the rest of the community.

The interview excerpt illustrates that DACA, on the one hand, gave him a new sense of ‘calmness’ as it gave him the opportunity to live a ‘normal life’ (i.e. not being deported, being able to have a job that pays proper wages and matches his educational qualifications, the opportunity to buy a home). On the other hand, DACA made him feel guilty and worry about his parents and the rest of the community, as he felt that it came at the cost of higher rates of detention and deportation of undocumented immigrants who do not fit into the Dreamer frame.

Mixed-status families and the immigrant narrative

Previously undocumented individuals such as Uriel thus expressed experiences of survivor guilt in relation to their undocumented parents and community, because they are part of mixed-status families and communities in a context of uneven penalization of immigrants by the US legal regime. Whether undocumented immigrants can apply for DACA, TPS (Temporary Protective Status), LPR, or citizenship depends on different judicial-administrative criteria that many immigrants cannot meet and that (can) arbitrarily change (Coutin 2000; Gomberg-Muñoz 2015). This uneven penalization of and differentiation between undocumented immigrants causes feelings of injustice and guilt as ‘the fate of the most stigmatized undocumented populations are often also intimately connected with the lives and well-being of relatively more privileged DACAmented youth’ (Sirriyeh 2018, 12). Whereas previously undocumented immigrants, such as Uriel, might no longer continuously fear their own detention and deportation, they do still fear the deportation of their loved ones. As ‘illegality’ affects all members of mixed-status families, they all share in the risks, fears, burdens, and responsibilities associated with undocumented status, such as detention, deportation, poverty, exploitability, family separation and lack of access to resources (Abrego 2016, 2018; 2019). As such, previously undocumented immigrants have internalized this injustice and inequality by being uncomfortable with their privilege and experiencing survivor guilt.

Daniel, a previously undocumented, thirty-one-year-old Lawful Permanent Resident who is now on a pathway to citizenship but whose parents are still undocumented, reflects on this unevenness in the following manner:

So I am on my pathway to citizenship and I am so thankful for that. But I also remember that I am part of a mixed-status household and I still fight for undocumented people. … It has been a difficult process of reconciling like my ability to travel and understanding that people in my immediate family, still after so many years in this country, don’t have that opportunity.

In my interview with Pedro, a thirty-year-old DACA recipient whose mother is still undocumented, he also emphasized how he struggled with contradictory feelings related to gaining DACA because he felt it unfair towards other undocumented people. Although he expressed how DACA gave him joy, a sense of safety, and the opportunity to work as a multimedia coordinator, he also explained that he did not immediately apply for DACA because of this sense of injustice. Pedro:

I was very apprehensive about taking DACA. I didn’t want to, because I felt that it wasn’t fair for many people that were left out. But, on the other hand, because of DACA, I became happier, enjoying life a bit more, without feeling too guilty of like, yeah, I’m benefitting from this, but a lot of people are not. And so that was a struggle with me.

Martha, a twenty-eight-year-old DACA recipient who is applying for LPR and has an undocumented mother and a father with TPS, shares a similar experience. Martha: ‘One of the reasons why I didn’t apply right away was because of the guilt of like, how am I able to get all these privileges when my mom cannot?’ When I spoke to Martha’s closest friend, Julio, about his current application for LPR, he said, ‘It’s a constant battle with me, knowing that, like, I carry that guilt. I think that is one of the things that has been the most difficult for me, because I want to feel safe and have privilege.’ In Julio’s family, both his parents and his three older siblings are still undocumented and currently do not have a pathway towards more rights and protections.

Moreover, many participants are part of mixed-status families to whom they feel tremendous loyalty, gratitude, care, and solidarity. Interviewees often draw on the ‘immigrant narrative’ of parental struggle and sacrifice in retelling their success stories, stressing that ‘their parents worked hard, delayed their own gratification and placed their children’s needs above their own because they wanted to provide better opportunities for them’(Agius Vallejo and Lee 2009, 20). Consequently, because they feel that their life chances and success depended on the hard work and sacrifices of their parents, they have internalized the injustice of the legal regime in subjective experiences of privilege and guilt. In the large interview excerpt above, Uriel also draws on the immigrant narrative when he says about his parents: ‘their sacrifices are the reason why I am where I am’. In a similar fashion, Daniel reiterates the immigrant narrative when talking about his privilege. Daniel:

I was able to make it to UCLA because of my parents. I started my MBA program because of them. They have given everything for me to have the opportunities that I have today. When I adjusted my status, I saw it as a point of privilege and how I use that privilege to benefit my community. Having gone to UCLA, how can I bring that back to my community?

Because of these feelings of privilege, guilt, gratitude, and care, many participants expressed a desire to repay and stand in solidarity with their still undocumented families and communities by taking on extra financial, logistic, and social responsibilities (see also Abrego 2019; Agius Vallejo and Lee 2009), and by politically mobilizing for the rights of the larger undocumented community. By working hard and taking on extra responsibilities as a means of repaying their parents and loved-ones for their sacrifices, documented children seek ways to make the most of their privileges, thereby reifying notions of the ‘immigrant bargain’ (Abrego 2019; Rodriguez 2018).

Politicization, pressure, and social control within the immigrant rights movement

Moreover, these feelings of privilege, guilt, solidarity, and care are also fueled by processes of politicization, pressure, and social control within the immigrant rights movement. The participants of this study were all once active members of the undocumented youth movement, a social movement that successfully managed to attain important rights for undocumented youths, such as state educational legislation (e.g. the California Dream Act) and DACA. The political success of this movement centered on undocumented youths stressing their ‘deservingness’ by emphasizing their virtues as young, educated, and assimilated Dreamers (Abrego 2016; Fiorito 2019; Nicholls 2013), referring to the American dream and their fight for the Development Relief and Education for Alien Minors (DREAM) Act. However, they did not know that DACA would come at the cost of (or in exchange for) more immigration enforcement and higher rates of detention and deportation. While these youths received protection against deportation, other undocumented immigrants were more actively targeted. Consequently, many people felt that the survival of DACAmented youth depended on the penalization of other immigrants, leading to many undocumented youth being called-out for being divisive and selfish in their political strategy, thereby creating feelings of guilt and shame. As previously undocumented Claudio describes: ‘Mainstream immigrant rights organizations saw undocumented students as being selfish. They called us selfish and said we were dividing the movement’. Narratives, such as that of the ‘sell-out Dreamer’, can hence work as a social control mechanism (Benford 2002) aimed at pressuring relatively more privileged Latinx immigrants to stand in solidarity with and continue to fight for the rights of more underprivileged undocumented community members.

Furthermore, as these individual activists matured and went through a process of politicization, many organizers shifted into the larger immigrant rights movement and became more reflective and critical about the divisiveness of their previous messaging strategy. Many felt that they had ‘thrown their parents under the bus’ and had implicitly contributed to the criminalization of their parents by enhancing differentiations between undocumented immigrants (Fiorito 2019; Mena and Gomberg-Muñoz 2016). This is what Uriel refers to in the expert above when he stresses that he feels guilty for having pushed for something that caused the further targeting of other undocumented immigrants, and that because of that he hates the Dreamer term and feels that the movement should now focus on organizing for the rights of the larger undocumented community. Further on in our interview, he adds: ‘We used to be very pro-Dream Act. We were using this idealist narrative of the perfect immigrant. Some of us, through being politicized, now see it for what it is and it’s like, wait, hold on. Now, I hate that Dreamer term’.

Through processes of politicization and counterhegemonic discourses that circulate within the movement, previously undocumented immigrants no longer want to adhere to stereotypical, assimilationist notions of deservingness, but instead focus on structural, intersecting forces of inequality and injustice within the citizenship regime. As a result, previously undocumented immigrants such as Uriel, Daniel, Martha, and Claudio, actively seek ways of using their ‘privilege’ to repay their undocumented parents for the sacrifices they made and stand in loving solidarity with undocumented immigrants directly impacted by the legal violence of the immigration regime by taking on extra social and financial responsibilities and organizing for all 11 million undocumented immigrants in the US. Martha: ‘It’s like that constant guilt that we carry, because my parents can’t take a day off. They can’t just take that privilege that we have. Right now, I’m thinking how am I going to create more financial stability to support my parents?’

After the undocumented youth movement gained DACA, their organizing and messaging strategies became more inclusive and intersectional by fighting against the detention and deportation of all 11 million undocumented people in the US, including those with criminal convictions, and by explicitly becoming pro-black, pro-women, pro-queer, pro-trans, and pro-poor (Abrego and Negrón-Gonzales 2020; Escudero 2020). Daniel, who now works as the director of an immigrant justice organization, is adamant: ‘Immigrant young people have a responsibility to be as inclusive and as intersectional as possible’.

In my interview with Claudio, who became a US citizen through marriage after being undocumented for twelve years, he describes how he dealt with the tensions regarding his legalization by actively giving back to his family and community and continuing his work for the advancement of immigrant rights. Claudio:

Becoming documented has been a huge transition in my life, especially because I had found my identity within being undocumented. Just like facing the fact that many of my colleagues and friends are still undocumented and I am not, because I feel that it’s still not fair and I think, if I wasn’t involved and connected to the movement, I would be reacting differently to my adjustment of status. At the same time, it is something that brings joy and relief to me, my parents, and my wife, for the fact that I am not risking deportation anymore and I’m able to work. Now that I am documented, I see my future as being able to help my parents, my family, my relatives and hopefully continue doing the immigrants’ rights work that I’m doing.

The quote illustrates that while becoming documented brought Claudio joy and relief, he also experienced it as challenging as he felt in unfair towards others, which is partly because he was involved in and had become politicized by the movement. Consequently, he wanted to use his new found privilege by helping his undocumented family and community.

Undocumented subjectivities: transitioning into identity loss and confusion

What is also interesting about Claudio’s quote above, is that he stresses that becoming documented was a huge transition because he ‘had found his identity within being undocumented’. Something similar is mentioned by Uriel in the larger excerpt from his interview where he says that he ‘still identifies himself as undocumented’, which is understandable given that he spent most of his life – that is, 24 years – being undocumented. Many participants mentioned how the experience of transitioning out of undocumented status was accompanied by a sense of identity loss and confusion (or ontological fragmentation) because the undocumented experience had shaped their sense of self and had become part of their identities. Daniel refers to this emotional challenge explicitly when he says: ‘Everyone thinks that the transition is so easy, but it has a psychological toll on individuals. Having been undocumented for most of your life, it is your identity’.

Betty, who became a US citizen through marriage after being undocumented for twenty years, also expressed how after going through the legalization process, she felt completely lost (and ashamed), and experienced a sense of identity confusion. Betty:

I felt ashamed because I didn’t want to tell my friends and remind them that they are undocumented or to say that I’m in a different position. And also it was a realization for me like: Who am I? What’s my identity? I think some people do not want to adjust their status because it has become such a defining part of them. Because if you’re not undocumented, then who are you? Because being undocumented is such a big part of your life.

Almost all of the participants of this study were undocumented during their childhood, adolescence, and twenties. What that signifies is that, through that lived experience of being undocumented, the legal violence and discursive power of the citizenship regime became inscribed in their minds and bodies in lasting ways. It has durably shaped their subjectivities, that is, their ‘thoughts, sentiments, and embodied sensibilities, and, especially, their senses of self and self-world relations’ (Holland and Leander 2004, 127).

The legal violence, i.e. ‘normalized physical, structural, and symbolic violence made possible through the law’ (Menjívar and Abrego 2012), became embodied in their subjectivities through the constant threat of detention and deportation, – causing anxiety and fear – as well as through the profound effects of not being able to partake in everyday, mundane activities, such as driving a car, travelling, having a ‘normal’ job, using a credit card. It creates a ‘legal consciousness’ rooted in shame, stigma, and the fear of detention and deportation (Abrego 2011, 2018). This is particularly relevant for Latinx undocumented immigrants, as Latinx immigrants are disproportionately targeted and penalized by US immigration practices, and the increased militarization of the US-Mexico border and the expansion of interior enforcement have led to higher rates of detention, deportation, and family separation among Latinx immigrants (Gomberg-Muñoz 2015, 2016; Lopez 2019). Furthermore, the discursive and symbolic power of the citizenship regime also becomes embodied in the subjectivities of undocumented Latinx immigrants through the internalization of stigmatizing discourses within media and political discourse in which undocumented Latinx immigrants are stereotypically and derogatorily positioned and othered, and constructed as a ‘moral threat to the nation’ (Chavez 2008).

Building on the insights of the ‘legal consciousness’ framework (Abrego 2011, 2018; Menjívar 2011), I argue that the legal and discursive power and violence of the US citizenship regime not only manifests itself in the consciousness of undocumented immigrants, but also in their durably embodied undocumented subjectivities. The legal violence, ‘deportability’ (De Genova 2002) and ‘abjectivity’ (Gonzales and Chavez 2012) that undocumented people experience on a daily basis creates an ever-present anxiety and ‘hyper awareness to the law’ (Menjívar 2011) that becomes embodied in a lasting ‘mode of being-in-the-world’ (Gonzales and Chavez 2012, 256). ‘The condition of illegality not only constrains daily life but can leave an indelible imprint on identity’ (Ibid.: 266).

In my interview with Betty, she describes how she still suffers from this ‘hyper awareness to the law’ that is durably embodied in her subjectivity despite gaining citizenship six years ago. ‘I am a US citizen now’, she says. ‘Not that I have forgotten, it always stays with you. I’m still very afraid of the cops and get very nervous. I don’t have a reason for it, but, like I’m constantly hyper alert, because I was always on hyper alert. It just stays with you.’ Thus, while participants may no longer be undocumented, they are unable to let go of the anxiety, trauma, and tension that come with being undocumented. Pedro:

They officially diagnosed me with anxiety. It was all that anxiety and stress I had with me for all those years. It took a toll on my body. Your body tenses up when you see the police. It’s like your body already knows what to do. It has learned how to do that and it goes there again and again and again.

What these quotes from Betty and Pedro show is that, because they have repeatedly and for a prolonged period of time experienced the anxiety and stress that come with undocumented status, that trauma and lived undocumented experience now continues to live in their minds and bodies (or subjectivities) even after transitioning out of undocumented status. As a consequence, previously undocumented immigrants still identify as undocumented and feel genuine empathy, sympathy, and solidarity for those who continue to be personally impacted by the legal violence of the citizenship regime, resulting in experiences of survivor guilt for personally having escaped that legal violence while their undocumented loved ones have not.

Let me stress here that by bringing in the concept of undocumented subjectivities, I do not propose a singular, monolithic conceptualization of the undocumented experience or subjectivity, as participants’ interior lives and sense of self are shaped by a myriad of lived experiences related to the intersections of race, class, gender, sexuality, ability and so forth (Abrego and Negrón-Gonzales 2020). What I argue is that undocumented immigrants internalize the stigmatizing discourses and exclusionary practices they encounter in everyday life in durable ways. Because the undocumented experience has shaped their sense of self, relationships, and mental and physical health and wellbeing, previously undocumented participants cannot simply shed that experience after they become documented, particularly in a context of uneven penalization of their loved ones and politicization. Therefore, they experience survivor guilt, ontological fragmentation (i.e. identity loss or confusion), and a desire to use their privilege to give back to and stand in solidarity with their undocumented loved ones and community, because they intimately understand and profoundly identify with the undocumented experience and identity. Hence, despite transitioning out of undocumented status, they cannot fully escape the risks, fears, burdens and tensions that come with being undocumented.

Conclusion

This paper has analyzed and theorized the experiences of politicized, 1.5-generation Latinx immigrants transitioning out of undocumented status through DACA, LPR, or US citizenship in a context of ongoing legal violence towards undocumented immigrants. I have shown that despite significant differences between the opportunities and protections that come with having DACA, LPR, and naturalized citizenship status, the emotional experiences of gaining more rights and privileges than undocumented family and community members are surprisingly similar. While much research rightfully emphasizes that transitioning out of undocumented status brings with it new socioeconomic opportunities and experiences of joy, pride, wellbeing, and belonging, I have shown that it is also an emotionally challenging process as it also comes with feelings of survivor guilt, ontological fragmentation or identity loss and confusion, and wanting to take up new financial, logistic, and social responsibilities as a way of repaying, and standing in solidarity with, undocumented family and community members.

My findings and analysis have shown that these experiences of survivor guilt, ontological fragmentation, and taking on extra responsibilities as a means of giving back are related to (1) their mixed-status families in the context of uneven penalization of undocumented immigrants, (2) the immigrant narrative of struggle and sacrifice, (3) politicization, pressure, and social control within the immigrant rights movement, and (4) their durably embodied undocumented subjectivities.

Firstly, I have shown that previously undocumented immigrants experience survivor guilt, because they are part of mixed-status families and communities in a context of uneven penalization of immigrants. They feel it unfair and unjust that they now have more rights and protections, while other undocumented immigrants, such as their parents, are more heavily targeted and penalized by the legal regime.

Secondly, because participants feel tremendous loyalty and gratitude towards their parents for giving them the foundation for their current life chances and success, – thereby drawing on the ‘immigrant narrative’ of parental struggle and sacrifice – they want to repay and stand in solidarity with their still undocumented families and communities by taking on extra responsibilities and by politically mobilizing for the rights of the larger undocumented community.

Thirdly, these feelings of guilt and solidarity are also fueled by processes of politicization, pressure, and social control within the immigrant rights movement. As undocumented youth became more politicized, they also became more reflective about the divisiveness of the Dreamer narrative and realized that DACA came in exchange for higher deportation rates. Consequently, the undocumented youth movement became more inclusive and intersectional by organizing for all 11 million undocumented people in the US, including those with criminal convictions.

Fourthly, because previously undocumented immigrants have internalized the stigmatizing discourses, exclusionary practices, and legal violence they repeatedly experienced as undocumented immigrants within their durably embodied undocumented subjectivities, they still profoundly identify with the undocumented identity and can experience a sense of identity loss and confusion (ontological fragmentation) after transitioning. Moreover, because they intimately understand the anxiety and trauma that come with being undocumented, they feel genuine empathy, sympathy, and solidarity for those who continue to be directly impacted, resulting in experiences of survivor guilt for personally having escaped legal violence while their undocumented loved ones have not.

Allow me to make one final remark about the experience of joy in the transitioning process. While I think it important to also include the element of joy when theorizing and writing about the transition process, this paper has aimed to show the emotional complexity and challenge of transitioning. The paradoxical complexity of it is that, despite all the new found opportunities, privileges, and protections that come with documented legal ‘status’, previously undocumented people also experience negative emotions such as survivor guilt, because they are embedded in a context of uneven penalization of, and sustained legal violence towards, undocumented immigrants. The fragile fates of their undocumented family and community members thus affect the emotional experience of the transitioning process. Hence, this paper has shown the significance of family and community ties in resisting the individualizing and atomizing effects of the citizenship regime, thereby challenging hegemonic notions of state-based citizenship as the ultimate form of political subjectivity. It thereby contributes to our scholarly understanding of the profound effects of legal violence and builds upon and advances more relational, rather than individual-centered, analysis of citizenship and the citizenship regime.

Acknowledgements

I would like to acknowledge and thank the two anonymous reviewers, the assistant and associate editors of Citizenship Studies, and Nele Ysebaert and Dirk Eisema for sharing their insights and providing me with constructive feedback on previous drafts of this article.

Disclosure statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).

Additional information

Notes on contributors

Tara Fiorito

Dr. Tara Fiorito is an Assistant Professor of Sociology at the Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam (VU) in the Netherlands.

Notes

1. Latinx is used here as a gender-neutral (nonbinary), pan-ethnic identifier of people of Latin American descent living in the United States. The term is increasingly being used by activists, scholars, and journalists to move beyond gender binaries and to be more inclusive of all Latin American descendants. The people quoted in this paper use the term Latinx themselves.

2. The Dreamer narrative rests on three central tropes that stresses the ‘deservingness’ of undocumented youth that migrated to the US as minors, thereby implicitly drawing boundaries between different ‘categories’ of undocumented immigrants. The Dreamer narratives emphasizes that Dreamers: 1) are not to blame for their ‘illegality’ because they came to the country ‘not by fault of their own’, 2) contribute to society because they excel in school and are the ‘best and the brightest of their generation’, and 3) are ‘assimilated and patriotic Americans’ who speak English perfectly and enjoy typical American things like American football (Fiorito 2019; Nicholls 2013).