If they failed to win the vote, the Senate would move on to the next item of business, including the cloture vote on an effort to repeal the military’s controversial policy of “Don’t ask, don’t tell” for the LGBTQ communities. Like the young immigrants gathered in the gallery, queer activists viewed their bill as a last chance to move the ball forward before the new Congress was sworn in.
The speeches were beginning. Hareth sat back and squeezed her friend Karen’s hand.
“I rise in support of the two very important votes we are having today. The DREAM Act is a moral imperative,” New York Democratic senator Kirsten Gillibrand said when it was her turn to take the floor, addressing both the DREAM Act and the repeal of “Don’t ask, don’t tell” in one speech.7 Of the DREAM Act, she said, “Young people who have come to this country through no fault of their own, who want nothing but to achieve the American dream, either through education or through military service—but they want to be part of this community and be able to give back to this community and in a country that was founded on immigrants, where the richness of our heritage and culture, and the breath of our economy, is due to our immigrants, we want to make sure every one of these young people can become an American citizen.”
South Carolina Republican senator Lindsey Graham spoke against both bills, even though he had once been Esther Olavarria’s hope for Republican support in the Senate. He began with “Don’t ask, don’t tell”: “Repeal as it is being envisioned today could compromise focus on the battlefield,” he insisted, adding that military leaders opposed ending the policy.
Graham then turned to immigration, and it was almost as if he were speaking directly to Hareth. “To those who have come to my office, you are always welcome to come, but you are wasting your time. We are not going to pass the DREAM Act or any other legalization program until we secure our borders,” he said, adding he opposed the concept of the stand-alone bill that failed to address the larger immigration issue. “The best thing for the United States Senate to do, the House to do, the administration to do, is work together to secure our borders before we do anything else.”8
Hareth thought back to the previous spring, to the night she had sprawled across the floor of Antonella’s bedroom and they had discovered each other’s status, how her life had changed since then. She shifted in her seat and turned her eyes from the Senate floor back to the balcony. Gaby Pacheco from the Trail of Dreams was there. She also saw Carlos Saavedra and Julieta Garibay in the crowd. She was too shy to wave. Besides, they looked preoccupied.
They were. Both knew it was unlikely the bill would make it. Despite all their work, Kay Hagan and others had refused to commit, fearing repercussions at the ballot box. On the way to the Capitol, Carlos had confessed to Julieta how worried he was. He’d promised his younger brother he’d get the bill passed in time for his graduation. That time was now.
Although she was just thirty, Julieta, the nursing graduate from Texas, was among that core group considered DREAM elders. Only days before, Carlos had called her with bad news: in a deal to push the bill through, Reid and Durbin had agreed to cut off eligibility at age twenty-nine.
This DREAM Act they’re going to pass, it’s not going to include you, he told her.
Julieta had been fighting for the bill for more than half a decade. And now all that she had worked for—if it passed—would leave her in the dust. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but she thought of all the young immigrants she had mentored, who were depending on her. How could she leave them now? She had promised to fight for them, and she would. Before she could even fully process the information, reporters had begun to ring, asking for a response. Someone asked if she’d consider going back to Mexico. She’d laughed. She’d actually tried that. Like Tania, she had returned in 1998 after high school, thinking it was the only way she could go to college. Except she had actually enrolled at the university there, but her academic Spanish had been too poor, and she’d felt lost in the culture.
If one listened closely to the senators’ speeches that morning, it wasn’t hard to tell where at least part of the day was headed. Speech after speech argued for and then against repealing “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Some senators, including Graham, said letting gay and lesbians serve openly would put the military at risk. But most of those who opposed the change argued in favor of waiting a little longer or letting the military set the timetable. It wasn’t so much a question of “Should we, or shouldn’t we?”; it was a question of when.
The discussion about the DREAM Act was different. It wasn’t about stalling for time. A wide gulf still existed between those who supported the bill and those who opposed it.
“I’m asking for what is in effect an act of political courage,” pleaded Dick Durbin, who had pushed to get Reid to bring the bill to the floor. “If you can summon the courage to vote for the DREAM Act today, you will join ranks with senators before you who have come to the floor of this United States [Senate] and made history with their courage, who stood up and said the cause of justice is worth the political risk.”9
Playing on the military theme of the day, he rattled off the names of accomplished youths who were unable to serve their country because of an immigration status they had no choice over, including David, with a 4.2 average as a senior at the University of California, Los Angeles, the leader of the school band, who wanted to join the air force.
But Arizona Republican John Kyl wasn’t having it. The senator called the bill a placebo. “The DREAM Act is an attempt to cure a symptom,” he said. “Treating symptoms of the problem might make us feel better because we’re doing something for a particular group of folks, but it can allow the underlying problem to metastasize.”10
South Carolina Republican Jeff Sessions weighed in most expansively, touching on the fears of many Americans, even those who sympathized with the youths in the gallery: “If we pass this amnesty, we will signal to the world that we are not serious about enforcement of our laws or our borders. It will say you can make plans to bring in your brother, your sister, your cousin, your nephew, your friend into the country illegally as a teenager, and there will be no principled reason in the future for the next Congress sitting not to pass another DREAM Act, and it will only be a matter of time before that next group that is here illegally will make the same heartfelt pleas we hear today.”11
IN A SMALL fifth-floor apartment in Atlanta, Felipe kept one eye on the C-SPAN speeches as he readied his laptop screen to video chat with his peers in cities nationwide. He’d spent the last few weeks in rural North Carolina communities, trying to put pressure on Senator Hagan.
“She kept saying all the support for the bill was coming from the big cities,” he said of the campaign. “Since the state is mostly rural, she needed to hear from them.” So he and others had persuaded mayors from small towns to send her letters. Hagan had seemed impressed, and Felipe was optimistic.
Ever since the Trail, undocumented teens around the country had looked to Felipe for encouragement. The responsibility both energized and exhausted him. That day, his role, as usual, would be to bolster the troops. “Hello, Memphis! Hello, Austin! Hey, Kansas City!” He called out to the groups on his computer screen.
Felipe and his friends mostly ignored the speeches. He had heard so many speeches on the issue that at this point he could argue both sides if he wanted to. One hour passed. Then another. Glancing up again at the TV in the corner of the small apartment a volunteer had opened up to the group for the day, Felipe suddenly noticed the clerk calling for a vote. Everyone grew quiet.
The senators strode to the front of the floor one by one and cast their voice votes. It was all so casual yet orderly. The act picked up votes from three Republicans: Bob Bennett of Utah, as well as Richard Lugar of Indiana, who had cosigned the letter with Durbin urging Obama to halt the deportation of DREAM Act–eligible students until the vote. “Yea,” came the voice of Alaska senator Lisa Murkowski, too.
Veteran Republican senator Orrin Hatch
, also of Utah, who had sponsored the first Dream Act bill back in 2001, had skipped the vote for a family event, calling it a “cynical exercise” to rush it through during the lame-duck session of Congress. Democratic senator Joe Manchin of West Virginia was also a no-show, attending a family Christmas party. So, too, were Republicans Jim Bunning of Kentucky and Judd Gregg of New Hampshire.
Maine’s two moderate Republicans, whom the young activists had hoped to sway, voted no.
But to their surprise, McCaskill cast a “yea.” Privately, her daughter had been lobbying her in favor of the vote, even as she had remained on the fence up to the last minute. In the end, her daughter’s arguments won out. “Merry Christmas, honey!” McCaskill told her daughter after the vote.12
Hagan went. She could cast the deciding vote if necessary, but it was already clear, with forty votes against the bill, that her vote would not be enough to swing the outcome. They would still be four short of reaching the sixty needed, yet Felipe held his breath. He could take heart at least that they had helped change her mind.
“Nay,” she said.
“The motion is rejected,” the Senate clerk announced. “Under the previous order, there will now be two minutes of debate.”
The shouts from the gallery were inaudible on TV but loud enough in the hall that the presiding senator that morning, Delaware Democrat Chris Coons, twice banged his gavel. “The Senate will be in order!” he shouted.
It was all so swift. Hareth had closed her eyes as Karen held her hand in a vise grip. She wasn’t sure she could listen. Her heart pounded, making it hard to concentrate on the voices below. Now someone was pulling on her sleeve. Time to go.
Wait. What?
It was over. She’d missed it: 55 to 41. Five votes. They’d lost by five votes. The senators were already moving on to the next item of business. Every dream she’d conjured up over the last year as she had lobbied on the Hill, every dream she could remember, dissolved. Hareth willed herself not to cry. Later friends would accuse her of being cold, but her mother had taught her early on not to waste time with tears.
Quickly the Senate repealed “Don’t ask, don’t tell” by a margin of sixteen votes. Now the senators were debating a strategic arms treaty and preparing to confirm federal judges.
As the young immigrants filed out of the gallery, still in shock, they passed a group of jubilant LGBTQ activists. Hareth stared at them. They’d won, and the DREAMers hadn’t? How could that be?
“It took us seventeen years,” one man called. The young activists winced. They couldn’t wait seventeen years.
Outside, the chanting started up again: “Undocumented and unafraid!”
The media began filming. All those clips Hareth had seen of immigrant activists over the years had been from moments like this, she suddenly thought. And now I am part of this. Whatever “this” was. There was no turning back.
Gaby Pacheco stood in front of a cluster of microphones, trembling inside. She was furious. The Democratic lawmakers were congratulating themselves and those who had voted in favor of the DREAM Act, already blaming those on the other side of the aisle for the loss.
She didn’t want to hear the finger-pointing. This was not a courageous vote, she told the phalanx of reporters. It was not courageous to vote on the side of justice. It was simply the right thing to do.
Gaby found herself being ushered through the Capitol, down a series of hallways, and to the Senate majority leader’s office, where a number of the veteran immigration advocates were preparing for an interview with Univision.
Gaby wanted to speak, but looking around the room she felt suddenly stuck. They would use her name and her image to represent DREAMers, to show support for Reid and for the Democrats. She had campaigned for Reid, she had supported him, but a failed vote during a lame-duck session of Congress was not what she had hoped for.
After the interview, Gaby approached Reid and leaned into his ear. “You know this is not enough,” she whispered. “You can do more, and you know the president can give us deferred action.”
In the White House that afternoon, aides who had fought for a repeal of “Don’t ask, don’t tell” celebrated, while their colleagues who’d pushed for the DREAM Act fought back tears.13
In Costa Rica, Marie mechanically made the necessary phone calls to reporters who had come to rely on her for quick responses. But sitting at the table in her mother’s Puntarena home, she felt far away from it all. Her father’s death, the bill’s failure. She had already half wanted a break from the activism. Now she knew she desperately needed one.
THE DREAM ACT’S FAILURE was not the end, not by a long shot. But it felt that way to many of the young immigrants Felipe comforted that day in Atlanta and across the country.
“This is a setback. We will win the war,” he said, throwing out any military cliché he could think of. He spoke with Jorge Ramos from Univision and helped coordinate a national response for United We Dream. On camera, his smile rarely wavered.
In Los Angeles, a few miles away downtown, Juan sat in a conference room at the nonprofit Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights of Los Angeles. The room was packed, seats and standing room filled way beyond the official sixty-person capacity, laptops lining the tables. For three days, Juan had arrived at 5 a.m. to work the phone bank, calling lawmakers to encourage them to vote in favor of the bill.
Each student would call and tell a senator’s staff the same thing: “I am a Dreamer. My future is at stake, and you have the power to change my life forever.”
As soon as he heard the final nay vote, Juan began calling undocumented friends back in Florida. “I just needed to hear their voices. I was begging them not to give up.”
He called Felipe, but there was no time to talk between interviews and check-ins.
Juan saw an interview on TV with another undocumented activist, Renata Teodoro of Boston, and he stopped to watch it. The twenty-two-year-old Brazilian native and her sister had grown up in Massachusetts and had been living on their own for two years, ever since their mother and brother had been deported. Asked what she would like to tell other young people like herself, Renata responded,” I want to ask them all to cry, because we have a right to cry. There are so many people who are going to push us to go out the next day and be hopeful . . . but right now I just want to cry.”
The words hit home. Juan had so many microphones shoved in his face, and he knew the press wanted something pithy, something about them being strong. But he had nothing to say. Renata was right. There would be time for the next battle. Now was the time to cry.
Not until hours later, as Felipe finally slumped into a seat at the Atlanta airport en route home to Miami, was he able to dial Juan again. Alone at last among strangers, his practiced confidence faded as Juan picked up the phone.
“Why do they hate us so much?” he asked.
8
NEW PATHS
Dario Guerrero waits to talk with a professor while his sister Andrea plays in Cambridge, Massachusetts, May 2013.
Dario Guerrero was finishing his homework in the Cal State Dominguez Hills campus library, where his magnet high school was housed, when his phone buzzed in late December 2010. He’d followed the vote in the Senate but only barely. He’d been focused on school and sports and college applications.
Now he looked down at the caller ID, puzzled. It was a Boston area code. His heart began to race. He answered the call and ran out to the front steps of the library.
An admissions officer from Harvard University broke the good news. Dario had won an undergraduate spot, with enough financial aid to cover academics, room, and board. A letter confirming the admission was on its way. Dario’s mouth hung open.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!” he repeated. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He hung up the phone and jumped into the air, pumping his fist as he let out a whoop of joy.
He called his mom that afternoon. She couldn’t believe it, but she was happy at first mostly to hear that so
meone was going to pay for him to go to college. She’d heard of the school, knew that Dario had dreamed of going there, and had even talked with him about applying. She also knew he wanted to drive a fancy car and live in New York someday. She had humored all of his ambitions equally. Only later, after she began telling the other moms she volunteered with at Andrea’s school about the news, and saw their expressions, did it slowly sink in what acceptance into Harvard University might mean for her son.
“You did it, m’hijo, you did it!” Dario Sr. cried that night. DREAM Act or no, his son was safe for now.
A few weeks later, Dario’s father asked him to go for a ride and give him some help with work. Dario groaned, thinking his father wanted assistance unloading materials from his truck or some other task, but he agreed. They arrived in Beverly Hills, where his father sometimes worked, and on a side street they stopped in front of a parked red Ford Mustang convertible. It wasn’t new, but it was sleek and shiny and pretty much everything Dario had dreamed of.
“Félicitaciones!” his father said, grinning. “You earned it.”
Dario wanted to tell his father he was crazy, that he didn’t need that car, that he shouldn’t have spent money on something like this, even if a friend had done him the favor of refurbishing it. He didn’t even have a license because of his immigration status. But all he could do was grin stupidly.
It wasn’t a completely foolhardy purchase. Dario Sr. had made the calculations. Yes, it was risky to have his son drive, but they lived in suburban California. Every undocumented immigrant he knew took that risk on a daily basis. His son would likely be driving or in a car with friends driving no matter what, and he trusted his son over his son’s friends behind the wheel.
More than that, the fifteen years Dario Sr. had lived in the United States had taught him a few things about how to avoid the police and immigration authorities. Driving a nice car, provided one drove responsibly and without loud music, was one way. Officers were more likely to stop an old car and to assume the driver might not have a license or legal status than a well-cared-for, expensive model.
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