Untitled by Haley Mulka

I am uncounted

I am unnumbered

I am undocumented

The only home I have even known is the United States. The area we live in is not the greatest, but not the worst either. There are broken, dilapidated, graffiti-covered buildings surrounding us. A rusted bridge struggles to remain upright as cars cross. But we have a better place than that and everything is okay.

Having grown up here, my mother tongue is English. I am a good student. I have a 3.98 GPA and scored a 30 on my ACT. But I am uncounted, unnumbered, undocumented, and most think I am lying about that. I am a writer. I love to write and am told I write well. I am not a liar.

I want to go to college, but there are 10 boxes that scare me. These boxes reveal that I am no one. I am unrecognized, uncounted, undocumented, and most colleges will not allow someone like me to walk the hallways or enter the classrooms.

I try to work, but since I can’t get a license I can’t drive to a job. I could walk to local places, but most are too scared to hire me. “I could get in trouble,” they say. I will be in trouble. I’ll either remain broke, forever ensnared in this cycle of poverty, or have to sell myself for cash…paper…survival…all because I am broken, powerless, undocumented.

People think I should do the right thing: apply for citizenship. I am afraid. My brother tried that and was deported to his “home country,” a place he doesn’t remember and knows little about. I could put my parents in jeopardy; then where would I go? What would I do? My situation would deteriorate and become more desperate than it is now. If that is the right thing, then I’ll gladly be wrong.

And forever remain

broken,

powerless,

undocumented.

No One.