Nonetheless, the Dream Act has some bipartisan support, and in this political climate, it’s one of the only immigration bills with any shot of passing. Last month, Senator Richard J. Durbin, the Illinois Democrat and chief sponsor of the bill, planned to attach the Dream Act as an amendment to the defense authorization bill, which included the controversial repeal of “don’t ask, don’t tell.” The package stalled when supporters were unable to muster the 60 votes needed to overcome a Republican filibuster. Among Dream Act opponents is Senator John McCain, who co-sponsored a version of the Dream Act in 2007. This year, during which he faced a tough-on-immigration candidate in the primaries, he said he would not support the Dream Act without tighter border controls. Meanwhile, Durbin plans to push it as a stand-alone bill, either in the coming lame-duck session or next year.

In the midst of the political wrangling, the Dream Act advocates — most of them in their early to mid-20s — have become the most outspoken and daring wing of the immigration movement. Borrowing tactics from the civil rights and gay rights movements, in the last year they have orchestrated dozens of demonstrations, hunger strikes, “coming out” events — publicly revealing their undocumented status — and sit-ins in federal offices, risking both arrest and deportation.

Several of these events — like much of the movement — have been largely powered by women, according to many advocates. At recent sit-ins, two-thirds of those arrested were women, including founders and leaders of their local Dream organizations. Women have also stuck with the movement long after many men have dropped out or burned out. Lizbeth Mateo, co-founder of Dream Team Los Angeles, said she and other leaders tried to get more undocumented men to participate in a sit-in in McCain’s Arizona office this year. “We wanted to balance it out,” she said. But with one exception, the men said they were not ready.

Many of these women are daughters of nannies, housekeepers, landscapers — a generation of immigrants who tended to keep a low profile. In contrast, their daughters have been schooled in a more vocal American culture. “We did what we were supposed to do,” Fabiola, an undocumented activist and a recent U.C.L.A. graduate who came to the United States from Mexico as a toddler, told me. “We are the cream of the crop. But because of something we had no choice in, our entire lives are on hold.” Living in the shadows, she said, is no longer acceptable.

The apartment where Leslie and four other students live during the school year is a 10-minute walk from campus and is well known among U.C.L.A.’s undocumented population. It’s called the Cabin because of its knotty-pine walls, which make the rooms feel both dark and rustic. The students pay $250 each for the 700-square-foot apartment. In many ways it is typical college housing: an Indian tapestry covers one wall, and flimsy curtains hang on some windows. On the kitchen countertop, cereal, Coffee-Mate and Cheetos Puffs share space with the staple of the college diet, ramen noodles. Up a set of stairs is the sleeping loft, with one small desk and five beds, leaving just enough remaining room to negotiate getting to and from the apartment’s one bathroom.

Before moving in, Leslie, like most of her Cabin roommates, commuted to save money on housing. She caught a 7 a.m. bus, the first of two that would take her two hours to U.C.L.A. from East Los Angeles. At night, she returned home again, sometimes with her friend Ilse. The bus, crowded with nannies and housekeepers traveling home from L.A.’s wealthy Westside, drove along Sunset Boulevard, passing Bel Air and Beverly Hills and the 20-foot hedges and equally tall gates guarding mansions, making the “Private Entry” signs seem redundant. For Ilse, whose family is also from Mexico, it was a metaphor for her struggles to pay for school and to be part of the college experience. “It was like everything was telling us to keep out,” she said.