In this op-ed, Yosimar Reyes explains why undocumented immigrants need to be given power over their own stories — and their own lives.

I am powerful – and I’ve always known that.

When I was 10, my abuela told me I was undocumented. She did this not to scare me but to convey that I would have to work twice as hard to make something of myself in this country. At an early age, I was forced to make peace with the fact that my life as an undocumented queer was going to be one filled with challenges — the biggest one being not allowing the limitations set for me by the government to stop me from living a life filled with joy.

Coming out of the shadows was not a phenomenon for me. I grew up in East San Jose, California, in a community with strong, established mechanisms for survival. We created our own rules to keep afloat and an “underground railroad” of resources. You’d know which coyote was reliable to cross your loved ones over and which jobs hired undocumented people.

I never saw my life as an undocumented person as anything worth discussing. I never imagined that in the future, there would be scholars forensically analyzing the ways in which we survive.

“Undocumented” has never been my identity. It is a social condition constructed by the U.S. government that keeps me from my dreams.

Immigration entered the national spotlight in 2006, with the “Great American Boycott,” on May 1. Despite the fact that undocumented immigrants had been living in the U.S. long before 2006, our little boycott garnered international attention. Reporters and filmmakers became interested in our narratives. The media went wild looking for all the undocumented people they could showcase. Due to social media trends, journalists were able to immediately access young people brought here as kids who wanted to pursue higher education. The stage was set for us to become DREAMers, a term born out of a piece of failed federal legislation called the DREAM Act.

We saw a rise of undocumented people being featured in news specials and documentaries. It was particularly interesting that we were constantly asked to relive our trauma: “How did you find out you were ille- I mean, undocumented?”

But instead of being asked to recount our pains to better understand ourselves as undocumented people, our narratives were weaponized to create a moral crisis for citizens — a bloc of people with actual voting power.

The very same autonomous, independent undocumented people I grew up with were chopped and edited to become victims with no agency. None of this made sense. I never wanted to be showcased crying on camera. Being undocumented was an experience only to be shared with folks in my same predicament. We did not and do not need saving. What we needed was for people to understand how this country reaps and exploits the (often literal) fruits of our labor, so that we could move forward with creating practical immigration laws that make sense.

We needed them to see that immigration is not a people problem but one set forth by racialized policies. The immigration conversation has been framed as a social problem, but we need citizens to understand that immigration is a racial justice issue. Certain immigrants are targeted as being “problematic” based on their race.

Beyond being undocumented within the borders of the U.S., we represent migrants globally who are forced to leave their homes because of the economic imperialism countries like the U.S. have over our homelands.