Undocumented or not, my dreams got to see another sunrise today and may live to see the sunset without setting with it. My dreams made it past a border that not every dream gets to cross.

It is not always easy to keep hopeful when you find yourself constantly having to validate your humanity. 26 years later I am still repeating that I do pay taxes and by tomorrow those same people that I told will have forgotten. However, I do not center my humanity around my economic contribution. I center my humanity around the notion and understanding that my ancestors have seized the day and dared to dream for generations before me. I stand firm on lands that they once walked on. You see migration is a human right, but not everyone that sets off on their journey makes it to their destination.

In January of 1992, my dad kissed my mother goodbye while she cradled me in her arms. He would travel for miles on end from Michoacán to Tijuana which is a distance of 1,543 miles. That’s the equivalent of 60 marathons. This doesn’t include the many other borders that our sisters and brothers from Central America and other countries have to cross in order to make it to Tijuana. My dad was only 21 when he crossed and he recalls that it took him six attempts to successfully cross. He got caught a few times and faced near death experiences, but by the seventh attempt he had finally made it to this side.

Later that year my mother and I would make the journey to reunite with my dad. She was also only 21 years old at the time. We would leave all of our belongings behind with only the clothes on our backs, but we did not make the journey together. I remember my mom telling me about how she hid in the bushes, her body pressed against thorns and splinters that pierced her skin. She tells me about how she ran as fast as she could to keep up. My mom recalls that when it was time to jump over the border fence, another woman that crossed with her got her finger sliced by the barbed wire. This woman lost too much blood and it was too late when the ambulance got to her. Her dreams died just a short distance from the wall. My mother kept reminding herself that the sooner she made it across then the sooner she would be able to hold me again.

I waited for my mother on this side and when we were together we went off to reunite with my father. The dreams of my parents made it past a border that not every dream gets to cross. Among them were hopes for myself and their unborn children. At nine months old, I believe that I was too young to dream. However, my parents taught me to dream here in the United States and they never once told me that any dream was too big or beyond reach. Here we are today 26 years later and I have two younger citizen brothers that make our family that much more precious.

My parents risked their lives and left behind all they knew. They came close to death and watched other dreams die right before their eyes. In the first seven months of 2017, 232 dreams died at the border and this was an increase in the 204 dreams that died in the same span of months of 2016. The number of dreams attempting to make it across dropped by the tens of thousands between 2016 and 2017, but more dreams are dying nonetheless. I share this because your fears, your frustration, your anxiety, your depression, your uncertainty is very much valid. However, I want you to remember that your dream made it through. You will hurt, you will cry, you will scream, and this country may break your heart again and again, but hold onto even the last drop of hope and let it fuel your will to keep your dream alive.

They can shutdown our government, but they can’t shut down our dreams. Prior to the shutdown my dreams were very much live, during the shutdown they were still alive, and even now I hold them close. Dream Act or no Dream Act our dreams still live on. You dreamed before you knew what the Dream Act was and you will continue to dream no matter what. You give the Dream Act value and function, but the Dream Act does not define your value or function.

Your dreams made it past a border that not every dream gets to cross.

Soon I became empowered and embodied what it meant to be undocumented and unafraid because I learned my rights. I recognized that I deserved dignity and respect regardless of my immigtation status, and so did my parents. I was part of the national push for the DREAM Act 2010.

I recall my parents time and time again saying, “It’s fine if we aren’t granted a pathway to citizenship, as long as they create a pathway for you.” I looked at my parents with admiration because what they expressed was among the most selfless affirmations. I was extremely naive.

This movement will do that to you. Those against us will do that to you. Conquer and divide with narratives that have you validating your demand for opportunities while you disregard the humanity of those that have done so much for you to be where you are. This includes the DREAMer narrative.

I was naive because I failed to look at my parents to tell them, “No! My goals and aspirations, my relief and peace of mind should not come at the expense of yours.” At the time, I failed to view my parents beyond the lens of their son. I failed to view my parents for the human beings they are beyond any role or connection they have in my life. How many more reiterations of their dreams will my mother and father have to devise? How many more reiterations of the DREAM Act, DACA, CIR and other legislation will we recycle before all of our humanity and dreams are at the forefront?

Years went on and in 2015 my parents adjusted their status to legal permanent residents after 23 long years. I remember the expression of guilt they tried to hide because I was not able to adjust with them. The irony right…my parents would have given up everything for me to have this long sought relief before them. I stand before them everyday still waiting. I never explicitly told my parents, but I want them to know that they are not guilty of anything. You are not guilty of making the journey 25 years ago because you put me first every step of the way. You are not guilty of your relief while I still wait because there is no doubt in my mind that if you could you would let me take your place in a heartbeat.

Undocumented or not, my parents will forever be my greatest of allies. Mom and dad, you taught me to dream before I even knew I was undocumented. I am a dreamer because you no matter what I aspired to be or create, you’ve supported me every step of the way. Even some of my craziest ideas. I am not a DREAMer because of a bill that seeks to transfer any guilt from me onto others like my parents. I am a dreamer not a DREAMer [by current definition]. The DREAMer identity is a by product of my unsolicited opinion — like a vast number of categories that politicians and the media strive to place us in. Mom and dad, you and others like you are the original dreamers.

These are my reflections and I share with you in hopes that we will not repeat past mistakes.

May you not compromise the humanity of others in the community in your pursuit to validate your own.

Before they are mothers, fathers, tios, aunts, grandfathers, abuelitas, street vendors, carwasheros, household workers, jornaleros — they are humans first with dreams of their own. They are the original dreamers.