What it’s like to be undocumented at Rice
Editor’s Note: This is a guest opinion that has been submitted by a member of the Rice community. The views expressed in this opinion are those of the author and do not necessarily represent or reflect the views of the Thresher or its editorial board. All guest opinions are fact-checked to the best of our ability and edited for clarity and conciseness by Thresher editors.
The author of this piece was granted anonymity due to personal safety risks.
I’m scared and don’t know how to stop being scared. For years, the fear of deportation loomed over every moment of my life. I developed a phobia of police officers — just seeing one made my stomach turn. The thought of someone discovering my undocumented status was enough to send me into a spiral of anxiety. Even now, despite having legal protections, those fears persist, reminding me that freedom is fragile.
I came to the U.S. around late 2007. I missed the deadline for Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals by two months — a not-so-insignificant detail that continues to haunt me. I was the embodiment of what many derisively call illegal — trapped in limbo, waiting endlessly for Congress to act, knowing I might never see the day.
I vividly recall the day I was accepted into Rice. Instead of celebrating, I had a panic attack. Thirteen years of building a life in the U.S. had culminated in this moment, yet my acceptance came with a bitter aftertaste of uncertainty. Rice was one of the few institutions that recognized me as a domestic student and offered me full financial support, but I hesitated because Texas felt far too risky.
I was without legal status, utterly alone and holding onto a promise that Rice would be different. That fantasy was shattered in my first semester when I heard about three Rice students dressed as Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents parading around campus mockingly demanding “papers” on Halloween in 2019. When I learned about the incident, I ran to the restroom and vomited from panic.
After years of fighting desperately for my right to exist, I caught my first real break. Around the start of my sophomore year, a family court awarded me Special Immigrant Juvenile Status, recognizing the abuse, abandonment and neglect I’d endured from one of my parents. With this newfound legal status, I qualified for a green card, a Social Security number and the precious right to work legally.
For a moment, I tasted freedom.
Yet freedom, for someone like me, is fleeting and brittle. Recent news of over 1,000 student visas revoked sends chills through my body, a stark reminder of the precariousness of my life. Three of our peers have had their visas taken away, and yet we received a PR email from the administration.
The university’s refusal to guarantee they won’t disclose immigration status to enforcement agencies speaks volumes about institutional priorities. Rice crafts elaborate marketing campaigns around its “culture of care” while simultaneously refusing to protect its most vulnerable students. We’re offered performative diversity statements while the administration quietly opens the door for our deportation.
How can I trust an institution that promises safety yet seems ready to betray us when we need it most? The silence of Rice’s administration and its passive compliance makes me feel invisible and disposable.
What is it like being undocumented at Rice? It’s excelling academically while knowing your diploma might someday be your only souvenir from a life you were forced to abandon. It’s rehearsing what to say if ICE shows up during your final. It’s the crushing weight of representing not just yourself but all those in your position, knowing that your failure or success will be generalized to your entire community.
You might think I’m exaggerating, but the Trump administration recently detained protesting students and deported a DACA recipient. I am no longer safe, although I’m legally in the clear now. What am I supposed to do but panic? I’ve done everything I can, and I might still get deported.
Fear is our tax. We pay it daily in dignity surrendered and dreams deferred. At Rice, that tax compounds because the contrast is so stark — I walk among peers who take for granted rights I’ve spent my life yearning for. They debate immigration as policy; I live it as survival. They discuss border politics as theoretical constructs; I carry borders within my body, mapped onto my existence.
Safety isn’t a privilege; it’s fundamental. Rice must realize that it holds our futures in its hands. It needs to do more than educate — it must protect and fight for every student’s right to exist freely and without fear. I’m scared, but I refuse to be silenced. Rice must match its rhetoric with action: guarantee privacy for immigrant students, reject cooperation with ICE without judicial warrants and provide legal support for those at risk. Show us your commitment to education extends to protecting those seeking it.
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