This is a guest opinion column

Ten years ago, I stood in a Manhattan studio for Time Magazine surrounded by thirty or so other undocumented immigrants of different ages and backgrounds, staring at the flashing cameras above us. It had become increasingly common for undocumented youth to publicly share our status, and the photoshoot sought to illustrate the complexity of what it meant to be undocumented in America. The atmosphere brimmed with excitement, but for some of us, there was a degree of trepidation. It was one thing to confide in a teacher or friend and another to come out to the world.

Several weeks later, President Barack Obama announced Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, which granted undocumented youth between the ages of 15 and 30 a renewable two-year work permit and protection from deportation. “These are young people who study in our schools, they play in our neighborhoods, they’re friends with our kids,” he said to reporters at the time. “They are Americans in their heart, in their minds, in every single way but one: on paper. It’s not a permanent fix. It’s the right thing to do.” As a then-20-year-old, my eligibility for the program was life-changing, but I felt conflicted by benefitting from relief that excluded others because of their age, including many from the photoshoot. Guiltily, I hoped a path to citizenship would soon come for us all.

Fast forward a decade, DACA is the subject of ongoing litigation, and the vulnerability of undocumented youth has only dramatically increased. A federal judge in Texas ruled DACA to be illegal in 2021. USCIS continues to process renewals, but cannot accept first-time applications. Consequently, 100,000 undocumented high schoolers will graduate this spring unable to legally live or work in America. The fate of one’s life is influenced by eligibility for the program that can open doors to education and employment that would otherwise remain closed. Those arbitrarily excluded because of their age live as if it never existed, and 800,000 recipients like me spend their lives waiting to live beyond the limitations of a two-year work permit. DACA was intended to be temporary, and the need for a permanent and more inclusive solution is higher than ever.

Growing up undocumented in Alabama, it was difficult to plan for the future because it seemed I did not have one. Public state colleges would not accept me because of my immigration status, and I became increasingly disillusioned with education as I transitioned from elementary to high school. Shortly after my high school graduation in 2011, Alabama passed the nation’s harshest anti-immigration law, and I and other high schoolers organized to repeal it. I still remember scribbling a lawyer’s phone number on my arm when I first rallied outside of an immigration detention center in case I was detained because of my activism.

The introduction of DACA empowered me to explore and fulfill my potential in the only country I have ever known. I was able to study at some of the best schools in the country and hand my parents degrees they could once only dream of framing. I have joined the more than 2.1 million immigrants working in education and helped fill a national teacher shortage. I have been able to financially support my family in the United States and Mexico. In many ways, I have become a man who has fulfilled almost all the hopes he had for himself when he arrived to this country at the age of six. And yet, I cannot plan my life in more than two-year increments and often find myself formulating backup plans. I ask myself: who would I be if all my hard work, contributions, relationships, and efforts were suddenly erased?

Today, the fate of DACA hangs by a thread, and the Dream Act is the only way to ensure my future and thousands of others. The Dream Act is bipartisan legislation that promises a path to citizenship for those brought to this country as children who have a high school education and work towards a college degree or serve in the military. It was introduced in 2001, passed the House in 2011 and 2021, and every year without its passage is another year lost. I and other DACA recipients are no longer bright-eyed adolescents donning caps and gowns at rallies as we did a decade ago. We are no longer children, but adults and parents. We are no longer students, but teachers and valued employees. We no longer live in the shadows, but instead openly live as spouses, homeowners, and community members in all 50 states. If we cannot advance our lives – or if we are removed – everyone around us suffers.

Under this new Congress, we have the opportunity to pass the Dream Act. Washington has failed us in the past. It must not fail us now.

Victor Cuicahua is a high school educator from Birmingham, Alabama. He is a co-founder of the Immigrant Youth Leadership Initiative of Alabama and former Steering Committee Member of the Alabama Coalition for Immigrant Justice, through which he was an active leader in the fight against anti-immigrant legislation in Alabama.