Approximately 10 paragraphs into this story, you’ll find an acronym for somebody I care greatly about. It’s not intended to be funny, derogative or sarcastic. Frequently, I mask pain and fear with humor. It’s my coping mechanism. The true purpose is to protect the identity of a real live person attending Cal State Long Beach.
No matter what type of job you have, when the boss calls you into the office, you get a knot in your stomach. Especially if they’re not smiling when they make that call. The dread magnifies if the perceived carpet call is made in a room full of people. Almost instantly, you wonder something like, “Crap, what did I do wrong this time?”
That’s true for practically any job, whether it’s washing dishes, busing tables, slinging drinks or writing for the campus newspaper.
When Bradley Zint, the editor in chief of the Daily Forty-Niner, told a few of us newbies he needed to see us in his office last week, my internal whisperer wondered something like, “Crap, what did I do wrong this time?”
Zint continued, “Don’t worry. This isn’t a bad thing.” Initial terror allayed, momentarily.
We went in, closed the door and the paper’s general manager, Beverly Munson, asked if we had our Social Security cards in our possession. “Knowing your Social Security numbers is not good enough. You have to have the cards to work here.”
The visibly shaken Munson, a dedicated student supporter, told us of the letters being sent out as part of the Department of Homeland Security’s recent plan to clean up the Social Security database. “You won’t be able to get paid if you don’t present the cards when you go to payroll,” Munson added somberly.
My first reaction to bad news is almost always to respond with wry wit. I blurted, “I haven’t seen my card in more than 25 years. What are they going to do, deport me to San Francisco?” Nobody laughed.
Besides, I knew if I couldn’t find the old card, I could simply head to the local Social Security Administration office and get a new one.
As promised, the acronym now enters the story. My second thought turned to fear about a close friend I’ll call “This Human” (TH) and TH’s many problems of being an undocumented immigrant student.
TH is one of the brightest, most talented and compassionate people I’ve met in years. I’ve had the good fortune of watching TH turn raw talent into marketable skills. I met TH a few years ago, before we transferred to CSULB.
TH is an AB 540 student. Hopefully, most of this community knows that AB 540 students must live by a different set of rules. The benefit of AB 540 is that, once students jump through certain hoops and circles, they qualify to pay resident tuition instead of out-of-state rates, which can be nearly 10 times higher.
TH can’t get a Social Security card, can’t get a driver’s license and can’t get state or federal financial aid from traditional sources. As a result of these shackles, TH has to work a full-time minimum wage job to afford attending CSULB part time. TH has to take the bus, or rely on friends, to get to school and work. While CSULB is bound by law not to divulge TH’s information, TH still can’t work a campus job.
TH grew up in the California school system, graduated from a California high school and transferred from a California community college. But when TH graduates from The Beach, under existing immigration laws, TH can’t legally apply TH’s degree toward TH’s chosen career.
TH didn’t create this situation, but is among millions of paperless humans being vilified by a security network formed as a result of the 9/11 terrorist attacks.
We all know a TH, because there are hundreds on campus. This raises a two-pronged question: “Who are the real terrorists, and why do we allow ‘This Human’ to be criminalized by a flawed system?”
Duke Rescola is a senior journalism major and the opinion editor for the Daily Forty-Niner.
