They Can’t Take My Joy Written by Luna Luna
The earliest memories I have of Chicago is of our apartment on 49 th and Artesian, in the
southside of the city. I remember the parking lot across the alley from our apartment. On good
days, we’d run out to the lot to play soccer. My brother would lead the pack of children. Those
were the early years after relocating in Chicago.
My father had already been in Chicago for a few years, working and sending money back to
Mexico. Eventually, it was decided that my mom would join him, with both toddlers—thus
reuniting the family once again. I was just three years old when I was crossed into the U.S. Like
so many families, my parents left Mexico in search of something better—trying to break a cycle
of poverty and trauma. The story of my family is not neat or simple; it is not your American
dream family. There was violence, abuse, hardships. There were broken relationships and
fractured trust. And yet—we’re still here. Still living, still trying to build something in the
country and city we’ve called home for the past 25+ years.
I was 15 when Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) was first announced in 2012.
But it wasn’t until my 18th birthday that I was finally granted DACA, and since then, given
temporary relief from deportation and a work permit. DACA also gave me opportunities and to
imagine a future. I could now work, continue higher education, and step out of the shadows. But
DACA was never the solution. It’s a fragile stopgap that forces me to live in two-year
increments, never knowing when the rug might be pulled out from under me. As scholar Roberto
Gonzales puts it, it’s a life in limbo—caught between two worlds: integrated into the American
culture and education but denied the full rights and opportunities of American citizenship. This
limbo is also a state of uncertainty and potential, where my future remains unclear because of my
legal status.
However, DACA also gave me something I never thought I’d have—permission to travel outside
the US. In the spring of 2023, I left the country for the first time under Advance Parole as part of
an education program with the Mexican government and with support from Mexico’s Secretary
of External Relations. I found myself walking the streets of Mexico City, then made my way to
Santa Catarina, in the state of Morelos where my parents are from. That trip changed a part of
me. Meeting all four of my grandparents for the first time is something I’ll never forget. I had
grown up in the U.S. without them—without their hugs, their voices, their everyday presence.
And though they were strangers, they embraced me as if I had always been there. That love was
real. But so was the grief—for all the years we’d lost, for the simple joys stolen from us, for the
chance to be cherished in the way only grandparents know how.
In the town, the dots began to connect. I walked the same streets that my parents navigated as
children. I saw old photos of my parents—my mom with her three brothers, her stare steady and
mature, even as a child. She had a calm smile and clear brown eyes, already carrying the weight
of responsibility. That photo stayed with me. It reminded me how much she had sacrificed, and
how deeply she was missed. She is the only one from her family who migrated to the U.S.
Before leaving Mexico to return to Chicago, I wanted to promise my maternal grandmother that
she would see her daughter again. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud—a knot had
formed in my throat, tightening with emotion, making it impossible to speak.
Being undocumented touches every part of you—your mind, your body, your spirit. There’s the
fear, the constant overthinking, the pressure to overachieve just to be seen as deserving – what
scholar Dra. Aurora Chang calls “hyper-documentation.” For a long time, I bought into the
“good immigrant” narrative—worked hard, stayed out of trouble, made sacrifices, tried to be
palatable. But I’ve learned that perfection won’t save me. That narrative flattens my humanity,
and erases the real, complexity of my life. It truly doesn’t benefit anyone.
Coming out as queer added another layer. Growing up in a Mexican, patriarchal household,
hiding who I was, it was survival. Silence was protection and as such a lot of internalized
shamed. But over time, I’ve come to see that being both undocumented and queer isn’t
something to be ashamed of—it’s a source of strength. It helps me understand injustice more
clearly and imagine a world where we all belong.
Higher education was never guaranteed, but I dreamt of it. With no federal aid and limited
resources, I worked multiple jobs, applied for private scholarships, and leaned on mentors who
believed in me. From Arrupe College to Georgetown University, I found not just
opportunity—but community. Programs like UndocuHoyas and the Georgetown Scholars
Program helped me through the hardest times—through a medical leave of absence and deep
moments of imposter syndrome.
One of the mentors whom I am deeply appreciated of is Mike Bento. Mike, a Georgetown alum,
is a gay, older white man who came of age in a time when being openly gay was
dangerous—when fear and rejection were the norm, and people lived in the shadows. And yet,
people like him lived and loved out loud, opening doors for generations that came after. During
COVID, he opened his home when I had nowhere to go. He checked in. He showed up. When
my family couldn’t travel to DC for my commencement from Georgetown, it was Mike and his
friends—a chosen family—who stood by me and celebrated. To this day, Mike is someone I turn
to for mentorship, truth, and grounding. He’s shown me what it means to choose community, and
to be chosen in return.
Today, I’m pursuing an MBA as a Baumhart Scholar at Loyola University Chicago, where I’m
deepening my understanding of how to drive social impact through business strategy,
sustainability, and systems-level change. I’ve spent years supporting nonprofits, small
businesses, and organizations through consulting, advocacy, and direct services. Now, I’m
learning what it means to move from survival to building. I’m not just trying to get by
anymore—I’m reclaiming my narrative, co-creating spaces of belonging, and dreaming of
something better, something more just.
We are living in a time when protections are vanishing, when dignity feels conditional, when
even citizenship is up for debate. But here’s what I know: no one is safe in a system that
criminalizes movement, erases stories, and places conditions on who is worthy of dignity.
To my fellow immigrants, to children of immigrants, to undocumented folks, to my queer
community, to those raised in silence and shame, to survivors, to anyone who’s ever been
told they were too much or not enough:
You are enough.
You don’t have to prove your worth.
You deserve rest.
You deserve joy.
You deserve a future not defined by borders or fear.
For me, joy is no longer a luxury—it’s resistance. I find it in a warm cup of coffee each
morning. In blasting Spanish music while I clean. In exploring new places. In taking part of
experiences that my younger self did not had access to. In laughs with friends who get it. In
celebrating small wins that once felt out of reach. In turning off the news when it’s too heavy and
honoring the fact that I’m still here. Still dreaming because tomorrow is a new day.
Joy reminds me that I’m not just surviving—I’m living. That even in the uncertainty, even in the
in-between, I still imagine something freer. And that dreaming itself is a radical act. As writer
and storyteller, Yosimar Reyes writes:
“I have seen my people smile through the deepest pain.
I have seen my people build homes out of what Americans throw away…
This is what they cannot control: our smile.”
Make no mistake—this is not a story of a perfect immigrant or an ideal dreamer. It’s an offering
of my full, imperfect self.
They can change policies. They can deny papers. They can continue to criminalize me. But they
can’t take my joy and smile.
And as the gays would say: We’re here. We’re queer. And we’re not going anywhere.
