The Restless ChronicleS

Who knew how fast we were going? It was dark. As the speedboat skimmed across the Niagara River, the wind intensified my lingering headache. Beside me, my 12-year-old sister sat stoic and silent. We had our instructions: upon reaching land, pretend to be leisurely strollers along the water’s edge for ten minutes, then head to a bar across the street, call a cab, and get to the Greyhound station. Board a bus to Maryland. Fifteen minutes later, we were in Buffalo, New York.

That was twenty-five years ago—when my sister and I, born to Nigerian parents, entered the U.S. from Canada as undocumented immigrants.

Months earlier, we were lawful residents in Italy, attending local schools and worshipping at a Pentecostal church. Sensing we needed a change, my mother took us on a two-week trip to Canada. In Toronto, the city’s vibrancy and diversity captivated us. Noticing our excitement, a family friend whispered to my mom that he could help us cross into the States. Frustrated with life in Italy, I embraced the idea. After consulting with my dad, my parents decided my sister and I should pursue a better future in America. My mom returned to Italy with my brother; my sister and I packed for the golden shores.

We settled into Paul Laurence Dunbar High School in Washington, D.C.—a stark contrast to our Italian schools. There was no language barrier—a liberating novelty. Yet the cultural differences between my African upbringing and this new American life made me hyper-aware of my surroundings. Our parents joined us a year later, on visiting visas, and when they overstayed, they too became undocumented. The precariousness of our status became clear in twelfth grade when it was time to apply to colleges.

As an undocumented immigrant, a Social Security number is the Holy Grail; it opens doors otherwise closed. But because of how we entered the country, I had none. I applied to five colleges and was admitted to all but couldn’t enroll in any. Each required proof of legal status or a Social Security number—neither of which I had. My sister managed to avoid the same fate, partly because we’d learned from my experience and she was a better student. Still, financial barriers forced her to drop out of Johns Hopkins University after just over a year.

I turned to a vocational school run by a fellow Nigerian immigrant. It didn’t require the formalities of a traditional college. I trained as a licensed vocational nurse. My sister soon followed and became a licensed nurse as well. However, lacking work documents, we continued to struggle. This led to frustration and family tensions. Once, my sister blamed our mom for putting her on that boat. Our mom wept for days.

In 2012, a glimmer of hope emerged with the introduction of DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals). This program offered a reprieve, albeit temporary, for young immigrants like us. With our newly acquired employment authorization documents, we obtained Social Security numbers. While this didn’t change our immigration status, it brought us a step closer to the light, offering a taste of the legitimacy we’d long sought.

Our younger brother had drowned in Italy within our first year in the U.S., and we couldn’t travel to see his body. The struggles tested our resilience and my faith in the American Dream. The country that had seemed so full of promise now felt like a maze of closed doors. Yet, even then, hope persisted, whispering that in America, persistence could still carve a path.

Through determination, my sister and I forged our own ways. She rose to serve on the D.C. Board of Nursing and later founded a startup focused on maternal health for minority mothers I channeled my experiences into technology and entrepreneurship, earning numerous certifications and founding multiple technology companies. My journey led me to serve as a commissioner on the Maryland Inter-Agency Commission on Homelessness. I’ve also found my voice as a published poet, bridging gaps between cultures and experiences.

These achievements didn’t erase the hardships we endured, but they reshaped my view of America. I began to see it not as a perfect promised land but as a place of perpetual becoming—a nation that, despite its flaws, offers space for determined individuals to shape their destinies.

This perspective deepened as I embarked on the path to citizenship. The journey was a labyrinth of paperwork, interviews, and anxious waiting. Each step forward was accompanied by the fear of two steps back. I constantly looked over my shoulder, worried that a single misstep could unravel everything we’d built. The process mirrored my entire journey in America: challenging, often arbitrary, but ultimately rewarding.

In 2022, after years of uncertainty, I stood to take the Oath of Allegiance. As I recited the words, I thought of that weary teenager on the Niagara River, of the brother we lost, and the dreams we deferred. But I also thought of the opportunities I found, the lives I’ve touched, and the future now fully open to me. In that moment, the full weight of my journey settled upon me—the profound significance of finally, officially, belonging.

Now, as the 2024 presidential election approaches, I stand on the cusp of another profound moment: my first opportunity to vote in a U.S. presidential election. The significance of this moment is not lost on me. It’s the culmination of a journey that began on that moonlit night in Buffalo—a journey both uniquely mine and quintessentially American.

As I prepare to vote, I feel both excitement and solemnity. This small act—casting a ballot—represents something monumental. It’s a testament to the democratic ideals that drew me here and a responsibility I don’t take lightly. My vote carries the weight of all my experiences and hopes. It’s not just for a candidate; it’s for the America that took me in, that challenged me, that ultimately embraced me.

It’s for the America that still beckons to those “yearning to breathe free,” as Emma Lazarus wrote in her poem adorning the Statue of Liberty. It’s for the promise of America—a promise I’ve seen fulfilled in my life, even as I recognize the work that remains. It’s for the “huddled masses” still dreaming of a better life, just as I once did.

This election is about America’s future, but for me, it’s also about its past—my past and that of countless others. It’s about the idea of America, powerful enough to propel a teenager across a river in the dead of night, worth decades of struggle. Twenty-five years ago, I crossed a river to enter this country. This November, I’ll cross another threshold—into the fullness of American citizenship. With my vote, I join the vital chorus of American democracy, affirming what I’ve known for so long: This is home. Always has been my home—away from home.