Growing up as the daughter of undocumented immigrants, the author knew fear and uncertainty. Now, amid a federal crackdown aimed at Latino immigrants, she felt that again — until she saw her community respond.
A protest in Wilson, N.C. Photo courtesy of Andressia Ramirez.
By Andressia Ramirez
Beacon Media
Editor’s Note: Download Andressia’s headshot here.
“What’s giving you hope?”
It’s a question I had come to dread. It comes up constantly in advocacy spaces these days, including all around North Carolina. I always find an answer, but the truth is, I hadn’t really felt hopeful in a long time — until recently.
The last year has been emotionally shattering. Undocumented people have always lived with fear, rooted in lacking a piece of paper that dictates whether your life is considered valid or disposable. Now, federal agents are stopping people for how they look, not what they’ve done. We’re seeing U.S. citizens killed by federal immigration agents. People are starting to understand that no one is safe. Entire communities are canceling medical appointments. Parents are not taking their children to school. People are skipping work, not because they want to, but because survival requires caution. Fear has become a daily calculation.
I know this feeling intimately. And not just from this year.
My parents immigrated from Querétaro, Mexico, and settled in Wilson County, N.C, when I was 8 years old. I remember learning in elementary school that my mother was undocumented. From that moment on, it became our biggest secret. I couldn’t tell anyone because anyone knowing could be a threat. My brothers and I grew up understanding that our mother could be taken from us with no warning.
We learned how to listen carefully, how to stay quiet, how to carry fear without letting it show.
For most of my life, I held onto one hope: that one day my mom would become a citizen. In high school, I felt an overwhelming need be the absolute best student, so that one day I could petition for her. She obtained her green card the year I graduated from college in 2019 and became a citizen in 2025.
I thought that my mother’s naturalization would feel like a triumph. That I would finally feel like I could breathe; that we were safe. That I would no longer live in fear. But in the wake of the 2024 election, I realized that even citizenship does not erase the trauma, exhaustion, and vigilance that immigrant families like mine carry. Right now, fear persists for one painfully clear reason: it does not matter if you are a U.S. citizen. Recent federal immigration enforcement has shown, repeatedly, that citizenship does not protect you.
What I’ve learned in recent months is that hope is not found in a document or a legal status. Hope lives in people. It lives in neighbors stepping up to learn their rights, volunteers joining rapid response networks, and local leaders pushing back on policies that make our communities less safe.
For me, it was found at home in November while supporting the first-ever youth-led protest in Wilson. It was in the middle of a surge of federal officers during what they called Operation Charlotte’s Web, and rumors were flying that U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) was spreading into eastern North Carolina. Students from the local high schools responded by organizing a walk-out and rally. They did everything, from working with teachers to ensure the rally wouldn’t jeopardize their future prospects, to painting signs and securing a speaker.
Everyone was afraid, but we were pushing each other to be brave
It wasn’t just Latino kids, either. There were black kids, white kids, kids of all backgrounds and ages who stood together.
The crowd was chanting when someone, unexpectedly, handed the megaphone over to me. I hadn’t planned on leading chants. I felt my voice would break. That I would try to yell and nothing would come out. Despite my relative safety and experience, I felt uncertain.
I yelled into the megaphone: “If ICE comes to Wilson, what do we do?
“Stand Up! Fight Back!” they shouted.
I felt a surge of pride. And a new answer to the question about something giving me hope. I want these students to recognize the power they hold – and the power they’re giving to us.
I hate that teenagers are compelled to protest. I grieve that they’re carrying the same fear that paralyzed me.
I fear that if we don’t do something about this now, they’ll still be feeling that fear in 10 years.
When I was their age, I held my first protest sign begging this country to see my undocumented mother as a human being. I begged for safety. For acceptance. For the right to exist in the only home I had ever known. I never imagined I would see young people, almost a decade later, fighting a different version of the same battle.
And yet, I am hopeful. And while I hate that they have to take on this fight, I am grateful for the young people of my community for standing up for all of us.
I’m watching the next generation rise with clarity, courage and conviction. They remind me of the fire I once carried before too many defeats dimmed it.
In Spanish, we say vivir en las sombras, or “to live in the shadows.” But the next generation refuses, choosing each other over silence, community over isolation. And as long as we keep building power, across communities, across languages, across counties, the shadows will never be able to swallow us again.
Andressia Ramirez is an advocate at the North Carolina Justice Center, raised in Wilson, North Carolina by parents from Querétaro, Mexico. This column is syndicated by Beacon Media and is available to republish for free on all platforms under Beacon Media’s guidelines.