What a broken system looks like
The first DACA case I worked on was for a teenager with cancer from Mongolia. We’ll refer to her as Narantuya for the purposes of this story.
By the time I briefly worked on her case, back in 2017, Narantuya had already lived in the Chicago area for several years — halfway around the world from her parents. Her family had originally arrived together, on approved visitor visas, so she could receive specialized cancer treatment that wasn’t available in Mongolia.
But like millions of others caught up in this broken immigration system, their family was forced to make unbelievable choices.
Visitor visas typically only let you to stay in the U.S. for up to 6 months. Depending on your country of origin, whether you have a soon-to-expire passport, or even just a cranky CBP officer, that maximum length of stay can be even shorter.
While treatment was successful, Narantuya required ongoing care far beyond the 6-month timeline.1 According to letters from her doctors submitted to immigration officials, returning to Mongolia was out of the question. While she was now recovering and in remission, there was a distinct possibility of sudden complications or a reemergence of the cancer itself — a potential death sentence if forced to return to Mongolia.
So her parents decided to return alone, arranging for Narantuya to stay in Chicago with her younger brother, beyond the expiration date of their visitor visas. Based on the circumstances of their arrival, they were then approved for Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, or DACA. Which brings me to my short part in Narantuya’s story — one that’s stuck with me so many years later. In many ways, it’s part of what sparked my passion for working to fix this broken, messy system for (soon-to-be) obvious reasons.
Like so much of our immigration policy, DACA was always a bandaid fix. And without a substantial piece of legislation (or two) from Congress, true system reform is virtually impossible. For hundreds of thousands of Dreamers, life in the U.S. has been defined by this always-fragile legal limbo for over a decade.
When you’re approved for DACA, you’re required to stay in school or maintain employment to maintain eligibility. Basically, the government agrees not to start removal proceedings (i.e. they won’t try to deport you) and will let you work — but ultimately DACA isn’t legal status and is definitely not a permanent solution.
If approved, you then need to file a renewal application every 2 years. This is where my part comes in: the attorney I worked for, who had represented Narantuya for several years, was filing a straightforward DACA renewal and an extension of her work authorization.
After you file a DACA extension application (a large stack of government forms + copies of dozens of personal documents, photos, etc.), USCIS typically mails you (or your attorney):
a receipt notice confirming the application was received at the correct USCIS facility;
a ‘biometrics notice’, in which you’re assigned an appointment date/time at the nearest USCIS facility to provide fingerprints and/or take updated profile photos.
What happens if you don’t complete the biometrics appointment? For one, they won’t approve the renewal application. Eventually, the case would be denied after a series of follow-up requests and notices from USCIS not particularly relevant to this story. More importantly: if denied, Narantuya could lose her work authorization or even her protections against deportation under the DACA program.
In 2017, Narantuya is a high school teenager living alone with her younger brother. She’s also working at a nail salon.
After we file her extension application, Narantuya forgets to mention she changed her phone number and email address. Oh, and they’ve just moved to a new apartment.
When the biometrics notice arrives at the office, Steve (the attorney) and I suddenly can’t get in touch with Narantuya. After filing extension requests to postpone her upcoming appointment date, we’re coming up on the last day to file a response to the government with proof she had completed the appointment.
Steve and I are racing to find other ways to reach her, to the point that he actually drove out to her previous address and asked neighbors if they knew where she had moved. On the final day to file a response on time, Steve was out of the office and basically asked me to just be available in case we miraculously heard from Narantuya before the weekend.
But after hearing how determined Steve was to avoid consequences for her, I was inspired to make one last effort that Friday. Eventually, I got in touch with a coworker who passed the phone over to Narantuya as I hurriedly explained I was emailing her an address to a USCIS office and that she needed to leave NOW so she could complete her appointment before the weekend.
She apologized for the confusion, thanked me, and said she would leave immediately for the USCIS office. About an hour later, she sent over a copy of the completed notice for us to include with the response.
At the time, I was a little surprised by how Narantuya was seemingly so careless about her own immigration status and work authorization. How do you forget to tell your attorney you’ve updated all your contact info after filing a government application?
Then, of course, I remembered she was a teenager who was unnecessarily forced into this horrible situation at no fault of her own. Keeping up with all of the forms and applications, the government mail, the confusing ‘legalese’ terminology: Narantuya was forced to navigate this broken system without her parents because of the system’s brokenness.
I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease when I was in middle school.
Shortly after I was diagnosed, I started on a biologic drug called Remicade which required frequent in-person infusions at the old Children’s Memorial Hospital here in Chicago.
To get to the infusion center, you had to walk past the (pediatric) oncology suite. Every 6 weeks, my mom and I would walk past families with kids — some just babies — waiting for chemo infusions. I told myself I was relatively lucky, as if that would help steel my fake brave face as I walked past in a hurry.
As you can imagine, it’s left a large impression on how I view and approach the world around me. Finding myself working on Narantuya’s case was, in some ways, a full-circle moment that confirmed I was in the right place working in immigration.
But the idea that this system could so callously force a family apart while their child undergoes pediatric cancer treatment?
The fact that a teenager is expected to navigate a legal system made by attorneys and for attorneys alone?
It’s frustrating to imagine because it doesn’t need to happen. Narantuya, like millions of other people, are the supposed beneficiaries — but also the victims — of our broken immigration system.
Which is why I think it’s so important to share these stories in the face of an onslaught of racist, anti-immigrant propaganda: the lies and hysteria aren’t as effective when the average person knows of a story like Narantuya’s.
Discretionary extensions and other workarounds are sometimes available but rarely beyond a 12-month maximum.