Dr. Hitesh Tolani’s inspirational story about the realization of your dreams and perseverance.
As I type, my hands are smudged with newspaper ink and next to me sit 237 newspapers dating from August 3, 2002 to May 2004. The collection originates from my hometown, Irmo, SC, and as far away as Paris, France. This French newspaper is what caught me off guard. I couldn’t understand the French and I was able to make out only a few words. On the front page I saw a firefighter and read the bold print “Les Amériques après le 11 septembre.” I opened the paper and looked for my name since I knew it would be spelled in English.
Eventually, I found it in the body of the first paragraph. I glanced up to read the headline and barely understood just enough words to realize, “I am identified all around the world as, ‘un immigré illegal.’”
I closed my eyes and the first things that came to mind were my feet in my yellow and blue flip-flops running through a rare snowfall in South Carolina as I hurried one day across campus to the cafeteria. Then other snapshots of my life filtered in: the one-act plays I performed in my junior year, my red baseball cap, the 4th of Julys spent watching the fireworks at Fort Jackson with my family, memories of my friends, my pre-dirty jeans that my mom thinks “look too dirty”, my AOL screen name, and my GPA.
I then realized that what the world saw me as and the person I have always been were both a part of me: I was an illegal resident of the United States, but I was more than “un immigré illegal.” I was also a loving son, caring older brother, loyal friend, an excellent student with love for the arts, and a leader by example.
As my father waited for his residency petition to be complete, my brother and I were a healthy set of siblings, often fighting and getting along only when convenient. Every night at nine o’clock “Mr. Ed” would end on “Nick @ Nite” and my mother would waltz into the room and say, “Time for bed kids, you need your sleep to do well in school. An education will open doors for you that you can’t even begin to fathom.” It never failed. In addition to a good education, my father always stressed a good work ethic too because he knew these two characteristics would take us far in America, our home.
The night my father died, my mother, while grieving, battling breast cancer, and taking over responsibility of our store, still managed to remind us of my father’s values, “Sons an education and a good work ethic will allow you to soar in America. Make both me and your father proud.” At thirteen I knew I was no longer just a brother now, but a father figure too.
Therefore, I tried my best to set an example for my brother by working hard and achieving in school. When my mother tried getting back in line for residency where my father left off, she realized my father’s death left her without an umbrella under which she and I could become legal US residents. Therefore one Sunday morning in 1997, she was particularly disheartened: she woke me up, sat beside me on my bed, and said very softly, “Son, you weren’t born in Chicago, Illinois. You were born in Africa and you’re an illegal immigrant.” As a fifteen-year-old boy, on that sunny Sunday my identity changed completely.
Now we had a choice. We could either hide from the government, as many experts encouraged us to do, or we could honestly approach the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) for help with getting back on track for residency. Since kindergarten I had stood up everyday in class and pledged my allegiance to “those broad stripes and bright stars” saying “for liberty and justice for all” and I truly believed it. I convinced my mother to not hide. We had always followed the law, paid our taxes, and given back to the community. My father’s death wasn’t our fault. Therefore, we approached the INS, but instead of the help we hoped for, we were immediately put into deportation proceedings.
Our trial took two and a half years to reach court. Meanwhile, my faith in our system allowed me to continue on with my life. I was cornerback on my high school football team, served as school mascot, Beta Club president, student council representative, and head youth group counselor at my temple. I was inducted into the National Honor Society and earned my way into the top five percent of my class. At the same time, my mom relied on me for support.
To help with the declining financial situation at home, I spent my weekends working at Dairy Queen and the night front desk clerk at Ramada Inn, where I was able to do my homework. I also became a father figure for my brother. I checked his homework, took him to games and practices, and cared for him when he was ill. Life’s unchosen responsibilities had forced me into adulthood.
Senior year my hard work paid off. I was accepted to top tier US Schools, but then letters asking to “Please submit proof of legal residency for financial aid,” followed. With these letters I initially felt that my college dreams were stifled, but Wofford College, a small liberal arts school in South Carolina, offered me a full scholarship. The administration believed I deserved an education, and as a private school, they were able to provide me private scholarship money.
The summer after graduating high school, we had our immigration trial. The expected thirty-minute trial took six hours. My father’s death was the only reason we were illegal. Confused, the judge looked at me and said, “You have a bright future young man.” He then excused himself, and a short time later he delivered his verdict: “deported.”
My mother and I had fifteen days to either leave the country or submit an appeal. If we left the country, my brother would be torn apart from us and put into foster care. My mother was overwhelmed, but I refused to give up. I wanted to stay together as a family, go to college, succeed in America, and make my mother proud. This was home and I had faith that someone in the bureaucracy would hear my plea and remember the words of Emma Lazarus engraved on “Lady Liberty’s” pedestal: “Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me.” With the family finances drained, it seemed impossible to find a lawyer to fight our complicated case. Fortunately though, within fifteen days I found a lawyer and filed an appeal. Two weeks later, I was a freshman in college.
Like other college freshmen my excitement was uncontrollable. I loved football games and getting involved around campus, but inside I felt incomplete. I was afraid of being uprooted by the INS and being torn apart from my brother. I was forced into a computer science major by my legal advisors instead of being able to pursue my passion for medicine because companies such as IBM and Intel frequently hire such majors and help them gain residency.
There were days where staying hopeful was tough, but I remembered my parents’ words that “An education will open doors for you that you can’t even begin to fathom.” I knew I had to do my best in school and continue trying to resolve our immigration status to the best of my ability. Then one weekend during the summer following my sophomore year, we finally lost the appeal and received another deportation order. Once again with only fifteen days to leave the country, I felt there was no other hope than to take my story to the press. I drove to the office of the local newspaper and told them everything.
The next day my story swept every paper and news station in South Carolina. On the following Monday as I sat in my room thinking, “only thirteen more days,” the phone rang. I barely managed to answer and then heard, “Hello this US Senator Fritz Hollings’ office. How can we help you?” On that one-day over 500 people from across South Carolina contacted the senator in regard to my situation. Soon both senators from South Carolina were working diligently to save my family. US senator Strom Thurmond (R-SC) eventually introduced a private relief bill, which put a stay on our deportation order, and gave my family hope.
Over the next two years, I learned first hand the meaning of generosity, compassion, the importance of doing for others: what being American is truly about. As newspaper articles described our predicament, my family received phone calls from across the country from people saying, “We’re praying for you. You’re just as American as us.” Teachers, students, and alumni at my college nationally campaigned for me and people unknown to my family from many states contacted their senators and congressmen on my behalf. These efforts lead to support from members of congress such as Hilary Clinton, Bill Frist, Ted Kennedy and many more.
As I juggled the national press, campaigning from event to event and through email for my cause, Congress members, lawyers, immigration advocacy groups and school, I once again wasn’t going to allow my circumstances to dictate my college career. I made the Dean’s List, and I was a Glee Club member, admissions tour guide, school mascot, thespian, community volunteer, and an elected representative in student government.
In May 2004, I graduated magna cum laude, but my status had not changed,which kept me out of dental school and from gaining employment. Now, as college graduate, I once again sat in my room, this time thinking, “Where am I going to go from here?” when the phone rang and I heard, “Hello Hitesh, this US Senator Fritz Hollings’ office. We’re pleased to tell you that you and your mother just became legal US residents. Congratulations!” Dumbfounded, I held the phone to my ear. Finally I uttered, “Are you kidding me?” No, it was true! My faith in the system, tenacity, and hard work paid off. The appeal courts found that we had always met the qualifications for permanent residency. The decision set precedent. My plea was heard. I was no longer “homeless” and “tempest-tost.” I was a new American!
Today my life is back on track. My mother and I are legal, I have been accepted to dental school at The University of Pennsylvania, and I am finishing up a dental research fellowship at Harvard. In retrospect, I wouldn’t choose to go down the same tumultuous path, but there are certain lessons that we learn down life’s unchosen paths that help define who we are. I don’t choose to define myself as a former “un immigré illegal.” Instead, I choose to define myself as someone who first hand knows the meaning of helping others in need, someone who has learned to connect with people from all stages of life, someone who can be a leader in a time of crisis, and someone who believes in never giving up!
