Like hundreds of thousands of other Venezuelans living in the U.S. with temporary protected status (TPS), Miami student and Spotlight contributor Grecia Pacheco now fears that she and her family will be stripped of their status and deported.
Editor’s Note: Grecia Pacheco is a journalism student at Florida International University whose work has appeared previously in the Spotlight. She wrote this first-person account of her experience as a Venezuelan seeking a new life in the United States for FIU’s Caplin News.
The American Dream started for me seven years ago when I flew from Caracas to Miami at age 20. Venezuela was in crisis. People were eating from the trash, power was cut off every day, and government repression was growing more violent.
As a Venezuelan, I have faced many difficult situations. But I never imagined my family would have to deal with such emotionally wrenching challenges after arriving in the greatest country in the world. They never seem to ease.
We lived in a tiny house with 10 family members, including my aunt, cousin, older sisters, brothers-in-law, nephews and nieces. I sold hamburgers, fries, ice cream and more behind a counter where I couldn’t sit. My mom cleaned houses. My dad drove an Uber 12 hours a day.
Emigrating is never easy. Sometimes it’s the only choice you have.
The first year was the hardest. The adaptation to a new lifestyle, the language barrier, and the changing jobs – everything was new. I never allowed myself to complain, though. For me, it was far easier than for my parents, who left behind the lives they had built over 50 years in Venezuela.
They were ten times more exhausted, ten times more uncomfortable, ten times sadder, and ten times more afraid of starting over.
My dad had been an entrepreneur in Venezuela, running his own successful transportation business until the country’s crisis forced us to flee. My mom stayed at home. Here the work seemed endless and a year after arrival her kidneys failed. We all worked overtime to pay for her medical visits.
Despite the hardships, we always focused on the possibilities, the opportunities, and the seeds we were planting for the future.
Being in the U.S. legally was always a priority for us. We had left Venezuela because of political persecution and applied for asylum as soon as we arrived. We ended up on a waiting list, though. Years passed and we remained in limbo.
In 2022, our lives seemed better. I was doing double duty working in a flower shop and studying communications at Broward College. I received my associate’s degree with honors. More significantly, my mom received a successful kidney transplant.
My dream had always been to earn my bachelor’s degree from a well-known university. Which one became clear one day when I was hired to sell Dippin’ Dots for $6 each at Florida International University during a football game.
I saw myself reflected in all the students there, wishing I had the time and money to join them. It was my dream as a 20-year-old, and five years later in 2022, I was finally able to enroll in this wonderful university to finish my bachelor’s degree in journalism.
About the same time, President Biden announced Temporary Protected Status for Venezuelans. We were very excited. This program would grant us status for a time, but at least it offered a way out of limbo. Less than a year later, the request was granted.
But because I was not yet a U.S. resident, I couldn’t apply for federal or state scholarships. I had worked full time for years to pay tuition. I had to skip a couple of semesters because I didn’t have enough money.
When I began studying journalism at FIU’s Lee Caplin School of Journalism & Media, my past and future came together.
I have always believed that being informed is the best way to secure democracy. I come from a country where media professionals who reported the truth about the government were often imprisoned or kidnapped.
Studying journalism made me an activist for the truth. I committed to reporting on politics, especially national stories and those related to Venezuela.
In my senior year, my professor Chuck Strouse offered the opportunity to report on the presidential race for the school’s news venue, Caplin News, in Washington, D.C.
But because I wasn’t a resident, I had to figure out how to pay for it, So I looked for work and started a GoFundMe, which raised about $1,000 from 10 people, including both family members and FIU alumni who supported my dreams. I will always be grateful for them.
I also won the Florida Magazine Association’s 2024 Doug Damerst Scholarship, which recognizes students with strong career goals. Years of savings from selling Dippin’ Dots and hamburgers also helped make it work and so I watched democracy close up for four months in Washington, DC, writing and filming events as Donald Trump and Republican majorities swept into the House and Senate.
In just four months, I will graduate from FIU. So far, my grade average is 3.6. I am endlessly grateful for the opportunities this country has given me since I arrived. But nothing was ever handed to me. I have thrived through a combination of opportunity, hard work, and goal-setting.
Yet, instead of feeling protected by the country that opened its doors to someone escaping their troubled homeland, I now face the possibility of being expelled.
Candidate Trump has threatened millions of immigrants with deportation. He has singled out Venezuelans, asylum seekers, and individuals with Temporary Protected Status (TPS) like me, labeling us “illegal aliens.” I am just one of more than 700,000 Venezuelan migrants protected from dictatorship by a decades-old law who now face the same fate.
In the weeks following the election, I have felt the same fear I felt during those final years in Venezuela when the government no longer wanted me there – when dictator Nicolás Maduro sought to harm my family simply for thinking differently.
Now, I feel the same sense of rejection. The words of division directed at my community have touched me again.
Once again, I feel like I don’t belong; like I am not welcome. The fear is there, no matter how much I try to suppress it. The anxiety lingers, even when I try to hide it. It is hard to live in your twenties thinking that everything is ephemera – soon to be finito.
The thought that my parents, now in their sixties, may have to start all over again, that my nieces and nephews could be deported to a country they don’t know, even though they were born here, is heartbreaking.
It shakes me to think that even a good person, someone who loves this country, works full-time, and achieves honors, could be despised and denied the chance to live a normal life.
If we must, we will start over. We are resilient people. But the existence of a world where people like me and my family are deemed not good enough to stay shakes my belief in this great country – or at least in some of its leaders.
This story first appeared on WLRN.org in December as part of a partnership between the public radio station and the Lee Caplin School of Journalism & Media at FIU.
