Ariz. sisters seize immigration 'dream'

• Sisters were brought from Mexico as toddlers
• Both were approved under Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program
• The program protects certain immigrants from potential deportation%2C but does not does not give them legal status in the U.S.

PHOENIX -- Two sisters who were brought across the Mexico border into the U.S. as toddlers used to fantasize about what life might be like if they were here legally.

It could mean attending college full time, like regular students, and applying for jobs, like regular people. They could stop looking over their shoulders and fearing deportation for the slightest transgression.

Neither Dulce Vazquez, 22, nor her sister, Bibiana, 20, has any memory of Mexico; the United States is the only country they have ever known. Arizona is the only state they have ever visited. They grew up in west Phoenix and both still live there, sharing a house with their parents and a brother, who is a U.S. citizen.

But 2013 has been different for Dulce and Bibiana; they are two of more than 400,000 young people who qualified for what immigration authorities called Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals. The program started accepting applications a year ago today.

Much of the life the Vazquez sisters dreamed about is now being realized.

While the program does not give them legal status in the United States, it does protect them from potential deportation for as long as it remains in effect and opens up a world that was previously closed to them.

Both were able to attend Phoenix College full time. Dulce joined the business world, finding a full-time job as an accountant. It's a job she likes so much that she looks forward to Mondays.

What they hadn't expected was the psychological lift the program brought. "It was like an attitude change," said Bibiana, who received her work visa on Nov. 20. "Now I felt like I can finally be like the rest of my friends, the rest of my peers."

They will have to reapply every two years to extend their permission to work and the deferment of deportation proceedings. And that is only as long as the presidential administration keeps the program running.

When the Vazquezes first applied for the program, that two-year provision weighed heavily on their minds. The sisters talked about maybe moving to Mexico if the political winds shifted and the program — with their permission to stay — ended.

But, in interviews this summer, the sisters said that now they wouldn't leave.

"That is not on the table anymore," Dulce said about returning to Mexico.

Her sister, Bibiana, agreed: "I don't want to go back to Mexico. I want to study here."

Seeking approval

Last year, The Republic followed the two sisters from the day President Barack Obama announced the program through their appointments to give their fingerprints at a federal immigration office, the last step before approval.

To qualify for the action, immigrants needed to be under age 31 and prove they entered the United States before age 16. They had to have a high-school diploma or equivalent, show they were attending school, or show they were an honorably discharged veteran. They could not have any felony or major misdemeanor convictions.

To supplement Form I-821D, Consideration of Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, the sisters also had to show continuous presence in the United States.

The sisters sent in everything they could think of, even certificates of accomplishment from grade school through high school, not only because they thought they would meet the minimum requirements, but also that they might impress whatever bureaucrat they imagined would be reading their application and deciding if they qualify.

After mailing in their packets, the sisters routinely checked a federal website that was supposed to let them know where their application stood. For weeks, it contained the same notation: Initial Review.

In November, Bibiana was in the kitchen with her mom talking about how another day passed with no news. Her mother mentioned to her that she should check again. Bibiana did and saw her status changed to "approved."

"I'm screaming, 'Mom, I've been approved,'" she said.

Mother and daughter stared at the screen in disbelief.

They then checked Dulce's case. But it hadn't changed.

"We think, 'OK, in a week or so she'll be approved,'" Bibiana said. After all, the sisters mailed their applications on the same day. And each had similar stories and documentation to back it up.

Applicants were told they could only apply once. And there would be a limited appeals process.

Meanwhile, Bibiana was preparing to live life with permission to work and tacit permission to be in the country. She applied for a Social Security number. She enrolled in a full slate of classes at Phoenix College.

On Dec. 20, their mother, Juana, checked the mail and saw an envelope from the federal government for Dulce. It was the same type and size that had contained Bibiana's documents after she was approved. Juana decided she would hold on to it until Christmas.

At midnight on Christmas Eve, Juana told Dulce she could open one of her presents early.

When Dulce saw the envelope and realized what it was, she started jumping up and down.

Bibiana now felt she could celebrate, too. She updated her Facebook status with the words: "I'm documented." "It felt really good," she said.

Dulce applied for her Social Security card and received it on Dec. 31.

She went to Phoenix College the next week hoping to enroll for a full schedule.

"I had wanted to go to school with my sister," Dulce said. "Go book shopping and do those normal college things we were missing."

Previously, the sisters paid the higher out-of-state tuition required of undocumented students under state law. The price of nearly $1,000 a class meant they could only afford one class at a time.

A state law passed by Arizona voters said that people without legal status don't qualify for in-state tuition. Arizona universities don't grant the lower tuition rate to people who have earned deferred action. But the community colleges do.

In one of Dulce's business classes, a student started talking about immigration policy and illegal immigrants. He did so in such a way that Dulce felt compelled to tell him about her legal status.

"He could not fathom the fact I was undocumented," she said.

"I told him not all undocumented people are construction workers. We're not simple-minded people. We have thoughts and we have bigger dreams than just working the field or working construction or cleaning your house. And I'm one of them."

Dulce's math class rekindled her love of numbers. Over the summer, she found a job at an accounting office, a career she had not considered before.

"But you never know where life is going to take you," she said.

She plans to keep that job and keep up a full schedule of classes this fall.

Immigration reform

Bibiana has also stayed active with the Arizona Dream Act Coalition, a group of young activists pushing for immigration reform.

She was in the offices of that group on the day the U.S. Senate voted this summer to send a comprehensive immigration bill to the U.S. House. Bibiana, who sends out social-media messages for the group, sat with her laptop open, nervously counting up the votes of senators.

Bibiana was hopeful that the reform package would pass, but knew it faced a tough road in the U.S. House.

"I don't want to get too hopeful because I don't want to feel devastated," she said following the vote.

She recalled feeling a similar way after the Dream Act passed the Senate. That legislation would have provided a path to citizenship to certain young illegal immigrants who were college students or military veterans.

It was during that time the sisters thought out loud about how their lives would change if it passed. It failed in the U.S. House.

"I don't know what I would do if immigration reform doesn't pass," Bibiana said. "I really don't know what to do."

Last week, Bibiana was part of a group of activists who met with Attorney General Tom Horne, who has taken the Maricopa County Community College District to court, wanting the colleges to stop giving in-state tuition to students who have earned deferred action.

Bibiana said the group expected they would drop off petitions. Instead, they were told Horne would meet with them directly. They quickly huddled and came up with a strategy. Bibiana was picked as one student who would tell her story to Horne.

Bibiana said she was shaking as she told Horne her story as television cameras filmed and reporters took notes.

"I felt I was just talking on the spot and I was improvising," she said.

Horne told Bibiana and the others that he respected their struggle as an immigrant himself, but he filed suit to make sure that colleges follow the law.

In the end, Bibiana said she felt she had taken part in an orchestrated stunt.

"He was listening, but he wasn't really hearing me out," she said.

It was another reminder that the blessing of the Deferred Action program was not a cure-all.

"It kind of brings you back to the reality that there are people who are doing their own efforts ... and they're trying to work against us," she said.