We are Agents of Change
By Emma Taylor
On my first day interning in northern Mexico, I entered the church timidly, unsure of this new place. Almost immediately, my colleague and I were greeted with warmth from two young children. Our unfamiliar faces excited them, and they were eager to see what we had in our bags. We pulled out small surprises—coloring sheets, Duvalín candy, sandía lollipops, and bubbles.
These children were among the first people I came to know at the migrant shelter. That very day, I learned their favorite colors, games, and foods. Soon after, I learned about their dreams. Even at a young age, they are acutely aware of their circumstances. They dreamed of the United States and Canada–places with schools, abundant food, and of course, ice cream. Places where you can live peacefully, without fear of displacement. Their reality surfaced in every interaction and activity- it was inescapable. At just 10 and 11 years old, they have already endured journeys unimaginable to most. Over the past three weeks, I’ve come to see just how much of being “legal” in the United States is determined by chance. Maybe you were born here. Maybe you received a petition because of an “exceptional” skill. Or maybe you crossed the border before a certain cutoff date and qualified for residency. But when you're fleeing violence, instability, or displacement, you don’t get to choose the timing. You are not afforded the luxury of aligning your departure with the bureaucratic rhythms of immigration law. And even for those granted entry, safety is never guaranteed—immigration policy shifts with every administration, and legal status could quickly become uncertain.
I now recognize how flawed it is to prioritize someone’s immigration status over their humanity. That may seem obvious, yet I was surprised by how much unconscious weight I had placed on the idea of “legality.” Even in well-meaning arguments, those that highlight how migrants contribute to the economy or enrich our culture, I now see how I was justifying their existence—as if their worth needed to be proven. But their existence alone should be enough. My perspective has shifted: the question is no longer what can immigrants do for us? but rather, what can we do for immigrants?
My heart breaks for people, like the children we met, who dream of a better life in the United States, only to find that the reality falls short of the promise Take the Colonias, for example, which are as unincorporated communities near the Texas-Mexico border, where many immigrants fall prey to predatory leasing practices that trap them in cycles of poverty. These neighborhoods often lack even the most basic services: sewage systems, trash collection, animal control, police protection, to name a few. The United States has a responsibility not only to offer refuge but to ensure the safety and dignity of those who seek it within our borders.
As I write this, I find myself left with more questions than answers. I’ve wracked my brain for a hopeful ending, something uplifting that leaves the reader feeling reassured, but I realize now that desire only centers our own comfort, not the truth. If you’re like me, you may have lived in a bubble where it’s easy to overlook these harsh realities. But I urge you to step outside of that bubble. Choose to hear these stories. And choose to let your actions reflect your awareness.
One thing that grounds me is a reminder of our agency, our ability to exist beyond the confines of the systems that bind us. Each of us has the power to choose how we act, shaping our environment for better or worse. The United States is not solely defined by our institutions, which too often fail those who need it most, but by its people. If the system cannot offer protection, then we must be the ones who provide refuge. We can only hope that, through our actions, we might one day live in a place that fulfills dreams. A place that does more good than harm. And a place that empowers individuals to be the agents of their own change.
