49

When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.

—MALALA YOUSAFZAI

IT’S JUNE, the month I thought I’d be dreading because it would mean having to leave America forever. But instead, my future, my glorious future, lies in front of me, as perfect as it was at the beginning of the year. Even more perfect, maybe, because it was even more hard-earned. The sun shines brightly over the hundreds of people packed into the stadium and on the field for my graduation. It’s a beautiful Southern California day, with a perfect cloudless sky and a comfortable seventy-five degrees.

A few days before, I’d attended Royce’s graduation and watched with pride as he took the top prize in Language Arts. His graduating class was much smaller than mine, and the ceremony was held at the Walt Disney Concert Hall. The girls all wore white dresses underneath their graduation robes, like the bunch of debutantes that they are. Royce spent the whole time texting me from the stage.

Meaning he can see down my cleavage because I’m wearing the red dress I wore to Spago, naughty boy.

* * *

Now I’m sitting up on the stage at my graduation and going over the speech in my head. From where I’m sitting, I can see that the stadium is packed with everyone’s family and friends. I can barely make out my parents and brothers near the fifty-yard line. Royce is sitting with them, looking so handsome with his hair slicked back and wearing the tie I bought him with the Philippine flag on one side and the American flag on the other. When my phone buzzes, I remove it from the pocket of my gown as surreptitiously as I can. The ceremony hasn’t started yet—I feel safe doing this. It’s Royce, of course.

I try not to laugh as I put away my phone. The ceremony’s starting, but I don’t pay attention to the opening remarks or anything. I’m still going over my speech, which is different from the one I’d planned to write in November. Very different. Plus, I’m not the only valedictorian up here. I’m sharing the honor with another senior, Amanda Hiller, who’s going to MIT for Robotics. If a bad bout of Valley fever hadn’t made her grades dip her junior year, I probably wouldn’t be standing next to her. After everything that’s happened this year, I’m fortunate to be here. I had almost taken it for granted.

Amanda gives her speech, but I can’t hear a word she’s saying. I keep going over mine in my head, it has to be perfect. It might be my last chance to make a difference in high school.

When Amanda finishes and Principal Lopez begins to introduce me, I feel an irrational desire to jump off the stage and run away. But I square my shoulders and make my way to the podium. After I readjust the microphone I gaze out again. This time I look at the graduates. Hundreds of familiar faces. Not a single graduate is unhappy. Some are obviously bored. Their parents appear far more anxious. They’re the ones who, like my parents, really understand how unpredictable the world can be.

I decide impulsively that I have to address that first. “There is so much uncertainty in the world,” I begin. “We graduates often don’t see this as young people. Especially today. To us, everything is attainable. We can do anything. Our choices don’t matter to us as long as we feel we’re moving forward. But our parents, especially mine, they’re the ones who really understand that there are obstacles on our path. We all must be prepared for sudden change.” I take a breath. People seem to be listening. Even Kayla, who’s sitting in the third row, along with my friends from math group, cheer, even the football players. Now I can begin my actual speech, the one I worked on so hard with Royce these last few bittersweet weeks.

“Dear graduates.” My voice is just above a whisper. I clear my throat and continue a little louder this time. “I want to tell you about hope during these uncertain times of change. Many of you know that not too long ago I found myself in a situation that appeared, especially to me, hopeless. I always thought I was a legal resident of this country, someone on the path to becoming American, but guess what—I wasn’t. My family was here illegally. For a while, I believed that I had lost everything. My future, my country. The barriers seemed insurmountable. Deportation loomed like a leviathan.

“We learned about Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan in Mr. Maynard’s history class. Thank you, Mr. Maynard. We will miss your many references to the latest teen dystopian movies.”

The students chuckle a little. I feel lighter. I can get through this speech.

“Mr. Maynard, like every other teacher, taught us something about ourselves. For each of us, this is a little different. We’re all unique creatures. Though maybe some of you are more like monsters.”

I pause while the crowd laughs, especially the parents. Somehow, people are listening. My knees have stopped shaking. My voice sounds more confident.

“I promise I won’t give you a history lecture, but I want to quote a few of these bits from history, from Leviathan, which was written in 1651, more than a hundred years before our own Declaration of Independence. One of the things Hobbes believed in was a Kingdom of Darkness. He didn’t mean Hell though. He was talking about the darkness of ignorance. True knowledge, he thought, was light. Graduates, we must not be ignorant. What you—what all of us—have to do in the coming years is to seek the light of true knowledge for the good of society.

“In my case, when I found out that I was going to be deported because I wasn’t in America legally, I lost sight of who I was. I thought a piece of paper defined me, that I was a different person, lesser. But throughout this entire year, I’ve learned that who I was never changed. I let what the law said about me—that I, as a human being, was illegal, that I didn’t belong in the place I’d always known as my own home—change my own perception of who I am.

“When I sat down to write this graduation speech, I thought about how these things are supposed to be filled with advice. I thought, ‘Who am I to give my fellow students advice? What will I say?’ And I could come up with only one thing.

“No one—not the law, not a college admissions officer, not your friends, not your teachers or parents or any other people, can define who you are. The only person who can do that is you. Even though you can’t control the things that happen to you, you can control your perspective and your actions. There’s never a moment you can’t choose who you want to be.

“But we have to take that even further. Life isn’t only about figuring out what we need. We need to figure out how to help others too.

“We have to ask ourselves: What can we do to better ourselves and our country? What can we do to be remembered? Who do we want to be?” I ask, echoing Suzanne’s words during our trip to Washington, D.C. “Our Constitution has always been a living, breathing document capturing not just one moment of change in time, but an ongoing transformation taking place even today.

“As for me, I was lucky enough to be granted a stay of deportation and a temporary visa that will allow my family to apply for green cards and the chance to be citizens of this great nation. As a citizen, I’ll fight those individuals and companies who benefit from the backs of the most disenfranchised among us, who profit from deportations, detaining and imprisoning entire families in overcrowded detention centers within our borders, deliberately destroying the American dreams of millions of people every day.

“I urge you to find your passion. Follow the light of true knowledge. Find what inspires you. Find what makes you passionate, what helps you recognize the sense of justice already burning within your heart. Give voice to the voiceless, help to the helpless, be a haven for those who have no recourse, no resources. Keep fighting—for your own sakes, and for the future of our country. Thank you.”

The applause is deafening and the audience is on their feet, but I don’t really see or hear any of it. I’m too busy smiling at my family, at Royce, at Kayla, all my friends and teachers, everyone who has been there for me.

Even though this moment is supposed to be mine, it’s bigger than that, bigger than me. It’s not just about one undocumented immigrant, but for everyone with a dream and a will to succeed. I love my country, and I won’t stop until I count myself among its citizens.