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What It Means to Be ‘Undocuqueer’
Undocumented queer people “push back against both geopolitical and heteronormative borders," says Alonso Reyna-Rivarola, a gay man from Utah who was born in Lima, Peru, and came to the United States at age 11. He is a Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) recipient, and has firsthand experience of how people living at this intersection can be overlooked and marginalized. “There are the day-to-day things and the broader things," he says. “As someone who's both undocumented and queer, you have to navigate being often excluded.”
Queer immigrants have historically faced targeted discrimination. The inadmissibility clause of the Immigration and Nationality Act excluded those with “sexual deviation” and was used to deny queer immigrants legal status from 1952 to 1990, when the Supreme Court struck down the policy.
Today, in a political landscape where government safety nets are designed for citizens and legal residents, undocumented queer individuals can still find themselves unseen and unprotected. There are approximately 300,000 undocumented queer immigrants currently living in the US,according to the Williams Institute at the UCLA School of Law. That is nearly 300,000 people who exist at an even greater disadvantage because of their dual identity.
For example, many undocumented people, regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity, don’t report crimes like sexual assault and domestic violence to law enforcement because they fear being deported. The same is true for queer individuals, who tend to experience sexual assault and domestic violence at even higher rates.
“When you're undocumented, there's a lot of fear in reporting to the authorities for the fear of being deported or further victimized,” says Bamby Salcedo, president of TransLatin@ Coalition, the largest trans-led organization in the US. Salcedo spent a significant portion of her life in the US undocumented after arriving at age 16 in 1985. She is now in the process of getting a U-Visa, which offers temporary legal status to victims of certain crimes, after she became a victim of a hate crime.
In 2023, over 520 pieces of legislation were introduced in state legislatures targeting LGBTQ+ individuals, with 220 specifically targeting trans individuals, according to the Human Rights Campaign. “The messages they are crafting about us essentially translate to ‘we are not supposed to exist,’” Salcedo says. “Those are the messages that people hear, and because of those messages they act upon those things they believe about us. That translates into people actually enacting violence against us.”
Many states with Republican-controlled legislatures that are attempting to pass anti-queer legislation are also states pushing for extreme and anti-immigrant legislation. In its most recent legislative session, Texas — where a draconian Senate Bill 4 has been heavily criticized for encouraging racial profiling in the state’s attempt to deport individuals suspected of crossing the border illegally — filed over 76 anti-queer bills.
Donald Trump’s 2024 presidential win could intensify challenges for undocumented people, especially given his promise of mass deportations and reduced asylum protections. Trump’s agenda has also specifically outlined challenges for LGBTQindividuals, limiting access to healthcare and affirming services and rollbacking Title XI protections.
For undocumented trans individuals, Reyna-Rivarola adds, there are a myriad of other challenges, including finding gender-affirming care and changing gender markers on IDs. "There is also the reality that undocumented trans people who are detained are being sent to the wrong detention centers," he notes.
In some cases, detention means death for trans immigrants. Both Roxhana Hernandez and Johana Medina Leon were trans women who developed medical complications while being detained by Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (ICE), leading to Democratic lawmakers advocating for the release of transgender migrants from ICE.
Says Salcedo, who has been incarcerated in an immigration detention center herself, undocumented individuals often end up at detention centers trying to find an easier life in the United States: “Many members of our community fled their countries because of the violence that they experienced. Many of us come to this country, trying to find the American dream, only to find the American nightmare.”
Luis is a 22-year-old gay man who arrived in Texas at age 15 from Veracruz, Mexico. “It’s scary because it doesn’t necessarily look as acceptable to be queer in Mexico,” says Luis, who asked to withhold his last name because of his undocumented status. “I don’t think I would feel as safe as I am right now if I were ever deported to Mexico.”
At the same time, some undocumented queer individuals are wary of erasing the queer heritage found in their birth countries. Dante, a 23-year-old DACA recipient from San Antonio who also asked to withhold his last name, says that his cultural heritage and queerness have been at odds in the past, but he now believes it is incredibly important to avoid a patronizing, American-exceptionalist lens and recognize queerness in Mexico. “I've only recently begun exploring queerness in a culturally significant context," Dante says. "My family is deeply Catholic, and a lot of their sentiments towards my sexuality initially were that this kind of thing doesn't exist for them.”
He continues, “I've started discovering and being exposed to queer art, queer stories, and queer experiences in Mexico, and it's been really cool. It's helped me a lot.”
Sometimes the path to legal status can also be uniquely difficult. Luis, who is not eligible for DACA, has been considering marrying his boyfriend of over two years for legal status. "One of the ways to get status is to get married and have kids,” he says. Still, he worries about how his case would look to immigration officials. For instance, he says, “when you go to the interview for a marriage-based green card and they ask questions like, 'Were your parents at the wedding?' and they were not there because they were not supportive."
Reyna-Rivarola points out that constantly juggling the vulnerabilities that come with one's identity “prevents you from fully exercising and living a complete life.” He says he has been involved with advocating for Palestinian liberation but is worried that his political involvement could result in immigration sanctions. “If you have to constantly police yourself, you're always on edge.”
Dante feels a different type of pressure: "[There are] pressures to perform or fulfill different roles. Our families often feel heavier because we're a family of immigrants that have had a hard time in this country; it's a lot harder at times to dismiss some of the obligations that they have or that they impose, whether intentional or unintentional." He adds, “Sometimes the obligations can just be the kinds of jobs they want for us or something a lot more personal, like marriage or how we present ourselves to the family.”
What It Means to Be ‘Undocuqueer’
Undocumented queer people “push back against both geopolitical and heteronormative borders," says Alonso Reyna-Rivarola, a gay man from Utah who was born in Lima, Peru, and came to the United States at age 11. He is a Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) recipient, and has firsthand experience of how people living at this intersection can be overlooked and marginalized. “There are the day-to-day things and the broader things," he says. “As someone who's both undocumented and queer, you have to navigate being often excluded.”
Queer immigrants have historically faced targeted discrimination. The inadmissibility clause of the Immigration and Nationality Act excluded those with “sexual deviation” and was used to deny queer immigrants legal status from 1952 to 1990, when the Supreme Court struck down the policy.
Today, in a political landscape where government safety nets are designed for citizens and legal residents, undocumented queer individuals can still find themselves unseen and unprotected. There are approximately 300,000 undocumented queer immigrants currently living in the US,according to the Williams Institute at the UCLA School of Law. That is nearly 300,000 people who exist at an even greater disadvantage because of their dual identity.
For example, many undocumented people, regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity, don’t report crimes like sexual assault and domestic violence to law enforcement because they fear being deported. The same is true for queer individuals, who tend to experience sexual assault and domestic violence at even higher rates.
“When you're undocumented, there's a lot of fear in reporting to the authorities for the fear of being deported or further victimized,” says Bamby Salcedo, president of TransLatin@ Coalition, the largest trans-led organization in the US. Salcedo spent a significant portion of her life in the US undocumented after arriving at age 16 in 1985. She is now in the process of getting a U-Visa, which offers temporary legal status to victims of certain crimes, after she became a victim of a hate crime.
In 2023, over 520 pieces of legislation were introduced in state legislatures targeting LGBTQ+ individuals, with 220 specifically targeting trans individuals, according to the Human Rights Campaign. “The messages they are crafting about us essentially translate to ‘we are not supposed to exist,’” Salcedo says. “Those are the messages that people hear, and because of those messages they act upon those things they believe about us. That translates into people actually enacting violence against us.”
Many states with Republican-controlled legislatures that are attempting to pass anti-queer legislation are also states pushing for extreme and anti-immigrant legislation. In its most recent legislative session, Texas — where a draconian Senate Bill 4 has been heavily criticized for encouraging racial profiling in the state’s attempt to deport individuals suspected of crossing the border illegally — filed over 76 anti-queer bills.
Donald Trump’s 2024 presidential win could intensify challenges for undocumented people, especially given his promise of mass deportations and reduced asylum protections. Trump’s agenda has also specifically outlined challenges for LGBTQindividuals, limiting access to healthcare and affirming services and rollbacking Title XI protections.
For undocumented trans individuals, Reyna-Rivarola adds, there are a myriad of other challenges, including finding gender-affirming care and changing gender markers on IDs. "There is also the reality that undocumented trans people who are detained are being sent to the wrong detention centers," he notes.
In some cases, detention means death for trans immigrants. Both Roxhana Hernandez and Johana Medina Leon were trans women who developed medical complications while being detained by Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (ICE), leading to Democratic lawmakers advocating for the release of transgender migrants from ICE.
Says Salcedo, who has been incarcerated in an immigration detention center herself, undocumented individuals often end up at detention centers trying to find an easier life in the United States: “Many members of our community fled their countries because of the violence that they experienced. Many of us come to this country, trying to find the American dream, only to find the American nightmare.”
Luis is a 22-year-old gay man who arrived in Texas at age 15 from Veracruz, Mexico. “It’s scary because it doesn’t necessarily look as acceptable to be queer in Mexico,” says Luis, who asked to withhold his last name because of his undocumented status. “I don’t think I would feel as safe as I am right now if I were ever deported to Mexico.”
At the same time, some undocumented queer individuals are wary of erasing the queer heritage found in their birth countries. Dante, a 23-year-old DACA recipient from San Antonio who also asked to withhold his last name, says that his cultural heritage and queerness have been at odds in the past, but he now believes it is incredibly important to avoid a patronizing, American-exceptionalist lens and recognize queerness in Mexico. “I've only recently begun exploring queerness in a culturally significant context," Dante says. "My family is deeply Catholic, and a lot of their sentiments towards my sexuality initially were that this kind of thing doesn't exist for them.”
He continues, “I've started discovering and being exposed to queer art, queer stories, and queer experiences in Mexico, and it's been really cool. It's helped me a lot.”
Sometimes the path to legal status can also be uniquely difficult. Luis, who is not eligible for DACA, has been considering marrying his boyfriend of over two years for legal status. "One of the ways to get status is to get married and have kids,” he says. Still, he worries about how his case would look to immigration officials. For instance, he says, “when you go to the interview for a marriage-based green card and they ask questions like, 'Were your parents at the wedding?' and they were not there because they were not supportive."
Reyna-Rivarola points out that constantly juggling the vulnerabilities that come with one's identity “prevents you from fully exercising and living a complete life.” He says he has been involved with advocating for Palestinian liberation but is worried that his political involvement could result in immigration sanctions. “If you have to constantly police yourself, you're always on edge.”
Dante feels a different type of pressure: "[There are] pressures to perform or fulfill different roles. Our families often feel heavier because we're a family of immigrants that have had a hard time in this country; it's a lot harder at times to dismiss some of the obligations that they have or that they impose, whether intentional or unintentional." He adds, “Sometimes the obligations can just be the kinds of jobs they want for us or something a lot more personal, like marriage or how we present ourselves to the family.”
