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“And I think it’s a healing act, seeing something so broken and seeing its possibilities and wholeness.”
– Adrienne Marie Brown, emergency strategy
The Texas Dream Act was signed into law in 2001, a few years before crossing the stage with his 2014 high school graduation. I was 5, maybe 6, and probably playing with Barbie, probably looking at Bernie.
The law allows all Texas students to access in-state tuition fees at public universities, regardless of their immigration status. I think about this policy not only in terms of access, but also in terms of healing systemic divisions. Education is one of the few tools that can make immigrant communities even higher when permitted. The Texas Dream Act did not modify everything, but opened a long-sealed door.
The summer before my fourth year of high school was full of teenage anxiety and existential horror for the future. I knew it was undocumented. My parents didn’t hide it from me. I have experienced most of the K-12 knowing that the student file lacks a very important set of nine numbers. While my peers signed up for driver ED and applied for FAFSA, I was thinking about how to write a university essay on a future I’m not sure I have.
My mother-in-law helped me write those essays. It’s funny to think about it now, mainly because I didn’t know she was my stepmother. But because in all fairness, those essays weren’t that good. I was trying so hard to hide my reality. Like many children, I was bullied relentlessly, but unlike many, my bully was in my immigrant status. I was afraid that status would end my ambition and what could I do to sniff out the possibilities of the future.
But my university essay said a lot between the lines. They laid the foundation for a story where I can share how I feel now about dreaming in a country that doesn’t necessarily want you, and how hope and heartbreak can live side by side.
Then came the acceptance letter. I remember the joy of opening them – almost immediately followed by a gut punch of being classified as an international student. Tuition fees blurred my eyes. Again, college felt like a dream not for me, but for others.
That’s when someone told me about the act of a Texas dream. If I had lived in Texas long enough and signed an affidavit sworn me that was intended to legalize my status, I was eligible for in-state tuition. It was so simple that it wasn’t true. All I had to do was that the affidavit was notarized and filed some financial forms. So I walked to the bank of frost, clutched the paper like a burning piece of paper, and I’m sure the notary looked at me, and saw that it was undocumented and unwritten on my forehead, and pressed the secret ice button under the desk. They didn’t. They engraved it and pulled it back like they did on other Tuesdays. That little stamp gave me a shot to a future I didn’t know I could have.
The Texas Dream Act did not give me a scholarship. It did not magically erase the barriers I faced. I still had to do multiple jobs. I still haven’t gotten access to federal financial aid. I was still carrying the weight of family uncertainty every day. However, I attended university and was able to graduate. I had to start building a cross-border life that my parents would give to me. I saw my mother’s hard hands and my father’s constant back and knew that the pain was worth something.
In December 2018, I graduated from the University of Texas at San Antonio thanks to the Texas Dream Act. In May 2025, I completed my Masters in Government from New York University (this time at the Global Ship) while still a recipient of DACA. And in September 2024 I became a legal permanent resident. Although I am no longer documented, the act of Texas’ dreams changed my life, and its impacts have far surpassed the status of immigration. My husband, my extended family, and my community – they all benefit from my access to higher education. This is what the policy can do. This is how investment in people looks like.
In-state tuition fees for undocumented Texas students are once again under attack. Several proposals have been pushed during the legislative session, with the two gaining traction in their Texas home and in the Senate. If any proposal is in place, the Texas Dream Act will no longer exist. The Senate bill alone will force existing students to repay tuition benefits within the state if they pass. I feel that political debate is loud and cold, but I want to remind people that this is not about abstraction. It’s about real people like me, some of my best friends, and my chosen family. It’s about Harvard alumni, school teachers, community organizers, and home-based parents being given the opportunity to fight to learn and give back. The Texas dream act wasn’t all, but it was something.
Let’s be clear. Legislative proposals moving forward in the Texas Legislature are cruel. Depriving students of access to education doesn’t make Texas stronger. It makes it weaker, smaller and scares of future possibilities.
I know whether Texas Dream Act will continue to survive this legislative session (or the next student recorded student), or not. They have always had it. But it shouldn’t be that difficult. They don’t have to be exceptional just to be allowed in the classroom. Our immigration status does not define our intelligence, our passion, our perseverance, and the skills we can apply to our community.
Policies like the Texas Dream Act are more than a line of law. They are lifelines. They are blueprints for possibilities. And if we want to see wholeness in the broken things, as Adrienne Maree Brown says, we could also make something better.
Submitted below: Rick Perry, a Texas student
