Document text
Jocksana Corona knows a thing or two about being labeled. Defining herself by any single label, however, doesn’t appear to be her style. At least, little of Corona’s life — as a GED holder who’s also a Ford Scholar, immigrant, first-generation college student, wife and mother — seems to jibe with the expectations from each category she falls into. “My birthday’s on Mexican Independence Day,” she says, while sitting in her home in Talent Wednesday afternoon. A smile steals across her face. “I’m like, ‘I’m an independent woman!’” The back of her graduation cap, which she’ll wear Saturday evening as a commencement speaker for the Rogue Community College Class of 2018, is a nod to one designation Corona used to resent: It’s the word “dream.” She now sees the exhortation as applicable, however, to more people than just those who identify with her status: immigrant, with her new life shadowed by uncertainty over the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program. If life circumstances determine a person’s fate or character, it would have been easy to discount Corona from accomplishing much in the United States at an early age. But the 33-year-old tells her story full of setbacks without any particular air of incredulity or amazement. Corona says she didn’t live constantly aware that she, her sister and her mother were living in the country unlawfully when she was growing up — all she knew was she had been brought to California from Mexico when she was 4 years old. Besides, she had more immediate barriers to overcome — her mother’s unpredictability and addictions, and her absent father’s destabilizing attempts to reinsert himself into their family. The sisters had no remaining familial ties to the country that their father had insisted they be born in but not raised in. It was a label — a racial slur directed at a friend — that first made Corona realize being in the country without legal permission could lead to exclusion and name-calling, she says. In high school, it was a job application that made her aware of bigger obstacles, particularly that she wouldn’t be able to legally work. “It asked for Social Security and ID and all that. And I was like, do I have that?,” Corona says. “So then I asked my mom ... and she just started laughing at me like I was stupid ... . She’s like, ‘Throw away that job application. You’re never going to get one of those jobs.’” Corona, who had been an honors student with numerous advanced placement classes, dropped out of high school before her senior year, working any odd job she could find to support the family so her sister could graduate. When she tried to re-enroll the following year, the school district required that she provide papers she didn’t have: proof of address (she and her sister had become technically homeless in the meantime) and, once again, a Social Security number. She opted instead to apply for a high school equivalency program at the University of Oregon, funded by the Office of Migrant Education. She was accepted and moved into a dorm; while there, she met and began dating Carlos Corona, who grew up in Phoenix. His family took her in when she finished her GED near the top of her class. With the help of Carlos’ family, he and Jocksana settled as newlyweds in Talent. Jocksana had a GED, a husband and eventually two children — but she couldn’t work. Instead, she volunteered. She helped the Northwest Seasonal Workers Association as an event coordinator and family advocate, was a volunteer with the Oregon Child Development Coalition and was heavily involved with the parent-teacher association at Talent Elementary. For years, she offered her time and work for free in the community. “As the kids got older and they started going to school — she put all of her care into the kids,” Carlos says. “And now that she still had some left over, she needed somewhere to spread that kind of care.” Corona’s life didn’t immediately change when former President Barack Obama created the DACA program in June 2012. It took her two years of doubt before she applied and was approved for the work visa that enabled her to begin earning money for college. She worked three jobs at once for a few months to do so. When she was able to begin attending classes at RCC, “her light came on,” her husband says. Later, Corona was able to pursue her associate degree in human services at RCC full-time by earning scholarships from the RCC Foundation and the American Association of University Women. She continued to work in the college’s counseling office. Corona finished her degree through RCC by taking classes at SOU in a reverse-transfer setup. She’s one of the first immigrant students to be awarded a Ford Family Foundation Scholarship, which will cover the cost of her final years to earn a bachelor’s degree in psychology. Yet even as Corona has moved forward in life, fear continues to color her experience. Every step toward the future — she dreams of working as a family advocate, raising her children to adulthood — is tinged with uncertainty. She doesn’t seek sympathy for herself while telling her story, but the unpredictability of her status can bring her to tears. Listening to Attorney General Jeff Sessions’ September announcement that the federal government would move to terminate DACA is one of the memories that prompts a rush of emotion. “For like a week or two, I was afraid of going to work, I was afraid of going to class, I was afraid of coming home, because they knew where I lived,” she says with tears in her eyes and a catch in her throat. “I even went to my boss the day that DACA was rescinded and I told him, ‘Well, my DACA expires on May 5, so after May 5, I cannot legally work for you guys. Hey! And I might get deported sooner than that,’ … and my boss started crying.” A federal judge partially blocked President Donald Trump’s executive order in January, opening up renewals to all DACA recipients again — so in May, Corona was able to renew her visa and defer her deportation date until May 2020. “Right now I feel like I’m safe,” she says. But the fate of the DACA program and the lives of its recipients remain insecure in the ongoing immigration policy fight in Congress. Meanwhile, if she chooses to try to gain legal status, there’s a possibility that she might be required to return to Mexico for the first time since she was 4. She may also face a penalty for her time in the United States — a re-entry delay of up to 10 years. “My life has always been an up-and-down battle,” Jocksana says. “I’m always used to having to come back from another setback. It’s just hard to be that strong person when your son is asking what’s going to happen to you.” Reach Mail Tribune reporter Kaylee Tornay at [email protected] or 541-776-4497. Follow her on Twitter @ka_tornay.