Immigrant voices make democracy stronger

Good evening.

My journey to this stage

began when I came to America

at the age of 17.

You see, I'm one
of the 84 million Americans

who are immigrants

or children of immigrants.

Each of us has a dream when we come here,

a dream that usually has to be rewritten

and always has to be repurposed.

I was one of the lucky ones.

My revised dream led me
to the work I do today:

training immigrants
to run for public office

and leading a movement
for inclusive democracy.

But I don't want you to think
it was a cakewalk,

that America opened its arms wide
and welcomed me.

It's still not doing that.

And I've learned a few lessons
along the way

that I wanted to share with you,

because I think that together,

we can make American democracy

better and stronger.

I was born in India,

the world's largest democracy,

and when I was 4,

my family moved to Belize,

the world's smallest democracy perhaps.

And at the age of 17,

I moved to the United States,

the world's greatest democracy.

I came because I wanted
to study English literature.

You see, as a child,
I buried my nose in books,

and I thought, why not make a living
doing that as an adult?

But after I graduated from college

and got a graduated degree,

I found myself moving
from one less ideal job to another.

Maybe it was the optimism
that I had about America

that made me take a while to understand

that things were not going to change.

The door that I thought was open

was actually just slightly ajar,

this door of America

that would open wide
if you had the right name,

the right skin color,

the right networks,

but could just slam in your face

if you had the wrong religion,

the wrong immigration status,

the wrong skin color.

And I just couldn't accept that.

So I started a career
as a social entrepreneur,

starting an organization
for young people like myself --

I was young at the time
that I started it --

who traced their heritage
to the Indian Subcontinent.

In that work, I became and advocate
for South Asians and other immigrants.

I lobbied members of Congress
on policy issues.

I volunteered on election day
to do exit polling.

But I couldn't vote
and I couldn't run for office.

So in 2000, when it was announced
that the Citizenship Application Fee

was going to more than double

from 95 dollars to 225 dollars,

I decided it was time to apply
before I could no longer afford it.

I filled out a long application,

answering questions about my current
and my past affiliations,

and once the application was submitted,

there were fingerprints to be taken,

a test to study for,

endless hours of waiting in line.

You might call it extreme vetting.

And then in December of 2000,

I joined hundreds of other immigrants

in a hall in Brooklyn

where we pledged our loyalty

to a country that we had long
considered home.

My journey from international student
to American citizen took 16 years,

a short timeline when you compare it
to other immigrant stories.

And soon after I had taken
that formal step

to becoming an American,

the attacks of September 11, 2001,

changed the immigration landscape

for decades to come.

My city, New York City,

was reeling and healing,

and in the midst of it,

we were in an election cycle.

Two things happened

as we coped with loss and recovery
in New York City.

Voters elected Michael Bloomberg
Mayor of New York City.

We also adopted by ballot referendum

the Office of Immigrant Affairs
for the City of the New York.

Five months after that election,

the newly elected mayor

appointed me the first Commissioner
of Immigrant Affairs

for this newly established office.

I want you to come back to that time.

I was a young immigrant woman from Belize.

I had basically floundered
in various jobs in America

before I started a community-based
organization

in a church basement in Queens.

The attacks of September 11
sent shock waves through my community.

People who were members of my family,
young people I had worked with,

were experiencing harassment

at schools, at workplaces,
and in airports.

And now I was going
to represent their concerns

in government.

No job felt more perfect for me.

And here are two things I learned
when I became Commissioner.

First, well-meaning New Yorkers

who were in city government
holding government positions

had no idea how scared immigrants were

of law enforcement.

Most of us don't really know
the difference, do we,

between a sheriff
and local police and the FBI,

and most of us, when we see
someone in uniform

going through our neighborhoods

feel curiosity if not concern.

So if you're an undocumented parent,

every day when you say
goodbye to your child,

send them off to school,
and go to work,

you don't know if what the chances are

that you're going to see them
at the end of the day,

because a raid at your workplace,

a chance encounter with local police,

could change the course
of your life forever.

The second thing I learned
is that when people like me

who understood that fear,

who had learned a new language,
who had navigated new systems,

when people like us
were sitting at the table,

we advocated for our communities' needs
in ways that no one else could or would.

I understood what the feeling
of fear was like.

People in my family
were experiencing it.

Young people I had worked with
were being harassed,

not just by classmates,

but also by their teachers.

My husband, then boyfriend,

thought twice before he put
a backpack on or grew a beard

because he traveled so much.

What I learned in 2001

was that my vote mattered
but that my voice and vantage point

also mattered,

and it's these three things --

immigrants' votes, voices
and vantage points --

that I think can help make
our democracy stronger.

We actually have the power

to change the outcome of elections,

to introduce new issues
into the policy debate,

and to change the face
of the pale, male, stale leadership

that we have in our country today.

So how do we do that?

Well let's talk first about votes.

It will come as no surprise to you
that the majority of voters

in America are white,

but it might surprise you to know

that one in three voters

are black, Latino, or Asian.

But here's the thing:

it doesn't just matter who can vote,
it matters who does vote.

So in 2012, half of the Latino
and Asian American voters

did not vote.

And these votes matter
not just in presidential elections.

They matter in local and state elections.

In 2015, Lan Diep,

the eldest son of political
refugees from Viet Nam,

ran for a seat
in the San Jose City Council.

He lost that election by 13 votes.

This year, he dusted off
those campaign shoes and went back

to run for that seat,

and this time he won, by 12 votes.

Every one of our votes matters.

And when people like Lan
are sitting at the policy table,

they can make a difference.

We need those voices.

We need those voices in part
because American leadership

does not look like America's residents.

There are over 500,000 local
and state offices in America.

Fewer than 2 percent of those offices
are held by Asian Americans or Latinos,

the two largest immigrant groups
in our country.

In the city of Yakima, Washington,

where 49 percent
of the population is Latino,

there has never been a Latino
on the City Council until this year.

Three newly elected Latinas
joined the Yakima City Council in 2016.

One of them is Carmen Méndez.

She is a first generation college student.

She grew up partly in Colima, Mexico,

and partly in Yakima, Washington.

She's a single m