Once undocumented, young women beat odds to graduate at top of class

On Friday, Saray Hernandez Salazar, 17, will stand up in front of her classmates as salutatorian of Bridgeton High School's Class of 2015.

That's remarkable mostly because there was a time not long ago when Hernandez Salazar wasn't sure she'd graduate at all. As an undocumented immigrant, she felt hopeless - until her sophomore year, when the introduction of Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) gave her a chance for temporary legal status.

"I did get discouraged," she said. "My parents always pushed me to continue my studies, even though it was hard and my opportunities were limited. I have to say, if it wasn't for them, I probably wouldn't even be graduating high school."

Looking around her, Hernandez Salazar can't help feeling she beat the odds in Cumberland County, N.J., farm country. She's heard that some other Mexican students in her class had dropped out since January.

"They were like, 'What's the point?' Their parents work in the fields, so they were like, 'I have no future,' " she said. "Some of them just work with their parents."

The dropout rate for foreign-born Hispanics is more than double the national average, at 12.3 percent, according to the Pew Hispanic Center. Only 22.6 percent of foreign-born Hispanics go on to college.

But those numbers are dramatically better than they were 10 years ago.

And graduation ceremonies in the region this week will feature commencement speeches from high-achieving students like Hernandez Salazar and like Anastasiya Torres, an 18-year-old immigrant from Ukraine who's in a three-way runoff for valedictorian at Lindenwold High School.

Bridgeton School Superintendent Thomasina Jones said four of this year's top five graduates were born in Mexico, overcoming economic and social forces that lead about three in 10 students each year to drop out.

"Bridgeton is an impoverished community. Our students are disenfranchised, and we have a very mobile population. Over 30 percent of our students transfer to other communities," she said, mentioning migrant workers from Mexico who come and go. "There's a major gap that occurs in instruction."

She said the district had responded with bilingual teachers and administrators, English classes for children and parents, and community partnerships.

Hernandez Salazar said it also required lots of grit.

"I tried to ignore everyone who had something racial to say, who'd say, 'They're just Mexicans; they're not going to get anywhere.' I guess now I'm just trying to prove them wrong," Hernandez Salazar said.

Both young women recall a difficult journey from a part of the world they may never see again.

Hernandez Salazar's father, Gregorio Montiel, and mother, Margarita Hernandez, came from Vera Cruz, Mexico, in 2000. They sent for her to join them after they realized that their dream - to earn quick American dollars and then return home - wasn't realistic.

She arrived just in time for first grade but spoke no English. Fran Ferrara, her teacher in a bilingual first-grade class, recalls a little girl who started behind her peers, but who was already driven to succeed.

"She was a good student and worked really hard," he said.

Torres was 4 when her mother engineered their escape from a climate of corruption and violence against women in Ukraine.

"She foresaw a hard life for me if we stayed there," Torres said.

They flew to Mexico, then traveled overland to the United States. She can recall crossing the border by car, her mother zipped into a suitcase.

"I remember talking to her while she was in the suitcase, and the adults were telling me make sure everything seems normal. And my mom was telling me in Russian, 'Anastasiya, turn around and sit down.' "

In Lindenwold, Torres struggled with English and was set back a grade.

By middle school, she was fluent - but had new concerns about her immigration status and what it meant for her future. She was afraid to tell friends.

"People started making inquiries as to where I'm from and I'd say, 'I'm from here,' " she said. "Inside, I'd be freaking out. It was like, 'Oh my gosh, I have this horrible secret.' "

DACA offered her an opportunity to climb out from under that secret. The temporary but renewable status protects certain immigrants from deportation and enables them to work and get driver's licenses.

It also made college seem attainable. Before, Hernandez said, "I worried I would just stop at high school."

But DACA didn't make them eligible for federal financial aid, so paying for college remains a hurdle.

Torres and Hernandez both dream of becoming doctors - an even more expensive proposition.

Montiel, a construction worker, and Margarita Hernandez, who works in a warehouse, believe it's possible. They just have no idea how.

"I don't know if we'll be able to, through our means, put her through college. And to be able to be a doctor? We would never make it," Montiel said. "If she's going to be a doctor, God's going to see her through."

Hernandez Salazar has already received what felt like one miracle: a $24,000-a-year scholarship to Bloomfield College in North Jersey. It was a huge help, even though there are still hefty room and board and tuition fees ahead. The family recently visited Bloomfield and asked about their options, Montiel said. "There was no option. Only the cash option."

Torres chose Rowan University, partly because it's affordable and she can live at home. Thanks to New Jersey's Dream Act, signed last year, she qualifies for in-state tuition.

Her school baseball coach, Mike Scannell, and a guidance counselor, Allyson Hafner, recently took up a collection among friends and neighbors and raised more than $2,000 for her education. They called it the Lindenwold High School Scholars Award.

Hafner said she often sees undocumented students facing long odds become disengaged.

"It is hard for them to find meaningful employment after high school," she said. "A large percentage of our school here relies on financial aid to fund their college, so if you take away that component, it takes away a lot of options."

She sees a future for Torres, though.

"She works really hard and has a vision for what she wants to do," she said.

Hernandez Salazar, now legally able to work for the first time, found a summer job and is saving for college.

And she's been working on her graduation speech, trying to pack 17 years of parental sacrifice, overcoming obstacles, and dreaming big into a few minutes before a crowd of restless seniors.

It's a story that's difficult to sum up, and one that will continue after the diplomas are handed out. Her parents are still undocumented, though they're closely watching the news on Deferred Action for Parents of Americans, a DACA-like program that was blocked by a recent court decision before it could be implemented. They would qualify because their younger daughter, Noemi, 12, is a citizen.

Torres, too, said she couldn't forget what her mother went through to bring her here. That - and innate optimism - kept her going even when she wasn't sure her work was leading anywhere.

"I was running on the hope that this was going to come at some point - and when it does, I have to be prepared."

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