Of all the questions I get asked as an undocumented immigrant in

Host: The night was heavy with humidity and the faint hum of the city**—**a mixture of traffic, sirens, and restless air conditioning units echoing against the brick walls of a run-down neighborhood in Queens. A single streetlamp flickered outside the window, casting light like an interrogation on the small kitchen table inside a basement apartment.

The room was cluttered but alive—photos taped to the refrigerator, a worn laptop open, the faint smell of rice and beans lingering like memory.

Jack sat at the table, sleeves rolled up, his hands clasped, his eyes sharp but uncertain. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the counter, her dark hair pulled back, her voice quiet but firm, carrying the weight of something that demanded to be felt.

Between them lay a printed article—its ink slightly smudged from fingerprints and tears. At the top, the words stood stark, unflinching:

“Of all the questions I get asked as an undocumented immigrant in the United States, there are two — asked in various permutations via email, social media or in person — that chill me to the bone:
‘Why don’t you just make yourself legal?’
And: ‘Why don’t you get in the back of the line?’”
— Jose Antonio Vargas

Host: The words hovered in the air between them, charged, like the tension before a storm. Outside, the rain began, soft and insistent, tracing rivulets down the glass as if time itself were shedding its conscience.

Jack: “It’s a fair question, isn’t it?” he said finally, his voice measured, careful. “Why not just get in line? Follow the law, like everyone else?”

Jeeny: “Everyone else?” she repeated, her tone sharp but trembling. “You make it sound like there’s a line that actually exists—for everyone. There isn’t. There never was. That’s the lie people tell so they can feel good about ignoring the truth.”

Jack: “But there are laws, Jeeny. Systems. Processes. You can’t just walk into a country and claim belonging.”

Jeeny: “And what if belonging isn’t something you claim, Jack? What if it’s something you earn—through work, through love, through contribution—and still never get because the system was built to deny you the very thing you’ve already given?”

Host: Her voice quivered—not with weakness, but with the kind of rage that comes from years of being unheard. The light from the streetlamp cast her shadow long and fractured across the wall, like a soul caught between two borders.

Jack: “You’re saying the law is wrong?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying the law was written for the people who already belonged. It was never meant to include those who came after. That’s the quiet cruelty of it. We build a wall out of words and call it justice.”

Jack: “But laws evolve. They always have.”

Jeeny: “Yes—but only when people suffer loudly enough for change to look like mercy.”

Host: The rain intensified, the sound of it like a thousand quiet protests beating against the world. Jack exhaled slowly, eyes on the paper, the quote still staring back like a wound refusing to close.

Jack: “I read Vargas’s essay,” he said, softer now. “He says he’s lived here for twenty-five years. Paid taxes. Worked. Spoke English better than half of Congress. And still, he’s not legal. That’s what gets me—the word ‘illegal.’ Like existence itself can break a law.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a word. It’s a verdict. And it’s handed down every day without trial.”

Jack: “You make it sound like the system is a weapon.”

Jeeny: “It is. Just a very polite one. Dressed in bureaucracy and paperwork instead of guns.”

Host: Her fingers tightened around her cup, knuckles white. There was something ancient in her posture—like every immigrant who had ever waited for permission to be seen.

Jeeny: “You know what I hate most about those questions?” she said, her voice breaking. “‘Why don’t you make yourself legal?’ Like it’s a costume I forgot to put on. As if the law were a door I simply chose not to knock on.”

Jack: “People don’t know how complicated it is.”

Jeeny: “They don’t want to know. Ignorance is comfortable. Compassion isn’t.”

Jack: “But you can’t expect everyone to understand the nuance of immigration law.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I expect them to understand the nuance of humanity.”

Host: The thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, the kind that shakes windows but not yet hearts. Jeeny’s tone softened, the anger dissolving into something quieter, heavier.

Jeeny: “You know what the other question does—‘Why don’t you get in the back of the line?’ It assumes there’s a front. That the system is fair. But for most, there isn’t even a line. Just a wall made of waiting.”

Jack: “Then what’s the answer? You can’t just throw the laws away. There has to be order.”

Jeeny: “No one’s asking to throw the laws away. We’re asking the law to remember its purpose—to protect the living, not punish them for being born in the wrong place.”

Jack: “But every country has to decide who belongs.”

Jeeny: “And who decides that, Jack? The people with papers? With privilege? Or the ones still proving they deserve breath?”

Host: The rain slowed, but the air remained dense, like the moment after confession—truth suspended between forgiveness and shame.

Jack: “You think I don’t care?” he said finally. “I do. But the law can’t run on feeling.”

Jeeny: “Then what should it run on—fear?”

Jack: “No. Stability. Consistency.”

Jeeny: “The kind that lets you sleep at night while someone else gets deported at dawn?”

Jack: “That’s not fair.”

Jeeny: “Neither is life. But law is supposed to make it less cruel, not reinforce it.”

Host: The silence after her words was thick, reverent. The only sound was the slow drip of rainwater leaking through the old window frame. It hit the table rhythmically, like punctuation for a conversation neither wanted to end.

Jack: “You know what gets me about Vargas?” he said quietly. “He said he became a journalist to tell the truth, but the truth made him invisible. The law turned his entire existence into a technicality.”

Jeeny: “That’s what being undocumented means, Jack. It’s not just about papers. It’s about being present, but unseen. Contributing, but unacknowledged. Loving a country that will never love you back the same way.”

Jack: “You make it sound like heartbreak.”

Jeeny: “It is heartbreak. And the cruelest part? It’s the kind that never ends—because you can’t leave, and you can’t belong.”

Host: Her words lingered like the echo of a prayer that no one had ever answered. Jack looked at her — not as an opponent, not as an idealist, but as something else: a witness.

Jack: “Maybe O’Connor was right about wisdom,” he murmured after a long pause. “Maybe when it comes to law, we all want to believe there’s one fair conclusion. But maybe justice changes when you look at it from the outside.”

Jeeny: “Justice doesn’t change, Jack. Perspective does. And until the law learns to see from both sides, it will keep mistaking humanity for inconvenience.”

Host: The lamp flickered once, then steadied. The storm outside had begun to drift east, leaving the room in a strange, hopeful stillness.

Jack: “You think there’s a future for this?” he asked, almost a whisper. “For people like him — like Vargas — for this kind of truth?”

Jeeny: “There has to be,” she said. “Because the truth isn’t asking for permission anymore. It’s living here, speaking here, paying taxes here. The truth is already American. The law just hasn’t caught up yet.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of what she knew to be true — that belonging is not bestowed, it’s built.

Jack: “So what happens next?”

Jeeny: “We keep telling the story,” she said, looking out the window where the rain had stopped. “Because silence is the last form of exile.”

Host: The camera would linger there — on her reflection in the windowpane, half-shadow, half-light — a portrait of resilience caught between two worlds.

The streetlamp outside flickered once more, then steadied, illuminating the page on the table where Jose Antonio Vargas’s words still glowed faintly in the yellow light.

“Why don’t you just make yourself legal?”
“Why don’t you get in the back of the line?”

Host: And as the scene faded, the whisper of rain returned, carrying with it the quiet reply that lived between the lines —

“Because for some of us, the line never moves.
And for others, it never ends.”