After I graduated college, I worked as a medical interpreter at a clinic along Atlanta’s Buford Highway corridor. I spent my days speaking Spanish with patients, nearly all of whom came from low-income communities. Many had trouble understanding their mostly white doctors due to language barriers and cultural differences. Some patients even lived in fear of immigration authorities. I recall one family who worried that seeking treatment for their little girl’s third-degree burns would result in a call to ICE.
I was 22 at the time and already passionate about medicine. After my time there, I felt reassured that I wanted to devote my career toward healing the most vulnerable Georgians. Only then did I discover that my own immigration status stood in the way.
My mom brought me to Georgia from Guatemala when I was 6 years old, escaping an abusive relationship and seeking better opportunities. Though undocumented, I grew up feeling just as American as my peers, and I initially hoped to serve in the Navy. I soon realized that my immigration status – something I had no control over – prohibited me from enlisting or attaining the naval scholarship I had been promised as a top cadet in my region.
At 18, I was overjoyed to receive work authorization and protection through the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program. At the same time, however, I was shocked to learn that Georgia’s licensure requirements prohibited undocumented individuals, including those with DACA, from practicing medicine. I was forced to pursue my medical career in New York, one of roughly 15 other states that have enacted legislation to allow DACA recipients to obtain a medical license. That’s a huge disappointment for me and my undocumented peers who hope to study medicine and provide care to underserved communities in Georgia. But it’s also a tremendous loss for our state, which desperately needs as many doctors as we can get….
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