The morning after Election Day felt unreal. I was only able to sleep for three hours and woke up with a mix of emotions — fear, disappointment, determination. As a Black, undocumented woman, my identity is directly tied to these changes.
It wasn’t just about policies or political leaders. It was about the kind of future America is choosing for people like me and for communities like mine for generations to come.
Navigating the 2024 election season without the right to vote felt like an endless battle. Yet I felt a deep responsibility to canvas and mobilize communities to vote for leaders who represent people like me.
I knocked on doors in battleground states and rallied college students across multiple universities’ campuses to cast their ballots. Just two days before the election, I flew to Arizona to share my story with young voters, hoping to help turn the border state blue.
I recruited friends to canvas in Pennsylvania and engaged in one-on-one dialogues with undecided voters on social media about crucial issues. For me, this election wasn’t just political — it was deeply personal.
The weight of these emotions after seeing the election results went far beyond the ballots for me — they were tied to my immigration journey. Another Trump administration represented the lost hope of reuniting with my grandparents and cousins, as well as the constant fear of deportation and the uncertainty of securing a stable job after college.
Unlike immigrants such as Elon Musk, the possibility for low-income immigrants of color to obtain citizenship under such an administration feels nearly impossible.
The anxiety I felt about my future on Election Day was overwhelming. I was determined to pursue a doctorate in Latin American Studies immediately after completing my undergraduate degree. However, the demands of such a program — time, energy, and financial stability — seem impossible to meet given the uncertainties of another Trump administration. I decided to put that dream away, for now at least.
The path of my future changed completely after Nov. 6. I felt as if I was not allowed to dream the same way any longer. But the reality is that this is the case for many other students, even those who don’t know it yet.
The idea of mass deportations should concern not only undocumented people but U.S. citizens too. When Trump speaks of deploying the military to enforce such measures, the possibility of targeting the students on university campuses becomes palpable.
In 2016, the Department of Homeland Security created a fake institution, the “University of Northern New Jersey” (UNNJ), and ICE agents posed as university officials to lure in foreign students.
More than 1,000 of the students who enrolled found themselves facing deportation and financial upheaval. After years of legal battles, the U.S. government settled the lawsuit and permitted some students to reapply for visas, all the while refusing to acknowledge any wrongdoing. This left countless lives irreparably harmed after years of litigation.
Mass deportations threaten not only undocumented students but also the broader livelihood, education and well-being of citizens and documented immigrants alike. Undocumented immigrants look no different from anyone else — whether they’re on campus, in classrooms or other social settings.
How can society possibly protect officials from stopping and demanding a person produce identifying documents — which would function as freedom papers — during a Trump administration? If that does happen, what evidence or proof would authorities accept?
These questions are not hypothetical. The consequences of immigration policies extend far beyond the threats the president-elect and his administration have made. They can manifest in state-level legislation and profoundly affect communities, as seen after Election Day in Arizona.
Proposition 314 was on the ballot — and passed. It’s a measure that grants state and local police the authority to arrest undocumented immigrants, which has raised serious concerns about racial profiling, harassment and the potential to violate a person’s civil rights thereby affecting all Arizona residents, regardless of their immigration status.
Proposition 314 is not an isolated incident; it is part of a growing trend that uses fear as leverage to make marginalized, vulnerable communities into criminals by virtue of their existence. This proposition and similar legislation removes the semblance of legal restraints and encourages law enforcement bodies to target people based on their appearance or unfounded assumptions.
Mass deportation policies will interfere with everyone’s daily lives as well as fostering an environment of distrust and fear. It will promote the idea that U.S. citizens shouldn’t fear such policies, even if they can violate your civil rights.
The risks associated with increased interactions between law enforcement officers, ICE or the military and HBCU communities should raise the alarm at HBCU campuses all over the country.
We — undocumented immigrants — need allies more than ever before. We need people who can vote in local legislation, advocate and amplify our voices. The Morgan State community can ask for active responses from the institution and its president.
On Nov. 21, President David Wilson shared his plan to address the potential impact of the next presidential administration and appointed a Presidential Scenario Planning Committee.
Wilson’s email narrowly focused on financial matters and barely acknowledged the ways a Trump administration’s policies can affect vulnerable students.
While it’s imperative to prepare for potential budget cuts, his omission of any plan to support undocumented and international students led many of us to feel invisible and unprotected.
This fight is about more than survival; it’s about affirming the humanity of all students on campus, including citizens who fear racial profiling under the threat of mass deportation.
Morgan State often purports itself to be a university committed to fostering excellence and inclusivity — thus, it’s imperative to expand this strategic plan to include protecting vulnerable populations on campus.
This means not only preparing for financial challenges but also creating protocols to ensure students, whom immigration policies threaten, have the resources and support they need to continue their education without fear.
As we navigate these uncertain times, Morgan State University has the opportunity to demonstrate true leadership by taking a stand for all its students. We must protect the dignity, safety and future of those most vulnerable to the policies of the incoming administration.
For students like me, Morgan’s actions — or lack thereof — will determine whether this institution truly upholds the values of hope and freedom it was founded upon. Students from all backgrounds are closely watching how Morgan chooses to protect its student body.
As I navigate my future at Morgan State University, I hold onto one undeniable truth: I belong here. My dreams, my story and my resilience arrived in this country long before I could and no law, proposition or administration can erase that.
Undocumented students belong at Morgan State University as much as we belong in America.
Morelys Urbano is an undocumented student attending Morgan State University. She is a senior in multimedia journalism and has pioneered multiple programs to assist Morgan’s undocumented and international student community. She wrote this op-ed following the results of the 2024 general election and submitted it to The Spokesman, Morgan’s student-run newspaper.
