I escaped Cuba’s ‘1984.’ Now, I see it in Florida

I grew up in a Cuban version of George Orwell’s “1984,” in elementary schools controlled by the state, learning from state-approved textbooks in which Fidel Castro was a benevolent father figure as caring as he was infallible.

I came to Miami in 1998 at 19 years old after a two-year stint at La Universidad de La Habana as an English literature and language major, where we were reminded often that the university was only for revolutariones; where we learned to debate the answers to questions like, “Should gay people be allowed to marry?” in American English but never “Should we have more than one political party?”

Until then, I had hoped to make an honest living — in my homeland, with my friends, my mother, my grandparents — as a college professor, but seeing my college mentors self-censoring during our required discussions of Marxism-Leninism, and my classmates condemning one of our friends who had been caught trying to leave the country on a raft, broke me.

In September 1998, I arrived at Miami International Airport, and after some questioning, I was taken to Krome Detention Center. A few days later, I was released as a parolee. Did that mean I was lawfully present in the country? It seemed so. I got my first job in America a few days after my release from detention and started paying taxes.

We weren’t here to take advantage of this great country, we said proudly and often. Next, I looked into going to college, but it became painfully clear I would not be getting any sort of higher education for at least a year because out-of-state tuition was out of my reach. I threw myself at work that first year in different office jobs, where I was often praised for my accentless English. When I became a Florida resident, I enrolled at Miami Dade College (MDC), paying for my night classes with money I made working as a legal assistant.

It was in MDC that my real education began. It was at MDC that I was selected to travel to Washington D.C. to attend a conference on the First 100 Days of the Presidency. I remember being in that plane and thinking how tired I was from working full time and going to school at night. But I stuck with it, earned my associate degree at MDC, my bachelor’s at FAU, and my master’s in literature at FIU. Twenty years later, I’m still teaching freshmen how to write, to discover and persuade, to bear witness and create change, and to love every minute of it.

When I heard that the Florida Board of Governors, which oversees our state university system, would consider passing a new rule to prevent undocumented students from attending, I could not help but think of how my education would have been held hostage for at least four years. Would I have even pursued it? Could I have become a college professor?

On Sept. 3, the Board of Governors, as expected, approved that new rule, which prohibits anyone  “who is present in the United States unlawfully” from enrolling in our state universities. They approved it unanimously, without debate.

I’m not surprised.

I am furious.

I am devastated.

I’ve been told by some family members that this rule is a way to ensure documented students’ spots are not taken by “illegals,” which presumes that education is a privileged resource and not a universal human right. In any case, as state and federal policies discourage international students from attending our colleges, enrollment is down as the fall term begins at FIU, and a financial crisis looms ahead. I am not surprised that international students are avoiding Florida’s colleges and universities because they no longer feel safe here.

I no longer feel safe, and I’m an American citizen.

Over the last few years, our politicians have ordered colleges and universities to admit students based on “merit.” They’ve accused professors like me of indoctrination — that almost broke me all over again. In response, many of us have resisted, but too many have had to retreat and self-censor or risk losing their jobs. They’ve asked us to jump, and we’ve asked: “How high?” Yet, as higher education institutions do their best to keep up with endless, fickle regulations, it’s clear these politicians won’t be satisfied with anything short of absolute compliance. I’ve seen that movie before. It did not end well.

It’s time to stop jumping. Instead, let’s normalize multilingualism and multiculturalism as an example of merit. Let’s educate the most talented and brightest. Let’s educate those who pay tuition, often by working themselves to dogged exhaustion.

Instead of asking how high, let’s start asking practical questions like, “How will universities and colleges enforce this regulation?” or “Will we have to add immigration enforcement officers to our admissions departments?” As an educator, these questions had never crossed my mind, and that’s the way it should have remained. I honestly do not care what my students’ immigration status is. I’m not an ICE deputy. I’m a teacher. So, let me teach.

Let’s not make it harder for public universities to thrive so our community can keep access to cost-effective, high-quality education. At our core, educators continue to be and have always been committed to empowering our students to become productive members of this American experiment, which, while flawed, is still, I deeply believe, worth defending.

Let’s make “1984” fiction again.

Tania Cepero López is a professor of writing and rhetoric in the Department of English at Florida International University.