My Own Mother Illegally Immigrated To The U.S. Then I Became A Prosecutor At ICE.

I was only three months out of law school, and sitting in the black leather chair at the prosecutor’s table felt surreal. It was one of my first days as an assistant chief counsel for the Department of Homeland Security, and I was assigned to observe my first deportation hearing.

I placed my legal pad, pen and highlighter atop the mahogany table where I sat beside my mentor.

“Just watch and learn,” she whispered, smiling. I was still waiting for my bar exam results but dreamed of becoming an immigration judge. I expected my mentor, a seasoned lawyer, to guide me through the legalities of immigration. I didn’t anticipate the emotional gut punch I’d soon experience.

My parents never shared their immigration story with us. Every summer, we’d travel to Colombia. As a child, I didn’t think much about the differently colored passports we each had. My mother’s and my twin brothers’ passports were burgundy, from Colombia. My father’s maroon, from Peru; my passport and my sister’s were blue, from the United States.

When I got the job at Homeland Security in 2010, my family expressed mixed emotions. My mother was thrilled, thanking “Divino Niño Jesús,” whom she credited for “such a blessing.”

My brother was less excited. With a smirk, he half-jokingly asked, “What if you deport our cousin or something?”

“Impossible,” I retorted, as only a 26-year-old could, full of the belief that the world would bend to my will. I assumed that in a court of law, justice would prevail.

There was a lot to learn from my first case that day, but not all my takeaways were what my mentor intended. The case involved a 50-year-old Mexican man, whom I’ll call Javier. It would test my belief about my role in ways I couldn’t have anticipated.

Javier didn’t make eye contact with me or my mentor, gazing instead at his weathered hands resting on his lap. But as trial attorneys, we were privy to the most intimate parts of a noncitizen’s life. Javier’s file lay thick on the table. It was full of decades of information: an illegal crossing, his U.S. citizen wife’s death certificate, his children’s birth certificates, and the government’s favorite: years of tax transcripts.

The door swung open, and the atmosphere in the room shifted. Instinctively, we rose to our feet. I’d heard the whispers in the office: “Immigration judges weren’t real judges.” They followed orders from the attorney general. But still — I didn’t want to cross any…