From Undocumented To A Dream Career In Production

By Martin Agency Junior Producer Marjorie Fajardo
[Image courtesy of Marjorie Fajardo]

I’ve always been very creative and ambitious. I started expressing my creativity through photography and filmmaking when I was around 13 and did photo and video shoots with my friends. I started looking for media and TV production internships during my sophomore year of high school. I found a couple that looked great, and I met all of the program requirements except for one tiny, little box that was actually pretty important: “Applicants must be a U.S. Citizen or a lawful resident.”

As an undocumented immigrant, that little box was my biggest obstacle. It made me feel discouraged and hopeless because it wasn’t in my power to fix it, and I felt like all these great opportunities were slipping by me.

At that time, I’d just started thinking about college and my future. I remember looking at college applications and seeing the Social Security Number box, knowing I couldn’t fill it in. “What’s the point of me doing my best in school if I’m not going to be accepted into a university or even able to apply for a job?” I asked my mom. Since I was a foreigner, it felt like I wasn’t welcome in the U.S. or worthy of even getting a chance.

Coming To America

I was born in Tocoa, Honduras and raised in La Ceiba, Honduras. When I was about six months old, my mom crossed the border to live in the United States for financial reasons and left me with my aunt, uncle and cousins.

When I was seven, it was my turn to cross the border to live with my mom in New York City. Since I was a minor, the “coyote” thought it was best if I was sent to a family in Mexico that had a daughter around my age who was a U.S. citizen. The plan was to drive through the Mexico-Texas border and pretend I was her.

We had to cross at night for this to work. I was told to pretend I was asleep—they didn’t want the border patrol officers to ask me any questions or try to identify who I was.

When we stopped for the border patrol to check everyone’s documents, the agent asked my “mom and dad” if they could wake me up so he could get a better look at my face. But they insisted I’d had a long day and asked if they could just please let me sleep. The agent took a look at the U.S. passport that was supposed to be mine and let us enter Texas. I was in.

Empowerment Leads To A Rewarding Career

I would consider myself a rebellious immigrant. After relocating to the U.S., I got to a point where I wasn’t scared or ashamed to tell people I was undocumented. If anything, it was empowering.

I was very aware of my status and the stereotypes of undocumented immigrants, especially Latinx. It also wasn’t lost on me that my dream industry—TV production—was an overwhelmingly white and male space.

But I didn’t care what people had to say; it didn’t phase me because I knew who I was and that I was going to make something of myself, despite the obstacles in my way. I focused deeply on creating my own personal photography and videography portfolio, making sure I could find work even if I wasn’t documented.

This was a cultivated survival mentality to stay sane and remind me I have value because being undocumented in the U.S. can make you feel like the “other.” Yet, feeling ashamed of my status started to make me feel ashamed of my roots, and that’s not how I wanted to feel. I’m damn proud to be from Honduras, a Catracha and a Latina. That’s something no one can ever or will ever make me feel ashamed of.

Still, it was a huge blessing when President Obama announced the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program in 2012. It gave me a Social Security Number, and for once, I felt like I was being acknowledged by the U.S.—not fully recognized, but a little bit. When I went to have my fingerprints and photograph taken, it was a huge moment: The government was recognizing me for the first time. I was no longer just a body floating around. I had an identity in the U.S.

DACA opened so many doors for me. I applied and got into Hunter College, and I received a scholarship for DACA students that fully paid my tuition. It felt so surreal—for the first time, I wasn’t being punished for being an immigrant. I was also eligible to apply for internships, and I landed one at Sony Music’s video production department. The minute I set foot on my first TV set, it instantly felt right. I knew this is what I wanted to pursue as a career. After college, I got my first job as a camera operator and video editor for News 12 in New York.

However, I still lived in fear that DACA could be revoked at any moment and I’d be deported. When my then-boyfriend proposed to me, he offered to sponsor my green card application. But I was hesitant—I didn’t want to receive my green card because a U.S. citizen vouched for me. I wanted the U.S. government to acknowledge me on its own and recognize me as a valuable human being that deserved to stay in the country she’d been living in practically her whole life.

But that was naive—DACA’s status has been threatened several times over the years, and there is still no clear pathway to permanent residence or citizenship for recipients. So we got married, and in January 2020, after a long 17 years of being undocumented, this girl got her green card.

I know I’m one of the lucky few that could leave Honduras to find a better life. I don’t take living in the U.S. for granted, and the significance of this opportunity has driven me to succeed. The career, the education and the lifestyle that I have now are things that I could have only dreamed about if I was still in Honduras.

More than 66% of the Honduran population lives in poverty. Education is free for children up to the age of 13. After that, many families struggle to pay tuition, so the kids end up getting jobs. There, having a college education—as I do— is often considered a luxury.

And I know that if I’d never come to the U.S., I would not be working in TV production. I’d probably be a nurse, teacher, banker or stay-at-home mom. Honduras doesn’t have the infrastructure to easily support creative careers. The country doesn’t even have a film school, and the career I have today would have been practically impossible to obtain there.

Today, I am a Junior Producer at Martin, working on GEICO.

Feeling Welcome With Pride In A Bright Future

Martin wasn’t like any other company I’d interviewed with before. I don’t normally disclose that I was undocumented in job interviews because I don’t know how the company will react. But I didn’t feel that way about Martin. I felt like my story and background were welcomed, and they wanted to hear more. For the first time, I felt seen by a company.

I am proud of my roots and where I come from. And I’m also thankful that living in America has allowed me to evolve into the creative person and professional I am today.

People should know that undocumented immigrants are individuals simply seeking a better future for themselves and their families. They don’t come to the U.S. out of greed or to take advantage—they do it for survival. Unfortunately, countries in Central America like Honduras don’t have a government people can rely on. If they were living somewhere they could build a future for themselves, there would be no need to flee their homes. But that’s not the case.

This is not just my story or my family’s story. It’s the story of many, many immigrants all over the U.S.

We want to hear and see from you, too. If you’re itching to know something or have a question or comment we can start a dialogue on—email: mimi.montgomery@martinagency.com.