Donate to help Andrea cover legal fees, avoid detention, and/or plan for a safe exit strategy (starting over in Mexico)

My name is Andrea Olvera. I am 25 years old and have lived in Memphis, TN, since the age of 6 years old. I am at high risk of deportation or detention, and am asking for support to help pay for legal fees to avoid detainment and/or make my relocation to Mexico as safe as possible. Your donations will help me start over in a country I haven’t been to since I was 6 years old and help me avoid detention centers and the potential dangers of being incarcerated. I cannot live through what I’ve seen people experience: physical abuse, sexual abuse, and more. Thank you for your help.

I still remember the phone call when my mom begged me to come live with her in this country. She wanted me to say yes. She wanted it to be “my choice.” Maybe a part of her knew I would be agreeing to never again feel free.

I heard the hope in my mother’s voice as she recounted all the ways our lives would be better and more accessible. She said we could be together, finally. After years of her being in this country without me and my brother.

She told me of the great schools I would be able to attend. I still remember the first time I got in trouble at school. For speaking Spanish - the only language I knew. I was six years old, and my teachers didn’t know how to communicate with me. They were dealing with enough working for an already underfunded school. But little Andrea didn’t know that, and that was one of the first times I felt the world around me was against me. I had that same feeling again and again, in many different ways.

The times my mom needed to go to the doctor because one of my little sisters got sick, and we were talked down to, verbally abused, treated as less than, all while I did my best to translate. The days I couldn’t see my mom for more than a few minutes a day because she had two or three jobs to make sure she excelled in, so she could keep us fed. I didn’t have the words when I was younger, but I felt it deeply. I felt the unfairness of it all.

I felt it the most when I experienced homelessness for the first time. As an undocumented person who could not access housing, stable work, or sometimes food — it felt like my entire world was against me. Through the community I built, I eventually got to a more stable place, and while momentarily out of survival mode, I found the words for it all. I learned to name systemic oppression and the racism that keeps Black and Brown people marginalized in this colonial society. I learned that my own mom never truly had a choice at all. She was forced out of her own land through colonialism, promised a better life in exchange for cheap labor and ran to the opportunity to give her children a better future. She had no way of knowing we would never be free in a country designed to keep immigrants, people of color, natives - suffering, othered, in poverty, incarcerated, criminalized, and seen as less than human.

My mom has always made sure she does good and plays by the rules of this country. She has never even been pulled over. She taught me to keep quiet and be palatable, to conform in any way needed — to never bring too much attention to myself. She cried tirelessly when I started leading protests and used my voice as loudly as I could. As I face the danger of deportation and our people are being targeted, my mom now feels that same feeling I’ve described: like the whole world is against her, like the country she had hope in betrayed her. She feels like the dream she had for herself and her children is gone.

I mourn for her, and I mourn for little Andrea, who finally got to have her family together, just to have it be taken away from her again eventually. I mourn for my two little sisters, who I raised, who have to make sense of a world where the person they look up to is afraid for her life every day.

I always knew this country wasn’t built for people like me, but I never thought I would be 25 years old and mourning the life I have built. I will never regret agreeing to come here when my mom asked me to, but I never imagined the pain that came along with it.

As I prepare to avoid detention in any way that I can, your donations would mean hope of having legal representation and hope of having enough financial freedom to start over on my own land.

In my adult life, I have devoted myself to bridging gaps for the most marginalized communities. I work nationally in youth homelessness systems improvement and locally to generate mutual aid funds for immigrant communities. I have cultivated a community that values pouring into Black and Brown owned businesses, and I have created avenues for increased access to housing, healthcare, and mentorship opportunities for underserved youth and families. I have lived a life of service to my community and people.

If I were to be able to fight for a pathway to citizenship or legal status, I would have the freedom to continue to serve my community and others across the country through my work. Thank you for taking the time to see the world through my perspective.

Reaching the $20,000 goal would mean financial freedom and safety. I would be able to get legal aid not only to get me out of immediate risk but also to find an avenue to legal status. Reaching this goal would mean having the freedom to either fight for this community and life I have built, or start over and be able to afford safe housing, a car, and necessities while I work to build a life and find stable income in Mexico.

Reaching $10,000 would support me in paying for legal fees to get me out of this immediate risk. My attorney’s fees are $1,500, and the amount I will pay at court can range from $200-500. The money would also support the costs of transportation, as I am not able to drive during my occupation and increased ICE presence, and help with groceries for myself and my family. It would keep me stable while I prepare for a safe exit strategy.

Reaching $5,000 would cover all of my legal fees and give me more time to work with my attorney on finding a pathway to citizenship.