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‘America is not necessarily a guarantee. It never is.'
Jose Antonio Vargas made headlines in 2011 when he revealed in an essay for the New York Times Magazine that he was an undocumented immigrant. Vargas had come to the United States from the Philippines at age 12 to live with his grandparents, only learning years later that he had done so illegally. In the essay, Vargas described coming of age and launching his career in journalism — including at The Washington Post, where he was part of the Pulitzer Prize-winning team that covered the Virginia Tech shootings — all while living in fear that he would be found out. 'I'm done running,' he wrote. 'I'm exhausted. I don't want that life anymore.'
Vargas, who founded the nonprofit advocacy organization Define American, expanded on the essay in his memoir, 'Dear America: Notes From an Undocumented Citizen.' First published in 2018, the book was among the earliest entries in what's now a growing canon that explores the experiences of undocumented immigrants, including work by Dan-el Padilla Peralta, Javier Zamora, Karla Cornejo Villavicencio, Cristina Jiménez and Jill Damatac.
This month, amid high-profile public clashes over President Donald Trump's immigration policies and enforcement, Vargas released a new edition of 'Dear America.' It includes a new epilogue, in which he recounts leaving the United States for the first time since his arrival so he can become documented. Vargas and I spoke over the phone while he was in New York getting ready to promote the book. Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
It's an interesting time to revisit this material. How does it feel to prepare to go out and talk about the book again?
You know, I wrote this book during the first Trump administration. I actually was living in downtown Los Angeles. The apartment building manager would see me on TV — because back then I used to go on Fox and other shows, talking about immigration — and when Trump was elected, the building manager literally said to me: 'I'm not sure what we would do if ICE were to come to the building and get you. I'm not sure we can protect you here.' I was so rattled by the conversation that I actually moved out of the building and then put everything I own in storage and didn't have a place. That was when I started writing.
[laughs] I have to tell you, the thing that's probably been the most surprising about this book is — and I'm so thankful that so many teachers and professors have assigned it to their students — I would get messages on Instagram saying, 'Oh my God, thank you so much — the book is so short! Did you know that teachers would assign it, and students don't want to read long books.' And I'm like, 'No, that's not why. It's written the way that it's written because I wanted to capture the rhythm of a life on the run.'
So this goes to your question: In some ways, given what's happening in Los Angeles and in the country — the interior life of being an undocumented person, and the fact that you have to lie, you have to pass, you have to hide, that's as relevant and urgent as ever.
What was the impetus for releasing a new edition?
It happened right around the election, after Trump was elected president.
Wow — so it was fast?
Oh yeah. I was texting with Carrie Thornton, the head of Dey Street Books. And at the time, I did not tell Carrie — because I didn't tell really a lot of people; I didn't tell my own family — that I was going through this process [to apply for a visa], that I was about to leave the U.S. for the first time in my life. I told her that given that Trump was just elected again, that this was going to get even worse.
In the back of the book, there's a QR code that leads to a list of organizations across the country to donate to, to volunteer at — and we're going to keep adding to it. Because I think more than ever, all politics is local.
In the new epilogue, you write — I think in a moment of optimism — that you think Americans are movable on immigration. But it seems that in the last few years, anti-immigrant sentiment grew significantly. And in 2024, immigration appears to have been one of the main issues driving non-White voters to the Republican Party. What have you seen in your advocacy that makes you think the tide could shift the other way?
We, meaning people on the pro-immigrant side, have not invested in what, at Define America, we call 'the movable middle.' Our research has found that a large portion of Americans across racial and ethnic backgrounds fall between party lines on immigration. We work with this research firm called Harmony Labs, going beyond demographics to describe audiences. So, for example, there are people who are social role followers, who are interested in culture and invested in the local communities. There are churchgoers who respect authority and are interested in helping others. There are autonomous pleasure seekers interested in fun, play, relaxation. Then there's the DIY go-getters.
We actually got specific and looked at these four types of audiences. We found the strategies that we know can move people. Guess what? Journalists are irrelevant to them, for the most part; social media are shaping their worldviews. We found that national news is less important for these people than it is for the base and opposition. We also learned that stories told by immigrants themselves resonate deeply, and that telling narratives centered on food, sport and comedy is way more effective than overtly political or policy-driven content.
The book now ends with your traveling to Mexico, applying for a D-3 waiver, and getting an O visa. How has becoming documented changed the way you go about your life?
To be honest, I'm still, I think, adjusting to that reality. The biggest change was getting a real ID. You know, I live on Alaska and Delta airlines. I go back and forth between New York and the Bay Area. I travel a lot, speaking to groups, going to places that maybe I'm not supposed to be going to in the country because people are not as welcoming to immigrants. So that's a really big, practical change.
The visa is valid for three years and then I have to renew it. And I think that's kind of where I'm at with that — just trying to understand that America is not necessarily a guarantee. It never is.
Home is a big theme of the book; it's literally the first line and the last line. It took me being outside of the country, being in Mexico, applying for this visa — I think that was when I realized just how much of my identity, and how I think of myself, is tied to this country.
I think at some point you described yourself as in an 'abusive, co-dependent relationship with America.'
Right, I'm in a toxic relationship with America! I think that's kind of where I'm still at. Look, I started this journey when I was 30, when I came out as undocumented and started Define American. I'm knocking on 45 in the next few months. For me, how do I define success, how do I define happiness, how I define belonging in a way that's not tied to a piece of paper or a piece of legislation? That's become something that I have to grapple with. Am I waiting, how long is it going to take, for me to be a citizen?
That's why the word 'citizen' is underlined [on the cover of the book]. To me, that's the conversation: What is the cost and the responsibility of being a citizen of this country? There are many millions of people who are not citizens legally, who in many ways are more American because we have had to endure.
I was struck by this line from the original edition, where you get quite personal. You say: 'I feel like a thing. A thing to be explained and understood, tolerated and accepted. A thing that spends too much time educating people so it doesn't have to educate itself on what it has become. I feel like a thing that can't just be.' It sort of suggested that you didn't feel there was space for you to explore what you wanted from life, because you were expending all this energy outward, figuring out how you're perceived and how to navigate various systems. Do you still feel that way?
That, to me, is actually one of my core challenges: How do I not be defined solely by my immigration status? As I meet young people who are undocumented themselves, I don't want to surrender to that. I don't want to surrender to the master narrative of being 'an illegal alien.'
That's why I thought the epilogue was really important. I so believe in following a process that, what did I do? I left the country, after 31 years of living here, with no guarantee that I'd be allowed back in — all so I can follow a process. How many times, when we talk about undocumented people, do you hear about a process to legalize them? None!
So, as much as possible, I don't want to be this thing that has to keep explaining itself — and yet, I know that the freedom of people like me is directly proportional to how ignorant people are.
