After I graduated college, I worked as a medical interpreter at a clinic along Atlanta’s Buford Highway corridor. I spent my days speaking Spanish with patients, nearly all of whom came from low-income communities. Many had trouble understanding their mostly white doctors due to language barriers and cultural differences. Some patients even lived in fear of immigration authorities. I recall one family who worried that seeking treatment for their little girl’s third-degree burns would result in a call to ICE.
I was 22 at the time and already passionate about medicine. After my time there, I felt reassured that I wanted to devote my career toward healing the most vulnerable Georgians. Only then did I discover that my own immigration status stood in the way.
My mom brought me to Georgia from Guatemala when I was 6 years old, escaping an abusive relationship and seeking better opportunities. Though undocumented, I grew up feeling just as American as my peers, and I initially hoped to serve in the Navy. I soon realized that my immigration status – something I had no control over – prohibited me from enlisting or attaining the naval scholarship I had been promised as a top cadet in my region.
At 18, I was overjoyed to receive work authorization and protection through the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program. At the same time, however, I was shocked to learn that Georgia’s licensure requirements prohibited undocumented individuals, including those with DACA, from practicing medicine. I was forced to pursue my medical career in New York, one of roughly 15 other states that have enacted legislation to allow DACA recipients to obtain a medical license. That’s a huge disappointment for me and my undocumented peers who hope to study medicine and provide care to underserved communities in Georgia. But it’s also a tremendous loss for our state, which desperately needs as many doctors as we can get.
Georgia’s healthcare shortage is well documented. Nearly every county in the state–156 out of 159 –lacks enough health professionals to meet the health needs of its population. Specifically, a third of Georgians, or 3.3 million people, live in an area with a shortage of primary care physicians—my intended specialty.
Medicine isn’t the only area where Georgia sees undocumented people as a “problem.” I have long faced barriers to my education and professional dreams. I was in my high school’s gifted program, but my junior year, I discovered the University System of Georgia Board of Regents had banned undocumented students from admission to the state’s public universities. Yet nearly all other states — 47 total– allow undocumented students to attend public college.
I was fortunate to be accepted into Mary Baldwin University, a private college in Virginia, on a full academic scholarship. My lifelong aspiration to become a physician was rooted in my upbringing, but I gained more awareness of the need for diverse healthcare professionals through my stint as a medical interpreter. My siblings and I grew up never visiting a doctor due to my mother’s deportation fears. I still remember the anxiety we felt every time there was an unexpected knock on our door. I knew that saying the wrong thing to the wrong person could end up tearing our family apart. Growing up this way has given me deep empathy for my patients and the hardships they face beyond their medical diagnoses. I know all too well how difficult it can be to simply show up to a doctor’s appointment.
After college, I knew that gaining admission into medical schools in Georgia would be an uphill battle as most require citizenship. Instead, I was thrilled to be accepted into medical school at SUNY Upstate in Syracuse, New York. Now in my second year, I still hope to become a family medicine doctor in a state that allows DACA recipients to practice.
For Georgia, excluding individuals who are both qualified and eager to make meaningful contributions to their communities is a missed opportunity.
Katherine Narvaez Mena
For Georgia, excluding individuals who are both qualified and eager to make meaningful contributions to their communities is a missed opportunity. With many states facing shortages of healthcare workers, I know my skills, education, and training will be put to good use elsewhere. In the meantime, I continue to hope for change – that one day I’ll be a full citizen of this country and able to practice medicine back in my home state, treating the Georgians who need me most. It’s time we recognize that Dreamers are not a political problem. We are a solution, and our leaders should see us as such.
Katherine Narvaez Mena is a medical student at SUNY Upstate Medical University
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