The Girl Who Doesn’t Exist
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I don't remember ever not existing, but my parents tell me I was born in summer of 1996. Like many children, I grew up feeling the world centered around my existence.
At some point, most of us mature and realize we that we haven’t always existed. Part of entering adulthood is recognizing that you aren’t all that special and that you don’t exist in most people’s worlds. This milestone was especially difficult for me when I further learned that I didn’t legally exist.
Although my family has been opposed to social security numbers and birth certificates for several generations, the families lived in a type of fight-or-flight mode. We were terrified of encounters with government agents. We liked to talk about our rights, but lived too insular for any of those rights to matter for us. But we had a rich pride for our family tradition, and despite how much it held us back, most of us were addicted to the romance.
There are two types of people among my relatives: those who believed my great-grandfather was a prophet, and those who believed he may have been the devil incarnate.
The latter type, in their pursuit for liberty, believed they had to reject both our great-grandfather and God in order to find happiness. They sought an education, to see the world, and to make friends. While they sought enlightenment by embracing the secular system, the rest of us were considered to be superstitious and regressive for living the simple, quiet life. Nevertheless, in their pursuit for liberty, they did not seem to have found true happiness. Their path was paved with bitterness. They believed the’d set themselves free from the family cult, but they were ruled by prejudices and rage.
From a young age, I, too, was drawn to a more meaningful life, but I instinctively knew there must be a third way where I could travel, read, and make friends while also keeping the romance of my childhood alive.
I experienced a brief dark night of a soul where this seemed impossible. Various friends and family members and a boyfriend all tried to convince me that I would never truly be free to live the life I desired until I’d severed myself from my familial roots and gotten a social security number. For a time I believed them. There was no easily accessible information out there at the time for living a full life outside of the system.
I would get a social security number. I would become like everyone else. I would exist according to the rules of the world I lived in.
I told my father that I would probably get a social security number so I might be able to travel and work. He told me then, “You can do whatever you like, but remember it’s much harder to get rid of a number than get one. Just try what you want to do first without the number, and then if it’s actually impossible you’ll know.”
I gave myself a year. I would try for my passport. If I failed I would abandon the family tradition. If I succeeded, I would be making a new way possible for my eleven younger siblings. It was worth trying.
I got a driver’s license, I opened a banking account, and I received my passport. I came out feeling stronger and more certain of myself — I had done what others had said was impossible.
Thankfully, my moment of angst and uncertainty was short lived, and I didn't do anything irrational. I began an open-minded journey not knowing what my values were, and found that I had been blessed.
I stopped struggling to “exist” and started living a meaningful life.
I pursued the dreams I'd dreamed as a child, and I saw them become real. I traveled extensively in the States and in Europe. I pursued education and diverse friendships. I ran successful cleaning and alterations businesses for over a decade until I fell in love. Now I am a state-at-home-mother, teaching my children the art of loving life without turning into a tax chattel.
I created this blog as a free resource for those who may have been raised like me and need to know it’s possible to live an fulfilled undocumented American life. I especially write for the children of sovereign citizens — those who know their parents are a little crazy, but so is the government. I want to equip those children with tools so they can disregard their baggage and make informed decisions for their future.
Over the years I met many others like me — those who gave up in desperation because their hatred for their family ran too deep, and those who discovered how to live in the world without being owned by the system.
I hope that what I write here may encourage you to choose the latter. Maybe your parents aren’t cool, but it’s actually kinda cool to be in solidarity with illigal immigrants. It’s actually cool to exist in nobody’s book but God’s.
If you have something to share, email me at: keturahskorner(at)gmail(dot)com
These essays are free to the public. However, if you enjoy this publication, consider buying a coffee for The Girl Who Doesn’t Exist!
