Tanya Cabrera, The Dream Defender – The People Issue 2024

Tanya Cabrera is the chairperson of the Illinois DREAM Fund (ILDF). Born in Chicago, Cabrera grew up on the city’s southwest side, where she discovered her passion for organizing at an early age. While working as a Chicago Public Schools (CPS) counselor, she found a kindred spirit in Rigoberto “Rigo” Padilla-Pérez, a Mexico-born, Chicago-raised student activist who helped found Immigrant Youth Justice League (IYJL) in 2009. The two continued to share resources and advocate for undocumented immigrant students together until 2023, when Padilla-Pérez passed away from brain cancer at the age of 35.

Under Cabrera’s leadership, ILDF has become a national leader in supporting undocumented immigrant students, and will have awarded more than $2.7 million in scholarships to applicants throughout the state by the end of 2024. For more information, visit ildreamfund.org.

I got to hear all these stories growing up: “You have your mother’s looks, but your father’s mouth.” I’m like, “Oh, what a compliment.” They’re like, “No, your father would curse up a storm—you’re your dad’s daughter.” I’ll take that. 

My dad organized in Pilsen and Little Village, working with farmworkers. Driving back from Texas, he was in a car accident. I was the one who got the call—I was ten years old. I was so attached to him. 

He was a director at Casa Aztlan. I remember passing out [literature] for the ESL (English as a second language) classes they had at night or him saying, “A family came in. Come play with the kids so I can do intake with the parents.” 

When I was in high school, my cousin, who was in college, started doing work with farmworkers. That’s what sparked her activism at El Fuego del Pueblo, a student organization at Northern Illinois University (NIU). And that sparked my organizing work. But it wasn’t until I was a postsecondary coach with CPS—my school was Benito Juarez—that I got to go back to the neighborhood. When I went for my interview, some people were like, “Oh, you’re Martin’s daughter? I’ve got stories.” This is like ten years after he passed. Now, I’m an adult working with different community-based organizations, saying, “Hey, what’s the pipeline look like for Latino students in Pilsen, Little Village, and Back of the Yards?”

When CPS cut its budget, I got cut. I sent out an email and Jerry Doyle from IIT (Illinois Institute of Technology) immediately wrote back: “Can I call you?” I’d actually gone off on him when we first met. He was like, “I’ll take care of your kids. Don’t worry.” And I said, “No. Tell me [how] you’re gonna take care of these kids, because you haven’t admitted a Juarez student since 1987.” So, now he’s like, “I want you to come work at IIT.” I was about to have a baby, but he was like, “Take the summer off—come in the fall.” Who was this man? 

I told him I wanted to recruit undocumented students because we were a private institution. He said, “Whatever you want—I just want to get CPS on board.” I don’t know how many CPS students were admitted at IIT at the time, but it was under 30. And they [IIT] were proud of that—it was just embarrassing. That first year we had a team, and we got to recruit undocumented students across Illinois, and our CPS numbers tripled or quadrupled.

I’d met Rigo when I was at Juarez—he was the first undocumented student to come out about his status in Illinois. With Josh Hoyt, who was in charge of ICIRR (Illinois Coalition for Immigrant and Refugee Rights) at the time, he’d fought to stay in the U.S. Rigo won and said, “I can fight other cases.” That became his work: keeping families together, going to detention centers, and all this crazy shit. 

The movement had started with undocumented students under the Immigrant Youth Justice League. They weren’t organizers; they were high school kids going into college, really navigating those spaces on their own, and [working with] high school counselors or advocates at the institutions.

When Rigo came to Juarez, it was quiet. It was hot as hell in that room—the door was closed and it was foggy. Rigo was sitting perched on the table with his foot on the chair talking to these kids, and they were just zoned out on him. I was also zoned out on him. “You’re telling my kids to come out about their status? I have to protect them.” He’s like, “You don’t have to protect us. . . . We have our own voices.” 

That’s when Rigo and I started connecting resources. We’d call each other “liaisons.” “That’s my colleague, my liaison, over at Dominican or NIU.” No official titles, but we were doing the work. 

In 2006, the Tribune did an article for their Sunday magazine, and my [undocumented] students were on the cover. When the story came out, it was all over—this was the Tribune—and we started getting money. [With the new money,] we started up a scholarship at Juarez. We had a little reception and gave students money to go to school. But we realized $2,000 to go to UIC (University of Illinois Chicago)—which was $10,000—wasn’t enough. So we explored more options.

Then, in 2011, the Illinois DREAM Act passed under Governor Quinn. Nobody wanted to take on the chair [of the DREAM Fund Commission] because it was volunteer work. I didn’t think I’d get it because I’m a fucking high school counselor—well, now I was in higher ed, but all these big people could do it. Denise Martinez was at the Governor’s Office [for New Americans] at the time. I said, “Hey, girl. Do me a fucking favor.” I gave her all this stuff [we’d worked on together]. “Don’t let them fuck it up—this is the fucking plan.” [Soon,] they were like, “Hey, we need you.”

[After the bill passed,] they were like, “We have an event at Malcolm X [College]. We need you to be there. We’re gonna announce it.” Rigo, because he was undocumented, couldn’t serve as a commissioner. I said, “If Rigo’s not serving, I’ll step down and hold you accountable.”

Then, they said they’d select [an entirely new] commission, and I’m like, “Denise, make sure they stick to the plan.” So they said, “No. You guys are gonna stay.” I was a recruiter for a university, and they’re like, “Who does she think she is?” 

When Trump came into power, that changed everything. [Our priority] immediately became about mental health. Our suicide hotline was getting more calls. “These students are saying they’re undocumented immigrants.” It was like, oh my god. We’ve gotta prepare. 

We will never recover from the mental health damage that we’ve done to this population. When we talk amongst our colleagues, it’s, “Hey, so-and-so, my kid; their skin discoloration, their fatigue, their food insecurities.” A lot of these kids are running around on granola and a coffee. That’s all they had all day and they’re not going to eat again until they get home after an hour-and-a-half train ride back to Elgin. So, providing food is essential and access to food pantries and looking at our policies and procedures within our institutions: Where is access being denied to a student who’s paying cash into a community college or four-year institution in Illinois? Where’s the reinvestment?

So we worked on the RISE Act—Retention for Illinois Students in Education. It took lots of trips to Springfield, lots of talking to legislators. “Hey, here’s this constituent.” And they’re like, “How can you be undocumented if you’re Lithuanian or African American?” It’s not just a Latino thing. I made sure that when we went to Springfield, we diversified our pool. “Who have we got? Who’s willing to share the testimony?” And we had to respect students where they were, because it was so stressful. If they didn’t feel comfortable, I’d give testimony. “Look, our students are terrified to come down here because of the restrictions and the climate. I want you to hear my conversation with my student last night.” I’d play [recordings] for legislators. [The bill passed in 2019.]

Since 2006, I was asking [Democratic state representative] Lisa Hernandez, “Hey, get me on the Lottery bill—we need a revenue generator [for the DREAM Fund].” Lisa was trying to do a currency exchange program, like if you send money to Mexico, we’ll take $1.75 and put it towards the fund. I was like, “Unless it’s an investment where we partner with the Treasury, how are we going to generate enough funding?” I was thinking, financially, about long-term stability. All that’s to say, we finally got on [the Illinois Lottery bill, IL SB1508, sponsored by Democratic state senator Mattie Hunter and Hernandez in 2023]. 

I didn’t go to Springfield that day [of the vote] because I didn’t have childcare. But I was like, “It’s got to happen—it has to pass.” Rigo was in hospice at the time. And then I got the text from Lisa [Hernandez’s] chief of staff: “Hey, the bill’s on the floor—it’s moving forward. I think we’ve got it.” And she called me and said, “Where are you?” “Oh, I’m with Rigo.” She’s Facetiming with us, and she said, “The bill passed.” I said, “Did you hear that, Rigo?” And he was blinking at me. 

The day before he passed, we actually signed [the Lottery bill] into law. I was going to wait till Monday to go see him but something in me said, “No, go today.” It was a Sunday, and I was tired. We signed it in Waukegan, so it was all day shit and I hadn’t been home. I told my kids’ father, “I have to go today. He’s in hospice, and something’s telling me to see him.” And he was like, “I totally understand. Go ahead.”  

So I got to tell Rigo all of that. “Guess what, motherfucker? We passed the bill. It’s being signed into law.” I shared some time with him and made his parents laugh and just told them everything that he’s done. And then members of the Immigrant Youth Justice League, who were in town from New York and Boston, came. They flew in. I said, “Oh man, the whole crew just walked in right now. I’m gonna let you go, bro. I love you.” And I told them, “Hey, I’m gonna let you guys chill with him. I’m gonna go home, feed the kids, and I’ll be back—I have parking passes you can use.”

We all have tattoos of him. We didn’t put the day he passed, but we put the time: 6:12. His sister called me around 6:20, and I’m like, “I’m sorry. I said I’d be back by 6:00—I’m on my way.” And she’s like, “No, it’s OK. They’re going to be coming for him. I don’t know if you’ll make it.” And I’m like, “Why? What are they doing? Are they showering him? They shouldn’t be moving him.” And she’s like, “No, Tanya. They’re gonna take him away. He passed.” I was in the parking lot, and I was like, “I’ll be right there.” 

When I saw everybody, it just felt so final—and I was just there. But, you know, he put on a good fight.

This was originally published in the 2024 edition of our People Issue, the Reader’s annual special of first-person stories, as told by your neighbors, classmates, and the weirdo at the end of the bar.