"The Redneck Mexican"

How a Southern College Took a Chance on an Undocumented Kid and Changed Everything.

“Sometimes the hit you didn’t see coming is the gift that sets your life in motion.”

I want to write now about my college acceptance—because it wasn’t the expected path. After maintaining a perfect GPA, I thought college was almost a guarantee. But things didn’t unfold the way I imagined.

This time, I want to give a special shoutout to my alma mater, Sewanee: The University of the South, for believing in me and giving me the opportunity to pursue higher education.

“I don’t know, Mr. Gutman... I don’t think I need to go to this summer program,” I told him (my guidance counselor) when he first mentioned a math and science program at Sewanee, a small liberal arts college in Tennessee. I remember thinking, Why would I want to spend my summer there? I told Mr. Gutman multiple times that I wasn’t going to do it.

The deadline passed. But a week later, Mr. Gutman came to me and said, “Luis, they extended the deadline. I think this is a sign from the universe.” Mr. Gutman always had a way of nudging me toward what was best for me—even if I couldn’t see it at the time. Little did I know that saying yes to this program would become one of the best decisions I ever made, in retrospect.

I went to the program, had a blast, and met some of my closest friends. Near the end of it, I remember sitting at dinner with the Vice-Chancellor of the university. At the time, I had no idea who he was—we just had a really great conversation. I shared my story with him and, in probably the dumbest way possible, I told him I was focused on going to the Ivy League, especially Harvard.

Fast forward to February through April: letter after letter, email after email rolled in.

“We regret to inform you…”

Nine rejections later, an acceptance finally came—from Sewanee. But the financial aid package wasn’t enough. For context: at that time, there was no DACA, and undocumented students weren’t eligible for federal financial aid. You were completely dependent on private loans with ridiculous interest rates—or had to hope that a college would grant you a full ride. That’s also why state and public schools weren’t an option.

So I kept hoping Harvard would come through.

Then, on April 1—April Fool’s Day—Harvard sent their rejection. The final nail in the coffin.

I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the screen as the words blurred from the tears I was trying to hold back.

The college dream had suddenly died.

People tell you that if you work hard, doors will open. But no one talks about what it’s like to watch doors slam in your face—even when you did everything “right.” To feel like a ghost at the finish line. I was a straight-A student, top of my class, but colleges didn’t see me. They saw a status. A liability. A number that didn’t fit their system. That kind of rejection cuts deeper than just a “no”—it makes you question your worth.

As an undocumented student, I deprived myself of being a “regular teenager.” I didn’t drink, barely went to parties, kept my head down, stayed after school nearly every day to finish homework, get help, and most importantly—avoid trouble. I couldn’t drive, because undocumented immigrants weren’t allowed to get a driver’s license at the time. So there was no magical moment of passing my driver’s ed class and hitting the road.

I buried myself in school—partly because I loved learning, but also because it was the only thing I had. It was how I coped with the reality I was living: a life of uncertainty, a life where I could only see my extended family through grainy video calls or old photos, because I couldn’t leave the country.

I had an immigration process pending, with no end in sight. My lawyer reminded me constantly: Stay out of trouble. No mistakes. Not even small ones. There was no room for error. My entire future depended on being invisible and perfect.

By May, I was looking into community college. That’s not something to be ashamed of—but it didn’t feel like the fairytale ending I had dreamed of.

Then I got a call from the Vice-Chancellor of Sewanee, asking if I was still interested in attending if they could offer a bit more financial support. I said, “Of course,” but I was honest—my family couldn’t afford much. He couldn’t promise anything, but told me there were people advocating for me.

A week went by.

I was in the library, studying for my AP exams, hoping to earn enough college credit to ease the financial burden—when suddenly I got a call from Mr. Gutman.

“Have you checked your email?” he asked.

I opened it, and there it was: an email from the Vice-Chancellor of Sewanee.

“We would be pleased to offer you a full ride.”

I froze. Read it once. Then again. My vision blurred again, but this time it wasn’t from sadness. I dropped to my knees in the middle of the library and sobbed. Loud, uncontrollable sobs. A librarian walked over, concerned, but I just laughed through the tears.
I was going to college.

I called my mom and couldn’t even get the words out—I just kept saying, “We did it. We did it.”

Knowing I was going to college felt like such a relief, a sign that I could finally escape the weight of rejection. But even after I got in, I still had to face the reality of telling people where I was going. People would ask about Harvard, and when I said, “I’m going to Tennessee,” their faces would fall. You could almost see the judgment—they were thinking, Ugh, the South?

But what they didn’t know—what they couldn’t know—was that the South, the very place they dismissed, was where I was seen for the first time.

The moral of the story, beyond highlighting how hard it can be for undocumented students to access higher education even when they excel, is also about how unexpected help can come from unexpected places.

The South is often stereotyped as unwelcoming—especially for immigrants, and particularly for undocumented ones. But it was a Southern college that believed in me when no one else did.

It was Sewanee, deep in Tennessee, that not only changed my life—but changed the trajectory of my entire family and the generations to come. It gave me the opportunity to be a first-generation college student.

Sewanee gave me more than an education.
It gave me a community.
It gave me hope.
It gave me space to grow, to reflect, and to become the person I am today.

I met people who stood in my corner without condition—who showed me what true support looks like.

The South didn’t just welcome me—it lifted me.