One August morning nearly two decades ago, my mother woke me and put me in a cab. She handed me a jacket...When I arrived at the Philippines’ Ninoy Aquino International Airport with her, my aunt and a family friend, I was introduced to a man I’d never seen. They told me he was my uncle. He held my hand as I boarded an airplane for the first time. It was 1993, and I was 12.  
 
...Over the past 14 years, I’ve graduated from high school and college and built a career as a journalist, interviewing some of the most famous people in the country. On the surface, I’ve created a good life. I’ve lived the American dream.  
 
But I am still an undocumented immigrant. And that means living a different kind of reality...
 
 
By Jose Antonio Vargas.