What’s in a name?

Depending on who and what you are talking about, there is a lot to be said of the way we name and refer to different things.

Names used to refer to me vary from person to person. I am Undocumented. I am Unauthorized. I am Illegal.

When I was a child, I moved from Mexico to the United States with my family. We never left. Consequently, I have been in violation of federal law for a large part of my life.

My given name is Karla, and I am technically an undocumented immigrant woman.

I tell you this, but not because I want to paint myself as a martyr for the undocumented immigrant community. I do not think of myself as any more adversely affected than others who share my status as an undocumented immigrant.

In fact, I will be the first to admit that I have been quite lucky — I go to a private university, boast the same financial stability as your typical college student and have the type of support system that enables me to write this confessional.

My intent in coming out as “undocumented” is thus twofold.

I write this because undocumented immigrants are treated as an economic point of contention, a legal issue and a political prop.

The result of this systematic dehumanization is that many undocumented immigrants lack any real agency when it comes to dictating policy and making decisions on the matters that concern them directly.

After all, economic points of contention, legal issues and political props don’t have voices.

People do.

I also write this partly because I want to reclaim a sense of agency for myself. I am undocumented, yes, but I am first and foremost a person capable of making decisions for myself.

Go ahead and think of me as an undocumented immigrant, but also bear in mind that I am a capable human being demanding respect. Treat me as such.

This brings me to my second reason for coming out. Both the fear and shame associated with the words “illegal” or “undocumented” have effectively silenced a large number of people. That silence creates complicity and isolation. It perpetuates the idea that the troubles me and my community face are ours alone.

We excuse the rest of society from respecting our rights as humans based on the fact that they are legal citizens and we are not. When we use such terminology, the underlying implication is that they are human and we are not.

Though the dehumanization of the undocumented immigrant oppresses the United States community as a whole, it is especially oppressive to undocumented women living in America.

A January 2014 report by the White House Council on Women and Girls notes that the risk of rape and sexual assault is higher among undocumented immigrants because their abusers often threaten to have them deported if they seek help.

A report by Fusion Network estimates that up to 80 percent of women who cross the U.S.-Mexico border are raped or sexually assaulted, sometimes by Border Patrol agents themselves.

How does our country respond to the above reports? We do more harm than we would were we to ignore them — we turn them into jokes and sexual fetishes.

Over the winter break, I accidentally stumbled upon a pornography series titled “Border Patrol Sex.” Some production company took the fact that undocumented women are often raped and assaulted by individuals with government-sanctioned authority and turned it into the premise of a porno film meant to cater to a fantasy and bring sexual release.

Let’s be real, I don’t have to delve very far into the Internet to find images of undocumented women as they are perceived by America — tethered to many children, promiscuous, poor, battered and ignorant.

This is the stereotype I have inherited as an undocumented woman and am forced to reconcile with my own self-image.

I am considered promiscuous and perpetually pregnant, but practically barred from access to health services. I am poor and ignorant, but denied any real chance at upward mobility or the means through which to assert my rights as a worker.

It is for these reasons that I refuse to be silent about my status as undocumented any longer. I reject the idea that the troubles surrounding my community are isolated and not worth addressing.

By telling others that I am undocumented, their picture of what the undocumented immigrant is becomes fleshed out.

It becomes a person.

It becomes me.