Risks

“We Share Our Stories and Risk Losing It All”: Activist-Storytelling as Edgework in the Undocumented Youth Movement

Emily R. Cabaniss Sam Houston State University, USA

Heather Shay University of South Carolina Beaufort, USA

Most research on edgework has focused on how individuals manage voluntary risk-taking. Few scholars have examined the process by which groups work together to construct and mitigate these activities. Our research, however, shows how undocumented youth activists col- lectively leveraged cultural capital to encourage risky forms of public storytelling by positioning those who participated in this strategy as especially courageous and entitled to the psychic rewards of edgework. Movement leaders bolstered the strategy by teaching new members to see their fluency in English, high levels of education, and assimilation into white, middle-class American culture as qualities that enabled them to successfully tread the border between order and disorder, and to overcome fears that kept most other undocumented immigrants from engaging in such risky forms of activist-storytelling. Keywords: edgework, voluntary risk-taking, youth activism, storytelling, DREAM act

INTRODUCTION

Research on social movements finds that storytelling can be an effective means for members of marginalized groups to construct positive identities, build trust and soli- darity with one another, counter more dominant, negative images of the group, and generate support from allies and movement outsiders (Cabaniss 2018; Davis 2002; Polletta 2006). However, storytelling can also be risky. Stories can be dismissed by

Direct all correspondence to Emily R. Cabaniss, Department of Sociology, Sam Houston State Univer- sity, CHSS Building, Suite 270, Campus Box 2446, Huntsville, TX 77341-2446; e-mail: [email protected].

Symbolic Interaction, Vol. 44, Issue 2, pp. 292–309, ISSN: 0195-6086 print/1533-8665 online. © 2020 Society for the Study of Symbolic Interaction (SSSI) DOI: 10.1002/SYMB.503

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skeptics as “just stories” that should not be taken seriously, and they can be chal- lenged or proven false by other stories (Polletta et al. 2011). Moreover, not all story- tellers are seen as trustworthy or credible. Audiences tend to respond more positively to and take more seriously stories told by members of powerful groups than those told by members of less powerful groups (Groves 1996; Loseke 2007; Polletta and Lee 2006).

Under certain circumstances, storytelling by marginalized groups can be even more consequential, as our research on storytelling in the contemporary Undoc- umented Youth Movement found. Because their very presence in the United States has been criminalized, undocumented immigrants who share their stories in public risk arrest, detention, and even deportation. Until recently, it was rare for undocumented immigrants to advocate openly for their own rights (Gonzales 2008; Terriquez 2015). It was seen as too dangerous. Remaining in the shadows seemed safer (Abrego 2011; Carrasco and Seif 2014). As a result, this group generally relied on citizen allies to make their case for them and to share their stories with the public and with political leaders with the hope of bringing about change (Nicholls 2013).

In late 2009 and early 2010, this dynamic started to shift as undocumented youth, frustrated by what they perceived to be ineffective advocacy by citizen allies who had been unable to breakthrough decades-long Congressional stalemates and get immi- gration reform passed, began to organize (Nicholls 2013). Their goal was to build support for the Development, Relief, and Education for Alien Minors (DREAM) Act, a bipartisan bill that would provide a path to citizenship for young people like them who had been brought to the country illegally as children. The potential ben- eficiaries of the bill call are often called “DREAMers.” The DREAM Act was first introduced in Congress in 2001 and has been reintroduced every legislative session since. But, as of 2009, it had never been voted on. When it was reintroduced in the House in early 2010, undocumented youth activists saw their chance to effect real change (Nicholls 2013).

DREAMers’ primary strategy for winning support for this bill, however, was a risky one: they intended to speak openly about their immigration status and share their stories with the public (Carrasco and Seif 2014). Many citizen allies and other undocumented immigrants were worried about the consequences of such a bold plan. Storytelling, in this case, seemed reckless and sure to end in disaster (Carrasco and Seif 2014). It was hard for many supporters to understand why they would put so much on the line. As we came to learn, storytelling gave these young people both a means of managing the risks of living as an undocumented immigrant in the United States and of asserting agency in their lives. By defiantly speaking out and sharing their stories in public—despite the risk of doing so—they traded the safety of invis- ibility for a sense of pride and accomplishment. In other words, they turned public, activist-storytelling into what scholars have termed “edgework,” or voluntary forms of risk-taking that promise psychic rewards, such as being able to see oneself as unusually courageous and strong (Lyng 1990; Shay 2017).

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How did movement leaders construct storytelling as an admirable act of volition that demonstrated their special capacity to lead? How did they persuade other undocumented young people to accept this framing and to share their own stories in public? How did they negotiate risk and safety as they used their stories to pro- mote change? Using participant observation and in-depth interviews, we show how activists leveraged cultural capital gained through socialization into middle-class American society to both encourage public storytelling by undocumented youth and to mitigate the risks of doing so. More specifically, we show how movement leaders taught new members to see their fluency in English, high levels of education, and assimilation into white, middle-class American culture as a shield that could protect them from some of the more dire consequences of sharing their stories in public. We conclude by discussing how our findings broaden our understanding of the dynamics of edgework in movements for change as well as its potential to reproduce inequalities.

THEORETICAL BACKGROUND

In 1990, sociologist Stephen Lyng (1990) used the term “edgework” to describe vol- untary risk-taking—or, the pursuit of exciting, but perilous experiences that have a high chance of ending badly. As he explained, edgework is about pushing the limits, walking up to the edge of danger but not falling. The rewards are psychic: knowing that you have mastered your fear and that you have “maintain[ed] control over a situ- ation that verges on complete chaos, a situation most people would regard as entirely uncontrollable” (Lyng 1990:859). Successful edgeworkers come to see themselves as unusually capable, strong, or courageous.

Lyng maintains that edgeworkers demonstrate their extra-human abilities by suc- cessfully negotiating one of four types of boundaries. They can tread the boundary between life and death, consciousness and unconsciousness, sanity and insanity, and order and disorder (Lyng 1990). When treading the border between life and death, the edgeworker’s goal is to take action that could kill a person without winding up dead—activities such as skydiving (Laurendeau 2006; Lyng 1990) or motorcycle racing (Ferrell 2005). Likewise, edgeworkers treading the border of consciousness versus unconsciousness attempt to maintain mental control over circumstances that would incapacitate others, such as those who take mind-altering drugs (Lyng 1990; Reith 2005). The border between sanity and insanity is about coming as close to psychological collapse as possible without ultimately breaking down (Lyng 1990). Table-top role-playing gamers do this when they attempt to be as immersed in their character and the fictional world as possible without losing their grip on reality (Shay 2017). Finally, those treading the border of order and disorder test their capacity to handle mental or physical challenges that would intimidate, deter, or immobilize others (Lyng 1990). They attempt to create an image of themselves as able to perform under extreme pressure, to stay steady in an unsteady environ- ment, and to deflect threats to their sense of security and safety (Lyng 1990). These

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edgeworkers, for example, might push a machine to its limits to see if they can con- trol it when others cannot or show their creative fortitude by working intense hours that few others could sustain to produce an artistic masterpiece (Lyng 1990). As we will show, the young people in our study confronted that last boundary. Through public storytelling, they demonstrated their ability to walk the line between order and disorder without wobbling off. In doing so, they proved that they could maintain an ordered sense of self while managing the fear of being arrested and/or deported, a fear that keeps many other undocumented immigrants from speaking out.

To date, most research on edgework has focused on physical risk-taking (Newmahr 2011). Many studies, for instance, examine participation in extreme sports such as skydiving, BASE jumping, freediving, whitewater rafting, and moun- tain rescue (Ferrell 2005; Holyfield, Jonas, and Zajicek 2005; Laurendeau 2006; Lois 2001; Lyng 1990, 2005; Malou Strandvad 2018; Simon 2005). The potential for serious physical harm while engaging in these kinds of adventure sports is obvious, and most people shy away from them (even while admiring those who participate in them). By contrast, “edgeworkers” typically perceive these activities to be less dan- gerous than outsiders. As experienced, voluntary risk-takers, they believe they know how to control the factors that might jeopardize their safety while participating in these seemingly unsafe activities. Only those who do not know what they are doing, they contend, are really at risk of death or injury (Laurendeau 2006; Lyng 1990; Wexler 2010).

As the field of research on edgework has evolved, more scholars have begun using this framework to analyze other, nonphysically precarious forms of voluntary risk-taking. Reith (2005), for instance, found that drug users not only imperiled their health; they also jeopardized their futures. Miller (2005) similarly discovered that adolescents who engaged in petty crime put their education, work ambitions, and freedom on the line. It was worth it, they explained, because these illicit activities were so much more exciting than their day-to-day lives, a theme that also emerged in Bloch’s (2018) study of graffiti writers. Edgework has now become integral to many analyses of criminal behavior (Anderson and Brown 2010).

Scholars have also started attending to the financial, social, intellectual, emotional, and spiritual dynamics of risk-taking. In their separate studies of rogue stock traders, Smith (2005) and Wexler (2010) found that by engaging in risky financial activities, traders not only jeopardized their fortunes, but also their careers. Simon’s (2005) study of Victorian lawyers and Hamm’s (2005) and Sjoberg’s (2005) examinations of academics and researchers identified similar patterns of work-related risk-taking. Others have studied the emotional risks participants in sadomasochism communi- ties take by trusting each other (Newmahr 2011), the social ostracism self-identified witches risk by participating in unconventional religious rituals (Jones 2010), the “spiritual edgework” of firewalkers and serpent handlers (Bromley 2007), and the “virtual” risks role-playing gamers take with their characters’ lives (Shay 2017). As long as participants believe they are risking something important, seemingly mun- dane activities can be turned into edgework—even storytelling. In this paper, we

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show how undocumented youth activists transformed public storytelling into a form of edgework that demonstrated their ability to tread the border between order and disorder.

METHOD

This analysis is based on data gathered from fieldwork and in-depth interviews with undocumented youth activists advocating for the passage of the DREAM Act. From May 2010 to January 2012, the first author engaged in ethnographic fieldwork with a local immigrant rights group made up of undocumented youth activists and their college-aged, U.S. citizen allies. She reached out to the contact person listed on a website for local groups working on different immigration-related causes. After iden- tifying herself as a graduate student with a longstanding interest in social move- ments and the experiences of immigrants to the United States, she was invited to attend the group’s next meeting, where she learned that they had just formed a few weeks before. She described her background and research interests to the group and asked how they would feel about her studying their process. They explained that they wanted people to know what they were doing because they were hoping to make real change, and they agreed that it would be good to have a researcher in the group. Going forward, the first author assumed the role of a researcher-ally. She participated in planning meetings, strategy sessions, trainings, storytelling events, demonstrations, and conferences both within and outside the state. She also handed out fliers and held signs of support at various events, served as a driver for undocu- mented youth who were legally barred from obtaining licenses, and helped manage the group’s funds. Most of the fieldwork for this study was conducted in a southeast- ern metropolitan area; however, the first author frequently traveled with the group to out-of-state venues. In total, this study includes observations of movement-related events in Georgia, Tennessee, North Carolina, Virginia, Kentucky, Pennsylvania, Illi- nois, and Washington, DC.

In addition to fieldwork with this local group, the first author also conducted in-depth, semistructured interviews with thirty-two undocumented youth activists from around the country. Participants were approached after different public story- telling events that the first author attended and asked if they would be interested in participating in interviews about their experiences. No one declined to partici- pate. This approach led to interviews with several well-established leaders in the movement. Nineteen of the interviewees were women; thirteen were men. They ranged in age from nineteen to thirty, but most were in their early- to mid-twenties. They were generally well educated. At the time of the interviews, three had already completed master’s programs, eleven had obtained bachelor’s degrees, and sixteen were currently attending college. Only two had never enrolled in college classes. All but three of the interviewees self-identified as Latinx; two identified as Arab and one as Asian.1 The interviews ranged in length from one to three-and-a-half hours; most lasted about an hour-and-a-half. All interviews were audiorecorded and transcribed verbatim.

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The process of analyzing data was inductive, informed by the principles of grounded theory (Charmaz 2006; Glaser and Strauss 1967). With grounded theory, data collection, coding, and analysis are ongoing, reciprocal processes (Char- maz 2006; Emerson, Fretz, and Shaw 1995; Lofland et al. 2006). While in the field, the first author carried a small notebook in which she recorded observations, fleeting impressions, and verbatim comments made by study participants. She also audiorecorded all public storytelling events. Once out of the field, she used these notes and recordings to type up full fieldnotes, transcripts, and analytic memos (Emerson, Fretz, and Shaw 1995; Lofland et al. 2006). Emergent hypotheses were tested out in the field and adjustments were made to the developing analysis as more was learned.

ACTIVIST-STORYTELLING AS EDGEWORK

There were three interconnected elements in DREAMers’ storytelling strategy that, together, demonstrated their ability to tread the border between order and disorder. First, the activists emphasized that they voluntarily chose to share their stories under circumstances that might rattle others—an act of volition that made them feel power- ful. Next, to bolster members’ courage and maintain their commitment to risky lines of action, movement leaders tried to cultivate a sense of safety and personal respon- sibility among members. Finally, movement leaders showed newer members how to use particular forms of cultural capital gained through socialization into middle-class American society to mitigate the more consequential hazards of their edgework. To enjoy the psychic rewards of edgework, after all, risk-takers must expect to survive it. Like the back-up parachute most skydivers wear, DREAMers’ cultural capital served as a safeguard just in case anything went wrong.

Volitional Treading of the Border

For Lyng (1990), the “voluntary” nature of risk-taking is what distinguishes edge- work from other inherently dangerous activities. It is this volitional and intentional choosing that enables risk-takers to demonstrate their skill and to reap the psychic rewards of edgework. In our study, the youth activists emphasized that they decided to tell the story, not someone else.

Movement leaders often portrayed public storytelling as a liberating expression of free will and a radical assertion of power, similar to artists who see intensive cre- ative sessions as expressions of their specialness (Lyng 1990). One of the movement leaders, Thomas, explained in an interview the importance of getting undocumented youth to “own” their stories by sharing them in public:

Thomas: I think, for me, the pivotal moment of the entire movement was the coming out stuff. Like the March 10th coming out [first largescale “coming out” rally organized by undocumented youth in Chicago]…Getting DREAMers to

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buy into the concept of coming out is what made anything else in the movement possible.

Interviewer: Say some more about that.

Thomas: It’s just because like before that I don’t think anybody would take own- ership of the identity.

Interviewer: And what do you mean “take ownership”?

Thomas: It was always like, you know, “The DREAM Act should pass because there are these stories of undocumented youth” and this sort of thing. But, it was never like, “And I am one of them” kind of thing. And so there was never like the ownership of it. It was putting a face behind it as opposed to just a story. So then, with the coming out, that’s what it sort of did it. It forced people—like, this is the face.2

In a separate interview, Eduardo similarly asserted:

It’s not only about using our stories politically—like out there—but taking own- ership over it. What does it mean to be an undocumented young person and take ownership over my experience and let that experience sort of transform me and sort of push me into the person I need to be at the moment.

For Thomas and Eduardo, it was critical that movement leaders persuade undoc- umented youth to not only “come out,” but also to interpret public storytelling as a daring assertion of power. Their arguments underscore the feelings of power that people derive from successfully treading the border of order and disorder as they overcome fears that might stymie others. Instead of letting their stories remain face- less, they suggest, DREAMers boldly inserted themselves into the public debate over the DREAM Act. Public storytelling, seen in this way, is an admirable act of volition by undocumented youth in their pursuit of social change.

Ana, one of the organizers for the rally Thomas mentioned, similarly described public storytelling as a way of “claiming a space at the table as undocumented stu- dents.” She explained in an interview that one of the goals of the rally was to show undocumented young people that they could use their personal stories to “change the dialogue” around immigration and challenge the power of mainstream advocacy groups, politicians, and the media to frame the issue. She explained:

We wanted to be in control of our own stories…how we told them and what they contained but also push the press to tell them the way we wanted, right? Like, that’s what coming out was about, I think. Coming out was about communicating with undocumented students and telling them, “We’re here. Come talk to us.” Telling people in our own movement that we should be able to choose what risks we take. And telling the press, like, “I’m undocumented. When you talk about me, say that I’m ‘undocumented,’ not that I’m ‘illegal.’ And when you write about me, write about my story, not just about the numbers.”

Like Thomas and Eduardo, Ana suggests that public storytelling can be a powerful assertion of agency. It is a way for undocumented youth to not only control their

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own stories (e.g., vis-à-vis the media), but also to resist control by others—such as those who would advise them not to take risky actions. Because the Chicago rally was also one of the first large scale, coming out rallies in the movement, it also sent an important message to other undocumented youth. That message, Ana suggests, is that they have the right to decide for themselves what actions they will take in support of the movement, including whether or not to share their stories in public. By emphasizing that activists make their own decisions about speaking out, movement leaders positioned public storytelling as bold action they alone chose to take.

This dynamic was also captured in the ways in which more experienced activists talked about their activism at recruitment events—events in which the main goal was to bring new members into the movement. The consistent message at these events was that DREAMers’ stories are powerful and that DREAMers can harness that power by sharing them publicly. Their stories, in other words, make them invincible. Depicting their stories in this way allowed them to tread the border between order and disorder because they pushed themselves to their psychological limits. Speaking publicly threatened their sense of safety, security, and stability as they could lose the life to which they have grown accustomed. Consider what Sofia said at one of these events:

I have found the power in our voices. There is power in sharing our stories. The time to speak up is now. Let’s put our fears aside and work together. Let’s strive for a better future for generations to come. Let’s fight for our dreams. Let’s fight for immigrants’ rights. Our moment has come. If you feel afraid, tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dream.

Sofia acknowledges that many undocumented immigrants are afraid to do the things the DREAMers are doing. But, by speaking out publically, DREAMers demonstrate their ability to wrangle their own fears and take action when others cannot. At a different event, Cynthia, another undocumented activist, used her experience having eluded deportation after engaging in civil disobedience (CD), to encourage others to see speaking out publicly about their status as a means of protecting themselves. As she told the undocumented youth and allies gathered at the event,

Your silence is not going to protect you. It’s going to be speaking out. It’s going to be telling your story. And being active with your community, for your community, so that we can work together and really build the movement by us, not by outside stakeholders, by us, the directly affected.

Here, Cynthia shows that DREAMers are choosing to tread the border while oth- ers think that not doing so (i.e., remaining silent) will keep them safer. At yet another rally, another DREAMer called out to the crowd of undocumented activists and their allies:

We’ve waited ten years for the DREAM Act and we cannot wait one more year! We will not be quiet anymore! We have shown our strengths as youth and students

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of this nation. This is a movement of undocumented students who have stepped up, faced their fears of losing it all by coming out of the shadows and speaking up for ourselves…We share our stories and risk losing it all. But don’t we risk it all every day?

By speaking out and sharing their stories publicly rather than continuing to hide in the shadows, these young people asserted, they were taking control over their lives and their futures. In doing so, they were maintaining an orderly sense of self and environment, despite the risks of such a public assertion.

This message of personal empowerment through public storytelling was also reit- erated in the movement’s recruitment literature. The opening line of a “coming out” guide that movement leaders posted on their national website asserts: “Your story told in your own voice is by far the most powerful tool you have” (emphasis added). Another began by quoting well-known leaders in the movement: “Being undocu- mented doesn’t define who you are. By Coming Out we take back our right of speech that for years others have been trying to control and oppress”; “By Coming Out, we are taking control of the same fears that are going to exist no matter what.” And the training manual given to participants in a “Youth Empowerment Summit” (a recruit- ment event) told them, “One of our most powerful tools to fight for our rights and that of our families are our stories.” At training events and rallies aimed at recruiting new members, the first author heard the same message over and over again: coming out, storytelling, and direct action by youth are expressions of courage, personal voli- tion, and power. Rather than viewing speaking out as too risky, activists positioned it as an empowering choice.

Framed as a volitional act, public storytelling put DREAMers in charge of their own fate. Similar to the mountain rescue workers (Lois 2005) and whitewater raft- ing guides (Holyfield, Jonas, and Zajicek 2005) other scholars have studied, these activists spoke as if they had complete control over the risks they were taking. In their efforts to recruit new members and steady the nerve of established activists, leaders routinely asserted that each member ultimately decided on their own how much risk they were willing to take. This also meant that they, personally, could claim the psychic rewards of their actions—the esteem that comes from their willingness to risk it all for the movement.

Cultivating a Sense of Safety and “Personal Responsibility”

Telling undocumented youth that storytelling is a volitional act of courage is one thing. Getting them to make the “choice” to take action in the movement was another. Undocumented youth who engage in public storytelling are risking a lot. If immigration authorities hear their stories and thus learn about their legal status, the consequences could be disastrous. DREAMers could be detained, arrested, and even deported. In order for youth to even consider coming out, sharing their stories, or otherwise taking action in support of the movement, they had to overcome their fear of experiencing those consequences. In other words, they needed help steeling

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their nerves before wading into the treacherous border region demarcating order from disorder (Lyng 1990). Movement leaders took an active role in convincing these young people that they could indeed successfully navigate this border by preparing them to take this risk.

Before asking DREAMers to take action behalf of the movement, leaders believed it was crucial to foster an environment that made youth “feel safe.” In essence, they wanted movement participants, like other edgeworkers, to see their actions as less dangerous than outsiders do. A primary way they sought to achieve this was by embodying—at least rhetorically—bold fearlessness. Doing so helped activists overcome feelings of disorder, especially among new recruits who worried about the consequences of speaking out. At most rallies, leaders led chants and held banners and signs declaring themselves “undocumented and unafraid.” Speakers frequently wore t-shirts similarly asserting their undocumented status. And during the Chicago rally, one of the organizers told the crowd that they were going to (dis- cursively) turn the plaza, which was in front of the city’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) office, into a “safe space” so that undocumented youth could come out to those around them. Movement leaders also told the first author in interviews that it was important to create private spaces where undocumented youth felt safe talking about their experiences. A key responsibility, then, for movement leaders, in their roles as facilitators, was to create conditions conducive to certain kinds of risk-taking and choice-making.

Managing undocumented youths’ fears, movement leaders believed, was espe- cially important before asking them to risk arrest. Because they believed youth were primarily worried about being deported if they were arrested, leaders thought it was crucial to give them tools to fight back. Having these tools, they suggested, would ease their minds and enable them to choose more freely to participate in actions that leaders thought were effective, but might lead to arrest. Thomas explained in an interview that a key aspect of their role as leaders was “empowering folks and showing them that they can win any deportation case, because when you know that, then you’re willing to get arrested, no matter what.” Accordingly, movement leaders worked closely with local activist groups to teach them how to run “Education Not Deportation” (END) campaigns. These were intensive lobby efforts aimed at get- ting immigration authorities to release undocumented youth who had been detained. They worked by overwhelming local politicians and immigration officials with phone calls, faxes, and emails of support that centered the laudable personal stories of the young detainees.

The fact that youth were nearly always released after these END campaigns enabled leaders to portray even the riskiest forms of direct action as safe—as long as they could tell a good story about them. In this way, leaders could inspire confidence in members that they could tread the border successfully. Again, this was important because of the effect it had on members’ willingness to take action on behalf of the movement. In an interview, Isabel described how the success of these storytelling campaigns influenced her:

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I was glad when I met all these DREAMers and everybody’s saying, “We’re undocumented, and we’re not afraid. And we’ve got your back.” I think the [END campaigns] have helped me to not be scared. Like, I have so much faith in my network. I have so much faith in all these people rallying behind us that I feel that if I were to be put into deportation proceedings that people would raise hell for me… just as they’ve been doing for all these students…You never know, maybe I could be the first one to not get deferred action, but it’s just that trust that I have in the movement. That’s what makes me do what I do and be public and say everything and get arrested. I don’t care anymore. I feel like I have a lot of support.

Isabel acknowledges that leaders’ strategies for protecting youth who engage in risky actions might not be fail-safe: she could be the “first one” that immigration officials decide to deport rather than release. But she accepts that risk because she believes her fellow activists will “raise hell” and do everything they can to keep her safe. They would use her own story to do so. Believing that fellow activist-storytellers had the power to protect her from the reach of the immigration authorities, Isabel suggests, freed her to participate in whatever way she wants in the movement. At the same time, she accepted the possibility that it might not work out. It was her choice and her responsibility if anything went wrong.

At the same time that movement leaders worked to cultivate a sense of safety through storytelling when asking other youth to participate in risky forms of activism, they also promoted a message of “personal responsibility.” A key way they did this was by instructing potential risk-takers to think carefully about their individual cir- cumstances and ask questions before making any decisions. Each person, they sug- gested, was ultimately responsible for protecting themselves; and they could do so by making informed decisions. During training for a CD action, for instance, one of the organizers told activists who were still deciding whether or not to participate, “As a former CD’er, it’s very important to voice your concerns. It’s how you get safe and how you make good decisions.” Another organizer added, “Everything comes down to personal decisions.” Thus, while it was the leaders’ responsibility to create an envi- ronment that made undocumented youth activists feel safe, each participant had to decide for themselves whether or not to participate. That meant that they were also ultimately responsible for the consequences of those decisions.

This approach to motivating youth to participate in risky actions and to feel rela- tively safe in doing so seemed to work for most activists and helped them successfully navigate the border between order and disorder. During the training for the action described above, leaders asked if participants wanted to try to get ICE involved (i.e., not just be arrested, but be placed in deportation proceedings). As they went around the room, each participant offered their perspective. When they got to Norma, she declared, “I feel very comfortable with that. The way I see it, we’ve got nothing to lose. If we get deported, well, then let’s go change Mexico!” Sofia agreed, and later told the first author privately that her local group worried that she would feel pres- sured to take part in the risky action. But, she said that after seeing how carefully planned the action was, “I feel very empowered and in control of my decisions.” Not

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only did these young people feel “empowered” to participate, they accepted personal responsibility for whatever might happen as a result, hallmarks of successful edge- work. As they depicted it, they were making purposeful, fully informed decisions to take strategic action. And they were willing to live with the consequences.

By choosing to venture into the border region where order and disorder meet, DREAMers showed their ability to handle emotional and mental challenges that would scare or overwhelm others. By emerging from that region unscathed, they could claim the emotional benefits that more traditional edgeworkers gain from par- ticipating in extreme sports.

Mitigating Risk with Social and Cultural Capital

Why were so many undocumented youth willing to risk detention and deportation by sharing their stories in public? Edgeworkers often talk as if only those who lack the requisite skills, knowledge, or mental ability will fail (Laurendeau 2006; Lyng 1990; Wexler 2010). They thus frequently position success as a product of inherent differ- ences between those who can and those who cannot do edgework. The youth activists in our study similarly presented themselves as especially equipped to succeed where others might fail. As our research found, however, they were also hedging their bets with particular forms of social and cultural capital.

Movement leaders actively cultivated relationships with key allies (mostly white and upper-middle class) who could connect them to important resources, such as pro bono legal defense, when they engaged in risky forms of protest. For instance, dur- ing preparations for a civil disobedience (and activist-storytelling) action, movement leaders brought in two civil rights attorneys to advise them in the event that anyone was arrested. One of the attorneys, Lydia, told the activists that the U.S. Constitu- tion covers “all persons, not all citizens.” As a result, she said, DREAMers had an “absolute right to exercise political rights.” She later added, “Never make civil strat- egy decisions based on the law or legal potentialities. It needs to be based on your own personal convictions…There’s nothing to be afraid of—at all. Go ahead and do the organizing for the rest of the community.” These affirmations from high-status institutional players not only assured DREAMers that their risky political strategy was admirable; they also underscored their importance: a lot of people—“the rest of the community,” as Lydia reminded them—were counting on them. These words of encouragement served another crucial purpose: they held out the promise that if these young activists took these risks on behalf of others who could not, other pow- erful and influential community members had their back if anything went wrong.

In addition to building alliances with people who could help keep them safe as they engaged in risky actions, movement leaders also recognized the protective potential of certain forms of cultural capital. In an interview, Lili hinted at this awareness: “I honestly believe that if I were deported, it wouldn’t be that bad. I speak English. I have a college degree. If I were sent back to Mexico, I could probably get a job at the university.” Her middle-class U.S. cultural capital enabled her to see even the

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worst-case scenario—being deported for her activism—as not such a big deal, cer- tainly not the end of the world. In order to mobilize other undocumented youth, movement leaders taught new members to see their own fluency in English, pro- fessional ambitions, and high levels of education in similar ways—as qualities that could keep them out of harm’s way. “Who wants to be the politician who deports the honor-roll student?” one activist asked rhetorically in an interview.

Reflecting this understanding of themselves as fundamentally different from and relatively safer than other undocumented immigrants, DREAMers often explained their risk-taking in altruistic terms—as something they were obligated to do in order to help other people. At one of the first rallies organized by undocumented activists, Cali ended her story by telling the other undocumented members of the crowd and their allies: “We are here today for a reason. I am doing this for you, for you, for all my friends, for my family.” Such a statement not only emphasizes her sacrifice, but also suggests that she sees herself as able to take risks that the people she is helping cannot shoulder themselves.

Another activist, Freya, explained to a reporter why she was so willing to be public about her status and her story by saying, “For every movement, there are sacrifices that need to be made. I’m willing to take that risk. I’m doing this for friends who’ve given up, who are depressed to the point of trying to kill themselves—because I was once that way.” Freya emphasized that her public storytelling activities were aimed at helping people she cares about. Yet, her statement also suggests that she is more emo- tionally able to handle the stresses associated with being an undocumented activist than others are. Rosana made this point even more explicitly in an interview: “Mal- colm X and Martin Luther King and Asada Shakur and Angela Davis—you know, these are like hard-core people. And they’re not—they’re like me. They’re outcasts in America.” By identifying with the radical legacies of these legendary activists, Rosana portrayed herself as very different from other people and, thus, particularly well suited to taking risky but laudable actions others would avoid.

Angie, another movement leader, similarly told a group of undocumented young people that coming out and sharing their stories in public was critical because it could help other, more vulnerable youth. As she put it:

Perhaps you give another youth whose story resembles yours hope—not hope to become an organizer overnight or to risk arrest immediately—but simply hope to exist without self-hatred, hope to face the next day knowing that they are not struggling alone.

From this perspective, engaging in risky forms of storytelling is not just about personal empowerment; it’s also about helping others who suffer even more than they do (see also Lois 2001, 2005). By focusing on and emphasizing their altruistic motives, activists reinforced their sense of themselves as being more capable than others. After all, for a person to sacrifice for others, they have to trust that they can handle whatever comes from that decision. By highlighting storytelling as a personal display of courage and as an obligation of more privileged undocumented youth,

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activists positioned themselves as uniquely capable of acting bravely in the face of opposition and under conditions that might make others hesitate, a hallmark of edge- work.

DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION

Our research examined how one seemingly powerless, vulnerable, and marginalized group developed, deployed, and managed the consequences of a high-risk political strategy—and by doing so, enabled participants to claim the psychic rewards of their edgework. Undocumented youth activists told their stories publicly with the hope of getting people to support the DREAM Act. Their explicit goal was to generate large-scale social change that would benefit not only themselves, but numerous oth- ers. Yet, as we have shown, that is not the whole story. They also highlighted the volitional testing DREAMers put themselves through as they successfully treaded the border of order versus disorder and overcame their fear of the consequences of sharing their stories in public. Because they did so, they gained the emotional and mental rewards that came with seeing themselves as self-determined and omnipo- tent. What DREAMers did, then, was to turn their storytelling into edgework.

We are not the first to suggest that people can transform nonleisure activities into edgework. Bromley (2007), for instance, examined how firewalkers and ser- pent handlers engaged in edgework as part of their religious practice. Worrall and Mawby (2013) show that some probation officers take voluntary risks as part of their work that make them feel omnipotent. Rajah (2007) even demonstrates that women’s resistance to intimate partner violence can be understood as edgework. Our study identifies yet another arena in which people can engage in edgework—that of activism.

More importantly, like Rajah (2007), we expand our understanding of who is engaging in edgework. The women in Rajah’s (2007) study were low-income, non- white drug users, not the class-privileged white men that much of the edgework literature examines (Newmahr 2011; Rajah 2007). Although the DREAMers are relatively privileged compared to other undocumented immigrants, they are still members of a highly vulnerable and subordinated group. Our research thus shines light on another means by which seemingly powerless groups can generate feelings of power and use those feelings to create or maintain order in their lives and pursue more material and tangible forms of power.

As we demonstrated, the feelings of strength and power that edgework offers youth activists can be used to promote social justice and pursue social change. In his original examination, Lyng (1990) pointed out that the feelings of self-determination, self-actualization, and omnipotence edgeworkers derived from voluntary risk-taking contributed to an elitism among some participants. Here, however, DREAMers used those same feelings to steady and motivate themselves to fight for the rights of other undocumented individuals who they believed were less able to handle those chal- lenges. In other words, while they saw themselves as especially capable and suited to

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the task of speaking out publicly and managing the risks of doing so, gaining those psychic rewards enabled them to continue activism that might have otherwise seemed pointless, particularly since they had been telling their stories for so long with limited success.

Our study thus suggests another way that movements for change can recruit and maintain members. By giving their participants the psychic rewards edgework often provides, movement leaders can encourage people who may be reluctant to com- mit to a movement to do so. Even if the movement is not immediately successful, depicting activism as a personal test of one’s abilities can, as it did for DREAMers, generate powerful emotions that may keep participants involved. Part of what the youth activists were doing was creating a meaningful and positive identity for partic- ipants, which prior scholars have demonstrated is crucial for social movement recruit- ment and retention (Cabaniss and Gardner 2020; Polletta and Jasper 2001; Taylor and Whittier 1992). But, as our research shows, DREAMers took their rhetoric a step further. Not only were activists “DREAMers,” blameless young immigrants who deserve special consideration for a path to citizenship. They were also strong, fear- less, and capable leaders who could handle challenges that would overwhelm many others. They were, then, edgeworkers who knew how to tread the border of order and disorder and gained the benefits of their risk-taking.

Still, as is often the case, DREAM activists’ attempts to challenge inequality by promoting the DREAM Act and giving the disempowered a sense of power through public storytelling only went so far. Positioning youth activists with relative social class privilege and cultural capital as more capable of handling the risks associated with activism meant that some undocumented youths were encouraged to make choices that would give them psychic rewards. Other less-privileged undocumented youth, however, may be discouraged by that rhetoric. By suggesting that one’s fluency in English, educational credentials, and knowledge of the U.S. legal system would protect them, leaders left out those who lacked those qualities. The most subordinated undocumented youths, then, did not hear stories that suggested they would be able to handle the potential consequences of activism. That does not mean such individuals were actually incapable of treading the border. But, it does mean that they did not have the explicit support of movement leaders to convince them they would succeed. Undocumented youth who did not speak English fluently or who had fewer educational credentials may have been inadvertently excluded from the movement as leaders’ attempted to create the conditions necessary for successful edgework for the more privileged among them.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The authors would like to thank Michael Schwalbe at North Carolina State Univer- sity for always offering insightful feedback, enthusiastic encouragement, and unwa- vering support throughout the development of this project.

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ENDNOTES

1. All but seven of the activists were born in Mexico, with others originating from Peru, Ecuador, Brazil, Jordan, Iran, and The Philippines. At the time of the interviews, sixteen activists resided in Illinois, seven in North Carolina, two in Missouri, two in Texas, and one each in Michigan, New York, Virginia, Georgia, and Florida.

2. For verbal statements, emphasis was inferred from changes in the speaker’s tone of voice.

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ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTOR(S)

Emily R. Cabaniss is an Assistant Professor of Sociology at Sam Houston State University, USA. Her research has been guided by a broad interest in the reproduction of inequality and efforts to bring about social change. More specifically, she is interested in how people—interacting together—shape, reinforce, resist, and challenge structural inequalities. To date, her research has focused primarily on how these processes manifest among immigrants, especially those involved in social movements. She teaches courses on race and ethnicity, immigration, and gender inequalities.

Heather Shay is Visiting Assistant Professor of Sociology at the University of South Carolina Beaufort. Before that, she was Assistant Professor of Sociology at Lake Superior State University. Her research interests are in the areas of identity work, inequality, and gaming. Her dissertation research, subsequently published in the Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, examined iden- tity work among table-top role-playing gamers. She teaches courses in social psychology, social inequality, culture, theory, and qualitative methods.