Undocumented, underage: shelters in border towns and cities are opening to house large numbers of immigrant children.

ON OPPOSITE CORNERS of a small cul-de-sac near Pleasant Avenue and Cesar Chavez Boulevard in the mostly Latino neighborhood of Boyie Heights, Los Angeles are two buildings, painted white with blue trim, where 16 boys, mostly immigrant, make their home. Each resident has his own story--some came to the United States as young children; some just recently crossed the border. Most are undocumented. What they have in common is that somehow, either before they left home to make the trek to the United States or after they arrived, they found themselves alone. They are mostly without families, new to this country and without a real home.

Claretian missionary Father Richard Estrada opened La Posada Emergency Shelter, the smaller of the blue-and-white homes, in 1991 as a safe space for homeless immigrant youth. Residents can stay for up to 90 days to took for a job and save money. The second house, Casa Olivares, opened its doors recently and gives young people 18 months to commit to both work and school. Sixteen years after it was first founded, young men still arrive at La Posada almost weekly.

"A lot of times they get here and they still have injuries, or they're sick from making the trip across the border," said Guadalupe Rebolledo, an intake specialist for La Posada.

Often, all they need is a little time to get established, find a job, save a little money and move on. The ones who leave La Posada quickly are usually the ones who crossed over recently, said Rebolledo. "They're the easiest ones to work with because they have specific plans. They get jobs really quickly." But some have a more difficult time, and some have ambitions, like finishing high school or college, that take more time.

More shelters are opening in border towns and cities to house large numbers of undocumented immigrant children. An estimated 48,000 children enter the United States each year without documentation or their parents. The majority, however, don't ever make it to a shelter. In 2004, about 6,200 kids without parents were being held in removal proceedings by the Office of Refugee Resettlement. This number excludes the more than 100,000 juveniles who are caught at the border and deported every year--often without much care to determine if the juvenile is accompanied or not.

Some of the children were homeless before coming to the United States. Some came with parents and were abandoned. Some decided to come alone to earn money for parents at home. Whatever their story, once here, they are like any immigrant: they must learn to navigate a new country. But they do it with the added burden of being homeless and underage--and because most are undocumented, they must do it without any legal protection.

Cristobal, 17, came to Casa Libre in January. He is tall, a little lanky, with black hair and very formal--the type of teen who gets along well with teachers. When he speaks, he peppers his Spanish with "you know" and "I think so" in English.

Seven years ago, he made his way from Mexico City to Nuevo Laredo, where his uncle dropped him off at the border. Cristobal hopped on a waiting truck to be shuttled across la linea. It wasn't a harrowing journey, he recalls. "Not like you hear on TV." Just a few hours and he was in the United States on his way to Morris, Illinois to reunite with a dad who had left home years before looking for better opportunities, then had remarried and started a new family.

For about six years, Cristobal lived like a typical U.S. teenager, he reports. "I had my own room, my own computer, my own TV." When he was 16, his dad told him he was returning home to Mexico. Cristobal's decision to come to Los Angeles on his own was easy, he remembers. "My dad had left, so it didn't matter. Whatever place I ended up, it didn't matter. He left Illinois for Los Angeles because at Casa Libre he would have a chance to get his papers. He learned about the home while scouring the Internet.

From the street, the building housing Casa Libre, near the busy corner of James M. Woods and Alvarado in Los Angeles, is large, aged and intimidating. To a child it might look more like a haunted mansion than a freedom house. An iron fence keeps passersby safely at bay. Inside, white boards listing chore schedules and human rights posters demanding justice for crimes against humanity show the wood-paneled building for what it is.

Life at Casa Libre is not rigorously structured, at least compared to other group homes, but there is a schedule. Residents wake up at 6:00 or 6:30 a.m., eat breakfast and are out of the house and to school by 7:30 when the house closes its doors. Doors open again at 4:00 p.m., and then there's the routine: chores for a $10 weekly allowance given out on a point system, homework, tutors and seminars. There's little privacy. Casa Libre, which is run by the Los Angeles Center for Human Rights and Constitutional Law, is home to 14 immigrant and refugee youth ranging in ages from 14 to 17. Most of the boys share a room. Thefts are common, Cristobal says. Staff workers are told to treat the boys like family, to try to make the house a home, but mostly it's a place to sleep.

Still, in some ways the young men who arrive at Casa Libre are the lucky ones. That they came to the United States alone or were left alone, or were abandoned before turning 18 brings them under the protection of the state juvenile courts and makes them eligible for Special Immigrant Juvenile Status (SIJS) and can set them on a path to legal status. The number of kids who actually get through the process with legal permanent residence, however, is small. In 2005, the Department of Homeland Security reported that 660 court dependents were granted permanent residency.

The process is anything but easy: the minor must document abuse, neglect or abandonment and be taken on by a legal guardian. But at the end of it all, there are papers. Most young immigrants aren't aware of the legal possibility, says La Posada's Rebolledo. On more than one occasion, a teen who's been staying at La Posada, which houses young men between 18 and 24 years of age, turns out to be 17, 16 or younger. "They change their names and their age so they can work," says Rebolledo. "They know they can't get a job if they say they're 16."

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In just a few days, Hector, a shy, quietly funny 19-year-old with a freshly inked tattoo on his forearm will leave Casa Olivares because his 18 months are up. At 14, he and his little brother left Mexico City and came into the United States. He tells of crossing the Mexicali checkpoint with a smile:

"I just crossed the border by the office." He laughs. "I get in to the office, you know, like regular people, and I just say 'U.S. Citizen,' and they let me get in. That's crazy, huh? I know." He laughs again. "When you're a little kid, you don't know what's going on. You just do it."

In many ways, Hector is a success story. Residents at Casa Olivares are handpicked from boys who first land across the road at La Posada for a 90-day stay because they want an education and have the drive it takes to make it happen, says Programs Director Andrea Marchetti. The home is much less structured than La Posada, but there is a curfew, and staff members check up on residents every 30 minutes. Residents must also show that they are saving money and prove they are going to school. During his time at Casa Olivares, Hector graduated from Roosevelt High School and enrolled at the East L.A. Occupational Center. He trained as a dental assistant, got a job, bought a car and started saving.

But one of the troubles with being undocumented, beyond the threat of getting deported, is that any gains are fragile. In Hector's case, it's clear how fragile. The dentist he worked for learned about his legal status and fired him. When he was pulled over and didn't have a license, his car was impounded. He paid $1,200 to get it out--all of his savings. An accident in his sister's car and no insurance left him paying a $6,000 debt. He's now working at an industrial laundry shop that pays workers minimum wage to put the perfect fade on $160 jeans.

"I worked hard in high school, you know? To graduate, to do the dental assistant [job], and now I'm like working for the minimum wage," he says. "Supposedly [school] makes a difference. But I haven't seen anything, you know ... It doesn't make sense."

Still, he's confident. "Right now, I'm doing good here. I know the papers are going to come sooner or later. Something has to happen."

Paloma Esquivel is a writer living in Riverside, California.