I remember growing up in deep south Texas surrounded by a mix of Hispanics who did not like to be referred to as Mexican-Americans, who refused to be associated to the label as if being Mexican-American meant you were less than, inferior to Hispanics. And then there were those Hispanics who proudly spoke Spanish, wore their Mexican jerseys and guayaberas proudly. Being the naive and impressionable kid I was, I grew up so confused as to who I was and where I came from. As a family, we would do our yearly treks to Mexico, take the libre down to San Luis Potosi to visit my mom's family. It was like migrating all over again but to Mexico this time. So, between travels to Minnesota and North Dakota in the summers and Mexico in the springs, who was I? What was my family?
I was born in McAllen, TX to a migrating family. My father was part of a legacy of migrant farmworkers, where working the fields was a family tradition, our income, the way of life. I do not know fully my father's immigrant story, but what I do know is that my grandfather would cross the states looking for labor work in the fields. He was born in Mexico and so was my grandma, and my father. So they are immigrants to this country. My mother married into my father's family and thereby became a farm laborer as well. My mother's story is the one I want to focus on. It is with her permission that I share this.
My mother was born in the poverty-stricken ranchos of San Luis Potosi Mexico in 1963. At a young age, her mother would then give her up to her aunt who brought her to the U.S. Our maternal grandmother birthed 12 kids, 4 of which outsurvived the deserts of SLP and for some, border crossings. My mother jokes around with her oldest brother about who they would have become had they stayed in their beloved rancho. I can see in mom's eyes the love she has for SLP and for the small family she has left in Mexico. Despite having left at such a young age, my mom and my uncle still make strides to stay connected with family in Mexico, and because of them, we still continue to be connected as well. My mom's naturalization process is another story. According to my dad, he tried to help my mom get her citizenship when they married, but it never materialized. Eventually, through former president, George Bush's amnesty program of 1990, my mother was able to become a naturalized citizen. All I remember from that night was waiting hours upon hours for my mom to come out of whatever building we were at. It was almost close to midnight when she came out. My sisters and I had to have been 5 years old when that happened. I was exhausted and just wanted to go home. I never understood the gravity of that night until I grew up and began to understand our history's struggle with immigration reform.
(My parents on the back of pick up truck somewhere in North Dakota)
Sometimes I think about how blessed my mother and father were to have immigrated during a time where the word "immigrant" or "Mexican" did not carry such negative connotations. But even thinking of the word "blessed" is so contradicting. Am I really blessed, or were we just one of the lucky ones? Nowadays, rhetoric is filled with so much fate and fear-mongering undertones that no one in my community is safe. Just today, I read an article about how naturalized citizens are now vulnerable to deportation as well. Old police records are being dug up on naturalized citizens in order to use their history against them and deport them. What have we become? Are we not a country of immigrants? Did our founders fight for nothing? Who are you?
I am a proud child of immigrants, a child of farm laborers, a daughter to a father who literally still breaks his back to feed America. I am also my mother's mother's dream who dreamt of a better future for her daughter. Had my mom's mom not thought about the future of her daughter, my family would not be here today. My mother oftentimes reflects on her mother's wish to send her away. How does a mother reconcile the love she has for daughter when she sends her away? There are thousands upon thousands of mothers with their children at the border desperate for a better and safer life for their offspring. This is my mother's tale, except my mother, came with her aunt and they were not separated at the border.
If you are looking for ways to #keepfamiliestogether, here are two ways borrowed from my dear friend, Alejandra:
1) Contact your reps.
Identify your reps. (https://www.contactingcongress.org/) Save their numbers in your phone.
If you're not sure what to say, consider subscribing to a resource like the Americans of Conscience Checklist (https://docs.google.com/…/1zUyqluASyMjyIGCHfwocwmul…/preview).
2) Donate. A good list to start can be accessed here: https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/14/opinion/children-parents-asylum-immigration.html
