La fuerza unida
Narrativas del Inmigrante Latinx
Often I find myself writing about struggle when I talk about my Mexican-American identity, and my immigrant parents. I am immediately reminded of the anger and grief I felt when I left Mexico after having spent 4 years of my life there. I am tempted to speak about the language barriers I experienced when I started Kindergarten in New York, and the struggles my parents continue to face. My mother’s Spanish is unwelcomed, my father’s broken English is misunderstood, and the Mexican culture is very often rejected.
Unfortunately, when I think about immigration and my family, I think of divisions - North America vs. South America, Mexican vs. American, Welcomed vs. Unwelcomed. But, immigration also means unity despite the ongoing xenophobia in the U.S. I see unity in the affinity groups at BHSECQ and events like International Night, which celebrate the diversity in the school. I see unity in the resources and support offered to undocumented students at BHSECQ. I see unity in the integration of an American Immigration course in our school curriculum. I see unity in the different shades of green on the shirts of BHSECQ students to express their solidarity with undocumented folks. Yet, much work remains to be done. I envision a place where no individual feels the need to choose between two cultures. I envision a country where children are not separated from their families and individuals are not treated like prey. I dream of a society where no individual is stripped of their unalienable rights, and they are treated with human decency and respect regardless of where they come from. However, this cannot be attained until all countries work together. I envision other countries creating a trustworthy and efficient government, a strong economy where no individual is subject to inequality and discrimination, and a supportive and uplifting society where individuals do not have to flee to save their lives, and live in the shadows in a country that mistreats them as well. Only then, can we achieve unity. Nicole Mendez '21 (BHSEC Queens)
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My eyes slowly peel away from the dance floor to my phone. It’s 1:49 am. Only 11 more
minutes until the quince ends. My eyelids feel heavy, but not as heavy as the burdens my parents carry on their shoulders, as they left everything in Mexico and forcibly moved to New York. I look at them. It seems like in this split second they can’t feel it. It has creeped back into the shadows of their minds, waiting for the next moment of peace they have in order to drown them with memories of their past. My brother is sleeping on two chairs. He hates being away from WiFi and his PS4, so he just spent the night whining. I personally love parties like these. The music shakes your soul, the sweaty bodies are freed from the shackles life has placed on them, the intimate dancing makes you feel alive and lustful. I wish I could join but I don’t know how to dance any hispanic dances. I have learned the basics of each dance but I still lack the flavor, the passion. I don’t want to disrespect this form of art; I don’t want to bring any more shame. Someone’s weird uncle walked up to me and invited me to dance. I just sat and shook my head no. He kept talking but all I could do was continue shaking my head left and right. I didn’t know how to tell him I can’t speak spanish, so I didn’t. The clock strikes 2. My parents walk towards me after dominating the dance floor as the DJ played the final song. Their smiles change. The happiness has evaporated from their lips (unlike their sweat) and now they’re just forcibly holding up the corners of their mouths. Was it a coincidence that this happened when they looked at me?. I fall and shrink back into my seat as they creep closer to me. I’m sorry. I know you never expected to have two heavily Americanized children. I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel like you guys haven’t done enough to teach us about our Mexican culture. That’s all on me. I’m sorry I have taken all these resources here for granted. You couldn’t make it past 5th grade because your family needed you to work and make money instead. And you, who was at the top of your class in high school, had it all go downhill once you got pregnant with me. Now look at me; failing my exams, turning in my homework late or not at all. I’m sorry for the disgrace I’ve brought upon your name. I should be doing better. You guys deserve better. “Melissa, estás bien? Porque estás llorando?” “I just yawned really wide. I’m super tired.” “Despierta a tu hermana mientras llamo un taxi. Okay?” “Okay.” You would think it’s great to be Mexican-American, and it is! It truly is such a beautiful experience I have the pleasure of partaking in. The only problem is finding the balance between your two cultures. I haven’t quite mastered it yet. I hope I do soon though. Melissa Benitez (BHSEC Queens) Maybe it was the smell of freshly baked, the kind that you wish you could taste, or maybe it
was the people shouting whether they wanted ciabatta or pan frances, paria cheese or mantecoso cheese, olives or milk, huachana sausage or chorizo. Perhaps it is both, and many more things, what makes a bakery in Peru what it is. I’ve moved to different cities, provinces, and neighborhoods, but it was always the same chaotic environment. That and the fact that there was always a kid in the front selling tamales (which angered the owner of the bakery since it was clear competition for their business). The moment I turned 8 it was safe enough for me to go out every morning to buy daily bread by myself. This was a big responsibility. Breakfast was awaiting at home and everyone was expecting you to bring the correct amount and type of bread. Mornings were always dark and foggy, especially in Lima, which is why they refer to it as the Grey City. Besides trying to not get myself crushed by the very impatient people in the bakery, I also had to make sure the busy workers get me the amount of bread I paid for. This somehow taught me to stand up for myself, not only for bread, but for many other things that became important to me as I grew older, especially when I came to America. Maria Ceballos (BHSEC Queens) My parents left their home country, their family, and friends all to give me and my brother a
better future. I can’t imagine myself leaving my home, my family, everything I’ve ever known to go to a place where more resources seem to be given. But sometimes it is necessary. It is the American Dream that drives many to want to offer a better future for their family. Ironically, you have to leave your family to provide them with a better future. Yet these same immigrant families are imposed to live with fear in a country where their hard work and presence is neglected. As a child of immigrant parents, I grew up with the struggle of equally embracing the culture I was born into and the culture my parents grew up with. Being born into a country where my other culture isn’t completely accepted is difficult but being able to embrace these two cultures makes me a proud Mexican-American. Kimberly Muñoz (BHSEC Queens) Growing up with Latino parents definitely influenced my morals and shaped who I am today. As a child I always felt like I had to be perfect. I felt like my whole family was counting on me, and there just wasn’t any room for error. Knowing that my family sacrificed everything for my sister and I, is my source of strength and motivation.
Daniel Herreros '23 (BHSEC Queens) |
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