Since I could remember, I always knew I was Mexican-American and that I was the daughter of two immigrant parents who gave up everything they ever knew — culture, language and people — to give my siblings and me a better future in the United States. From a young age, I understood what it meant to have immigrant parents, but it wouldn’t be until much later in my life that I would understand the gravity of the sacrifice that they made 26 years ago, when they were just 24 years old. Funny enough, I’m now 24 years old and don’t think I could ever gather the courage to do anything close to what my parents did at that age.
Something that gives me perspective on what it must have been like is when my parents tell me about the time they went to eat pizza at a restaurant here in the U.S. They were on a date, so they sat down and were talking to each other, having a good time. Then reality set in when the waiter came to their table.
The waiter asked — in English — “What can I get for you guys?” My parents looked at each other and realized that they didn’t speak enough English to place their order at the restaurant. My dad, always a fast thinker, grabbed a menu and pointed at the pictures to communicate with the waiter in that way. I put myself in their shoes and think about what I would do and the first thing that comes to my mind is politely excusing myself and then going straight home!
When my parents talk about their first years in the United States, I see the glimmer of hope in their eyes that still remains, even after everything they have gone through. With the wholesome stories that come from their experiences in a new place where they didn’t know the language, culture or anyone, there are also stories of heartbreak and despair. Times where there’s nothing left to do but say, “I need my parents,” or “I need someone,” but there’s no one there and there’s no way to go back without risking everything once again.
Stories of anguish and distress have brought to light the weight of their sacrifice. No one ever truly understands why you leave, only you do, but sometimes when my mom looks at pictures and videos of her dear country, or speaks with her mom on the phone until dawn, I can see that sometimes even she doesn’t understand why she and my dad left home. When my grandfather on my dad’s side passed away and my dad couldn’t attend his funeral, I also saw their confusion toward the decision to leave. I could always see it in their faces, but they would never say it out loud.
Growing up, there was pressure to repay the unrequitable. There was a chance that I could do so when I turned 21 years old, the age where I could finally petition for a relative to apply for residency. Unfortunately, no immigration lawyer wanted to take my mom’s case because it was too difficult. Two years after I turned 21, an immigration lawyer finally told my mom “yes” and then said, “You WILL see your family again.”
Fear among the immigrant community is big. There’s fear of coming to a new place and taking a chance in hopes of a better life, but there’s also fear in doing things the “right” way due to misinformation and the ambiguity around applying for residency and citizenship. My mom took another leap of faith in becoming a resident of the United States.
Recently, I was able to return my mom to her home, to her parents and to everything that she left behind. When I saw my mom embrace her mother after not being able to do so for 17 years, I felt I had taken a small step toward repaying her for the great thing she and my father had done for me. Seeing my mother do something as simple as eating the food that she missed so much, or finally speaking face to face with her sister — it made my heart full. It made me feel proud of her for never giving up on the dream of a life where she could have it all with her family by her side.
To read more about Jackie’s mother’s story and how she received her United States residency, visit www.tinyurl.com/2p5spu3n for another story by Jackie published by Colorado Community Media.