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The
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"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
The plaque at the base of the statue of liberty reminds us what this country stands for. As an eight-year-old crossing the border, I ask my mother “¿Por qué nos vamos a los Estados Unidos?” She replies with the only answer she can give, “Si nos quedamos, nos vamos a morir de hambre.”
1993
I pledge allegiance, everyday I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America... one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty, and justice for… This is my home now; it’s no longer mexicanos al grito de guerra, y retiemble en su centro la tierra. I miss my friends, especially my best friend, Carlos. My sister is my only friend now; we sit and eat our school lunches together; I don’t like the corndog very much, the taste confuses me. We watch the other kids play foursquare and tetherball. I feel bad for the ball, forever bound to that pole. I miss my trompos and my canicas.
I miss my teacher, Sr. Gómez. I miss learning in Spanish, now I sit in class struggling to understand what is going on. I like listening to my teacher sing; “this land is your land, this land is my land,” “Old Macdonald had a farm, e-i-e-i-o,” “and bingo was his name-o.” I wonder how Clifford got so big; he reminds me of Susuqui, except that she’s not red. We couldn’t bring her, I’m sure she’s been waiting for us next to the front door of our house in México for the last three months. My sister and I speak English, but really it’s just Spanish with our version of an American accent.
2010
I’m a high school Spanish teacher. Every morning when I wake up, it’s difficult to remember the series of events that have led me here. College is done, like a blur, like the taste of water. I don’t miss it at all. I don’t miss working three jobs, while going to school full time. I don’t miss sitting in political science class learning about laws that work against me, and rights that don’t apply. It’s difficult to explain how I got to this point. An anomaly? A fluke in the system? Luck? Hard work? All of the above. My brother is my student. He calls me Mr.; sometimes I wonder if he’s forgotten that we’re still related. At Back To School night, I meet the parents, my mom included. I speak to her about goals, objectives, norms, materials, and homework logs. Later at home, we watch novelas and eat chiles rellenos.
I see myself in my students. Sometimes I learn more from them than they do from me. I hear my undocumented students talk about their struggles, and I want to scream my truth! I want to yell out loud that I know what they’re feeling; the hopelessness due to an uncertain future, the frustration of knowing that so much is out of reach, the powerlessness to change our situation, the fear of being separated from our families, because I feel the same thing a hundred times every day. I want to tell them that there are ways around the system, that their dreams are not unreachable. I want to yell, if I can do it, so can they! But all I manage to say is, “we need to educate ourselves. Even if the possibility to have a career isn’t available right now, when things change you will have the skills necessary to be successful.” I’m not sure they believe me, I don’t believe myself. That night, I cry myself to sleep bursting with guilt—still yearning to breathe free, still waiting beside the golden door.
