Story about being Mexican and Moving to San Diego
I grew up in Ensenada, B.C., surrounded by family and community. When I was young, my parents decided to move to San Diego since a family friend was willing to help us with utilities and a place to live. My parents made this choice in hopes of providing a better life and better opportunities for themselves and for their children. Also, my mother was pregnant with my younger sister and wanted her to be born in the United States.
Because my family, youngest aside, were undocumented, my older sister and I were not allowed to attend field trips or hang out with friends in case someone got injured and risk having too many questions asked. Fortunately, my mother and then father were able to get citizenship, and because we still had our family in Ensenada who we missed dearly, we would go visit when we could. However, one time, upon attempting to cross the border, the agent crossing us suspected that my older sister and I, who did not have citizenship at the time, were illegally living in the United States. They ended up taking our documents and sending us back to Mexico, where we stayed with my abuela, while my parents went back to San Diego to take care of my younger sister. At the time, my older sister and I were very scared, confused, and saddened that we could not be home with our parents. We missed 3 weeks of school. A dear friend of ours who we know was sent by God ended up risking very serious legal trouble and crossed my older sister and me to the United States using only our student I.D. cards. To this day, my family and I know that God was the one who allowed us to cross. After that, we were able to pretend that we were never kicked out of the United States and continued fighting to get citizenship, which, thanks to God, we did all end up getting. Since getting citizenship, we have been able to once again safely visit family in Ensenada, which my family and I have routinely done every other weekend. It takes a toll, and is like living a double life, but it is worth it to see our family, who we are grateful to be able to see.
Growing up in San Diego, my older sister and I didn’t struggle to adapt to English because we had already learnt some in a nice school back in Ensenada. My parents did struggle [to] adapt a bit, especially my mother, and she would often ask for help in speaking to others for her, or in having letters or important forms that were not sent in Spanish explained and filled out for her.
Identity-wise, when young, I was ashamed of my very foreign sounding and long full name and I remember thinking that when I was old enough, I was going to legally change it to
“Stephanie”. Nobody ever made fun of me for it, but it was the one thing that made it obvious that I was Mexican when really, I wanted to be American. Instead of using my two last names, I would go by the shorter, less-foreign sounding one. In Ensenada, anything American, blonde, and “white-looking” was complimented, and so growing up in San Diego, I wanted to fit in and fit what I thought was the ideal. I never spoke Spanish at school, and when people amazedly said, “Wow, you’re Mexican? You look American!” I thought that was a compliment.
High school was when I really grew into accepting my Mexican identity and being proud of it. I started to use my two last names together and would proudly (but kindly) correct substitute teachers if they horribly mispronounced my name. I started greatly disliking my lighter-colored hair and wanted to dye it black, which I finally ended up doing in college. My mother, who heavily believes that blonder is more beautiful, was dismayed.
My mother pushed a lot of toxic beauty ideals onto my sisters and me, some of which I think my older sister has never overcome. My younger sister, who was born tanner than the rest of my family, was never allowed outside or in the sun because her tan would get darker. She was taught to be ashamed of her skin and was disgusted at her own arm, face, and back hair. She condemned her curly, frizzy hair and longed to have straight hair like all the “pretty” girls at school. Since high school, I have worked with my younger sister in overcoming this internalized racism.
As for my mother, she struggles with keeping up to her own unrealistic beauty ideals, especially as she ages. I try to work with her in practicing self-acceptance and to not give in to toxic, untrue thoughts about beauty and aging. My mother has a lot of issues, all of which she has forced onto her children. It has been near impossible to grow up with that toxicity everyday of my life. When I was younger… I used to beg my mom to love me. Until recent years, my mother and I were not friendly with each other. My lowest point with her was my junior year of high school. At the time, I was a straight “A” AP student. She began not giving me rides to school, proclaimed I was not her daughter, that I was the devil’s, didn’t speak to me for 6 months, and turned everyone against me through manipulation. When a therapist asked why I was such a problem child, all she had to say was that I sometimes did not do my chores (I did do them). Despite knowing that she has messed me up, I am glad that she is trying to do better with my younger sister. I have always protected her from physical abuse, and I am glad that my mother has improved a bit and is taking up her “last chance” to be a good mother.
Now that my siblings and I are mostly grown up, I wonder if my parents feel their decision to move to San Diego and [their] sacrifice was worth it. In Ensenada, they were well-off, with family, and they were relatively happy. In San Diego, they had to deal with poverty, isolation, and two children who they believe were ruined by American values: one daughter went off to live with her boyfriend (a religious crime, family shame, and disappointment to my mother), and another one (me) with emotional issues who has a hard time caring about anything but her dog, who dresses like a 12-year old boy, and who they suspect to be gay but are too frightened to confront it (my mother especially). Needless to say, they have high hopes for their youngest, who will hopefully make it all worth it for them.
Overall, I am grateful to be able to have citizenship and for my parents’ sacrifice. If any parents out there are thinking of moving to the United States, I would say to be sure to love your kids (and yourselves), tell them to be proud of who they are, to not let anybody make fun of them for being different, and that they are beautiful just the way they are. Also, don’t blame America, technology, or education if your kids don’t turn out how you wanted them to, and don’t give up on them.
