Dear Country of Mine

I grew up poor. I grew up afraid. But I grew up, free.

My first video game console was a Playstation that my dad brought home in a plastic bag, riding in the passenger seat of his ’73 Mercedes-Benz 220D. Just as he had second-handedly purchased the playstation from a street vendor right outside of the grocery store he would work for more than 20 years at, that Mercedes came from a Mexican mechanic next door to us who fixed and sold cars for a living. For less than two grand, my pops made one of his American dreams come true when he brought home his “luxury” car: a dull brown beast with stains, scratches, and rips running across interior and exterior surfaces, all the while running on a Toyota engine. This should give you idea of MY version of poverty — some are not so fortunate.

Since as early as I could form coherent memories, I remember how family members spoke of La Migra. To me, La Migra was a grim reaper that would come at night to kidnap people I had only heard of in stories. I wasn’t in danger, I was American and therefore, immune. My parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, not so much. They lived and worked in this country every day with the constant fear that at any moment, they could be stopped and arrested by an officer of the law and deported back to their home countries simply for peacefully existing without proper citizenship documentation. My fear was that one day I’d come home to an empty house — my parents well on their way back to El Salvador.

It ONLY took a few decades of my parents proactively applying and paying lawyers a tremendous amount of money to become a citizens of the United States of America. We all lived in fear for about 20 years until the day both of them could legally call themselves Americans — some are not so fortunate.

But how can I sit here and say that I was fortunate enough to play the demo version of games on a dirty video game console for months to come until we were able to afford a copy of Crash Bandicoot — about 3 years after its release? How can I say that my perpetual fear makes me one of the lucky ones? Because at least I was given a chance.

I was given the chance to grow up with both of my parents, gain an education/career, and enjoy the small amount of freedoms this country provided for poor, brown people like myself. A chance is so much better than no chance. This chance shouldn’t have to be a fortune for some, this should be a human right for all.

For the men, women, and children currently being detained in camps across the border. For those who legally cannot call themselves Americans, but have physically and mentally called themselves Americans after making whatever treacherous journey they’ve endured to get here to provide themselves and their families a better life. For those going to bed without food in their stomach, and/or a roof over their head. For those who fall under the last word of a Pledge that half of this country gets fired up for if someone dares disrespect but don’t actually want to follow:

All.

ICE is currently raiding homes, churches, workplaces, and public areas targeting migrant families, and transporting them to detainment camps where they face abuse and inhuman conditions. Learn more about this issue and many more by visiting and supporting nonprofits like the ACLU and Raices.