When others see me, they see a thief, a robber, someone who takes opportunities away from others. My dark eyes and skin give people a negative preconception of me. My name is Alexa. I come from a family with many cultures in the mix. My dad crossed the Rio Grande at the young age of 15 to escape the poverty and violence in Mexico. My mother, the daughter of a tejano migrant worker, and a poor woman from West Virginia, lived in poverty almost all of her childhood. Both of my parents never had anything handed to them on a silver platter. My parents took hard jobs to ensure that my siblings and I could succeed. Para que mis hermanos y yo podrian tener exito.
Growing up, I learned that what my dad did so long ago, to others, was a crime. I was told that he stole jobs from deserving Americans. This really confused me, because I had always been proud of my heritage, and after I was told this from angry Americans, I became embarrassed. I was just so shocked that people truly thought these things about my heritage. I just wished they knew what I did.
I wished they could see the other side of the argument. I wanted them to see the poor orphans with dirty faces and raggedy clothes begging on the street for scraps of food, selling little candies, dulces, to survive one more day. I wished they could see the femicides and all of the pink crosses scattered across the country as a silent reminder. The corrupt government controlled by the cartel, los narcos, puts everyone in danger. The huge gap between the rich and the poor. When family members disappear, as the dead bodies pile up in the desert, as the blood of the innocent spills, and nobody seems to do anything about it.
However, there are people who do something to protect their family, their children. With only the clothes on their backs, they take a journey to a country full of dreams, sueños. They take the smallest jobs as gardeners, cooks, working in factories, anything to feed their babies. Living in fear that one day, immigration, la migra, can come and drag them back to the country they once loved, but can't love again.
Growing up with my father, with nothing more than a ninth grade education, and being one of the youngest of seven children has always pushed me. He told me that in life, nothing will ever be handed to me. He taught me to appreciate everything I have, because he never had it. I always had to eat everything on my plate because there are kids my age in Mexico that don’t get to eat. He told me a lot that the color of my skin will be something that will make it hard for people to accept me. He said that was no excuse.
He told me that Mexicans are fighters. Los Mexicanos son luchadores. I am no thief, and neither is any other Latino.They are here so that they, and their children, do not have to live in a world of violence. So that their children can attend good schools to have careers. We are fighters. When I was once weak, my heritage made me strong. I am no longer ashamed of my dark eyes, skin, and hair. I am proud. My features tell a story of hard work, pain, but most of all, of breaking barriers. I will use the strength that my family and my people gave me to succeed -- para triunfar en la vida -- what my parents want so bad for me and what I want so bad for myself. I will use my strength to fight for my dreams.
