Over a century ago, my great-great-grandfather sailed from Spain to Parras, Mexico in search for a better life. My great grandparents then grew up in Monterrey, Nuevo Leon. After living for several decades in Mexico, my grandparents decided to migrate to the United States in search of the American dream.

My grandparents coveted for better jobs and a better home. Although, what they really had their hearts on was a better life for their four daughters. My grandparents came to the United States with nothing and spoke no English whatsoever. I can legitimately state that they started from zero. For the first time in their lives, they met face to face with poverty. They would eat food that came from the back dumpsters of Walmart late at night. Eventually within a few months, they found jobs, but not jobs that gave them the American dream.

My grandparents and my mother, at the age of 13, became migrant workers. Even my father and his family worked in the fields. They moved from state to state every season. They diligently worked from dusk until dawn. At their age, they should have been participating in clubs and sports. Instead, the majority of their time was given to working in the scorching fields for a dollar an hour. They would wear clothing and hats that protected their skin from the sun. My father always refers to it as working in hell because of the waves of heat. Being migrant workers wasn’t the only challenge in my parent’s life: my mother and father had to balance school and working in fields.

My mother had to try twice as hard in school because she could neither speak nor comprehend English. When she was in Mexico, she received all As and never struggled. As determined as my mother was, she pushed herself through school. Her dream was to go to college. Unfortunately, she only finished high school. She was not able to continue her education because she was undocumented at the time. My mother later married my father a year after. Then a year into their marriage, I came along. All their aspirations in life went down to me.

Being the oldest, my parents had a lot of expectations for me. Especially since I was labeled as an honors student at school. My parents urged me to do great in school and sports. They also gave me what they wished they had in their life. Even the simple things you wouldn't think of. I had my own room, my own bed. I had many shoes and new clothes. I never needed anything because my parents made sure I had everything. I still remember the day my father compared his hands to my mothers. He asked me what hands I wanted to have for the rest of my life; his dirty scratched hands or my mother’s clean soft hands. He told me the only reason his hands were like that were so my family's and my hands could be clean. He wanted me to go farther then he did. Farther than my grandparents did.

My family traveled throughout the century to different places because of their hopes and dreams. Each generation in my family has gradually received more because of my family’s sacrifice and uphill battle in the past. I am where I am today, because of them. I have everything I need morally and materialistically. I am able to go to college, because of them. When you ask me what being Hispanic means to me, I answer it with pride and joy. Being Hispanic to me not only means having the best of both cultures, but having a line of hard work, stubbornness, and determination in my blood line. I am a proud Latina, and I am proud of my family's tough beginnings.