No one understands grit like an immigrant parent.Â
My mom grew up on a ranch in San Luis Potosi. She slept on concrete grounds in a singular room with 13 siblings. At 7-years-old, she dropped out of elementary school to work on the ranch; She never learned how to properly read or write. By the time she was 13, she left ranch handling behind to become an overnight nanny for las fresitas that lived in Piedras Negras. None of the money she earned was hers. Every paycheck was addressed and sent to her childhood home. Then, at 21-years-old she got married and moved to the United States. In those 21 years my mother had lived, she had worked with the strength and mindset stronger than that of an Olympian athlete.Â
My dad was born in Monterrey, but after horrible living conditions left him orphaned at 8-years-old, he was taken in by extended family and moved to the other side of the river to live in La Feria, Texas. At ten he travelled the U.S. for field work, spending weeks full of 16-hour days picking strawberries in the unforgiving sun. At 17-years-old he was kicked out of his adoptive parents’ home, forced to drop out of high school and moved to Austin, Texas, where he completed his GED and walked 3 miles to and from work everyday. When he was 25-years-old he got married, got my mom her papers, and built his future family a home back in the Rio Grande Valley. In those 25 years my father lived, he gave up more than he was ever given.Â
Growing up, my parents consistently mocked themselves and their past. They joked about how they were “too stupid” to become a nurse or an EMT. They told me to “not end up like them,” and “mija, echale ganas en la escuela,” so I could be more than they ever were. But intelligence is not solely measured by a diploma or test scores. Since the moment my parents opened their eyes, they learned how to navigate the world in ways that the privileged will never understand. They mastered efficiency, time management, empathy and communication, skills that cannot simply be taught at a desk. Immigrants are more than what the U.S. gives credit for, and they continue to fight for their place in a country that is nefariously trying to shove them out.Â
Mis padres son más de lo que creen. In honor of Hispanic Heritage Month, I dedicate this article to them. Por mi mami, que nunca tuvo la oportunidad de disfrutar de ser niña. Por mi papá, que nunca fue lo suficientemente valorado por lo que ha hecho. Los amo.Â