by Yajaira Martinez-Garcia
“Why are your parents moving so far away?”
He stood still, unable to look my way as he struggled to say something. I didn’t understand why his parents were desperate to move when their youngest kid was almost ready to enter school.
I was born in a city filled with people that desperately needed to keep their jobs because they depended on them. Some of them worked in a field, and some of them worked in a factory. I never thought about it, really. They worked hard to support their families and that was all that mattered to me.
My mother worked in the fields for years to support my siblings and me. I had dozens of babysitters and I remember I would cry each time she left me with them because I wasn’t sure she’d ever come back for me. I had no reason to think this way, but I did. There was always a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach when she left. I was afraid she wouldn’t come back. I had no reason to worry so much, but I always did. She has always been my inspiration, my hero, and I’ve sometimes wondered if she’s an angel for having given up so much of her life.
Working in the field for as many years as my mother did ruined her back to the point where there were days she couldn’t move because of the pain. So she began working in a factory for hours on end, and I remember I would stand by the window, waving her goodbye every time she left.
But now I’m headed to college and my best friend’s parents are moving states away and I wasn’t sure why they were desperate to get out of the city. My best friend’s little brother was almost five and to them it was like a timer was going off soon.
Maybe he didn’t hear the question. “Why are your parents moving?”
He clears his throat and avoids my eyes, “They don’t want my brother to grow up in this city.” He answers and I don’t understand what he means by that. I think about the city, and I think about it some more, and sure it isn’t a beautiful place, but it isn’t too bad either.
“What’s wrong with the city?”
“It’s filled with…” he pauses, “…immigrants.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was because I’ve been around his parents many times. I start to question whether they saw me as less, whether they laughed about me when I wasn’t around. They had been kind to me, but now they were desperate to get away from me.
Then I questioned why they would believe they were too good to be with someone like my mother. I think back to when I introduced my parents to his parents. Were their smiles forced? Did they see my parents as less?
“You’re not an immigrant.” He says, trying to lighten the mood.
No I’m not. I was born here. But I was raised by a family that worked hard breaking their backs to give me a better life. I bite my tongue because there’s nothing I can say to change how he feels or help him understand.
That’s his privilege.
