I was fortunate to be the only member in my family to be born in America. My father would always tell me stories of when he was in his mid teens about how he, his brother, his father and his cousins would go out to the fields near the border to make some income, even though they had a farm. When my father, Saturnino Velarde Portillo, was a little bit older, he wanted to move to America to have a better life. He was in his 30s when he and his cousins decided to relocate to America to work the fields picking cotton, chile, all that good stuff because the money was better but it was hard labor; working the fields from very early in the morning, before the sun would rise all the way until the crops were completly barren. While my dad did encounter rough passages along the way like racism and dead crops and low pay at times, that didn't stop him from pursuing what he set out to do, which was to make a better life for his family and himself. He couldn't have done it without the support of his cousins. They are very close and have gone through a lot together. They were braceros, that's what they were called, but my dad just called it a job.
Now, when my dad and his cousins get together, they reminisce about the old times like if it was just yesterday. They would have a cookout and a very good one I may add, and just pass the time away. I just can't help but to listen and imagine what they had gone through. Each time they visit, there is always something new to share. My dad even got to meet Cesar Chavez in the late 60s, I was so amazed that my dad saw more than most people out there. He's been to half of the states in North America just because of what he did. Now, he's just relaxing and enjoying life and retirement with my mother Blanca Portillo. I am so blessed to have a family like the one I have; I wouldn't change it for the world.
Children of immigrants go through very unique experiences when they are caught in the middle of family separation and culture shock. I grew up in a small village in Puebla, Mexico and started the first grade when I was only four years old. I was in the fourth grade by the time I came to the U.S. to meet my father who had been off to find a better life since I was a little over a year old. Not only was meeting my father a monumental experience, but coming to America was a true culture shock.
You will find it amusing to know that the first unique scent and my first meal in California was McDonald's. I had never smelled anything like that before and it might seem like a small thing but I connected that scent with living here for many years... even today I will walk into one of the restaurants and I can almost remember that first experience.
Being in a new place was something almost traumatic. I didn't understand the language and everything was too busy, there were too many people and not as much of the natural surroundings I was used to. Going to school was a unique challenge and the most difficult part was accepting the fact that the school system made me go back a couple of year levels. Instead of starting the fifth grade I had to re-start the third. I can also tell you that up until the time when I visited my old village again when I was in my early twenties, I could barely remember my youth. Everything seemed like a dream and it almost felt as if my life had reset with that first order of fries.
Growing up was full of challenges for me. I never forgot Spanish and picked up English faster than I expected. Of course, mine was not the all American experience but rather the all Mexican American one. By the time I was eighteen and graduated High School, I had done work as a gardener, dish washer, cable installer, construction helper, office assistant, paperboy, one day as a flower vendor and yes, a McDonald's employee. Somehow, along the way, I discovered my love for poetry and had my first real taste of acting. Along the way I was exposed to various versions of the American life through the amazing people I met.
I should also say that by the age of fifteen I was an independent student, living on the couch of my cousin's living room. Living with my father did not work out. The couch situation was not new to me, but being apart from my grandmother was. We lived one block away from the so called "projects", but I was determined to avoid gangs and giving up. Going to school and pretending to be a typical student was difficult, especially when because I was surrounded by kids who had supportive parents, money or even cars. I had to take two buses to get to and from school.
I share this with you as just one aspect of immigration. America is built with the fabric of stories that vary but are just as interesting as what I have lived.
A friend had worked in California doing some farming but was abused by her employer. She decided to work as a housekeeper and didn't make much but was able to send some money back to her country to help her parents and little brothers. Her story became very dramatic when her father became very ill in Mexico. She was afraid that she may not see him again if he died. However, she was torn because she could keep sending money that was needed for his care. She became very depressed and this went on for about a year. Suddenly her father died and her torture increased as she realized that going back home for his funeral would mean she may never be able to return again because she had overstayed. Now her mother needed financial help more than ever. She decided that she had to return for the funeral and just try her best to succeed back home. They never heard from her again and worry about what happened to her because she lived in a dangerous part of Mexico. These stories are more common than not.