A Person of Integrity

Good morning,

My name is Victoria Cruz, and I am honored to be named Jackson Elementary’s valedictorian. There are those who argue that being a 12-year-old valedictorian is unnecessary. We shouldn’t have valedictorians in an elementary school. This is a part of my life that twenty years from now, I may not even remember, so what’s the point? There is so much change that I and my classmates will go through (body changes, friend changes, college, getting a job, there’s so much!!) and sixth grade doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. And two days ago, I would have agreed.

Our sixth grade teacher, Ms. Silva, has always told us that we need to aspire to be persons of integrity. People who are sincere, dedicated, honest, hard-working. Persons of integrity. I never really thought too much about what that really meant until recently.

Last month, when I found out that I was valedictorian, I rolled my eyes. I am a professional eye-roller, according to my mother. “One day, mija, your eyes are going to get stuck there and then you’ll remember my words and be sorry.” My mother is always saying things like this. “If you eat too many sunflower seeds, one will grow inside of you,” “Don’t name a baby before its born or you’ll curse it,” “There is a diabla inside of you right now, and if you don’t watch it, it’ll stay there.” I have grown up on the superstitious warnings of my mother. They have been my guiding lights. My annoying comforts.

When I told her I was valedictorian, I had to cover my ears because she screamed so loud. “EEEEE! We are going to have a carne asada and invite all your friends and family and- “But mom, it’s not a big deal,” I said, cutting her off. “Not a big deal?” she asked. “It’s just sixth grade,” I told her. I watched her shake her head and she sat next to me, and she put her hand on mine, “Every success, no matter what age, is a big deal hija,” she said, “My father, your abuelito, had to work when he was your age. He stopped going to school when he was 14 years old so that he could help his family. Do you realize how happy this is going to make him?” Instead of replying, I rolled my eyes. My mother hit me lightly on the shoulder and said, “You better hope that by the time you get to college you can major in Eye Rolling, cause I don’t know what else you’re going to be able to do!”

I do not feel like I have done anything particularly special to deserve this honor. I have done what I was supposed to do. I have gone to school. I have studied. My mother always made sure that I studied. Even when I didn’t want to. We have a routine, my mother and I. Every day after school, I walk home. I sit at the table and do my homework. She usually gets home from work right around the time I’m pulling out my assignments. She has a three-hour break where she gets to come home, eat with me, help me get ready for the next day, and then goes back to work. My mother has two jobs. During the day, she works at a factory downtown making dresses. These dresses line the racks of Nordstrom, Macy’s, JC Penny. These dresses cost anywhere from $200-$900. My mother gets paid $8 an hour. As I mentioned, when she gets home, she’ll cook for us: rice and beans, fideo, chicken or carne asada. A couple months ago, I noticed that she looked really tired. I suggested that she take a nap. Naps have always worked for me. I miss taking naps like when I was in kindergarten. When I suggested one to my mother, she said, “Well then who would feed you?” I told her I could cook something myself. I tried making arroz con pollo but ended up burning the food. My mother still ate it and said it was good, “Just needs sal.” I rolled my eyes. But I have practiced cooking since and have gotten better. Not as good as my mother, but pretty good. Sometimes I’ll cook so that she can nap. Anyway, while we eat, I do my homework, and my mother asks me questions about my day. I usually find this a bit annoying. What is there to say? I went to school. I saw my friends. I learned math and science and reading comprehension. But my mother likes hearing the details. She enjoys hearing the on-going saga of who likes who, and who I’m friends with and what we say to each other. She likes the chisme. She also wants to know what I learned. All the details. The new equations, the new vocabulary. She’ll practice the words with me. Forming them on her tongue, her throat getting stuck on some of the vowels and the consonants. But she’s determined to learn. My mother loves to learn new things and try new things. She reads books about birds and the ocean and space and computers. She reads my textbooks and always points out what she thinks are ‘cool things.’ Sometimes I have to remind her what the definition of ‘cool’ is, to which she always rolls her eyes. And she wonders where I get it from.

After I have eaten and studied, I shower while my mother cleans the kitchen. Once I’m done, she showers and then heads off to her second job as a waitress for a 24-hour diner. She’s there until about 12am. I’m asleep when she gets home. We get up at 6am and she does it all again.

I have never really thought about the things my mother does until now. Kids are selfish. We are. It’s a truth not always universally acknowledged. Or maybe just never said out loud. But we are selfish. We expect our needs to be met above anyone else’s and we don’t quite understand when they’re not. I understand that’s a very privileged thing to say. There are some kids who are born with their needs never being met, who understand at a very early age that they’re going to have to take care of themselves if they want to survive. I am lucky enough to not be one of those kids. My mother has always met my needs. She has clothed me. Fed me. Housed me. And above that, she has made me feel loved. She has held me. Played with me. Danced with me. Sunday mornings are our dance days. “Wake up and dance, Victoria!” she shouts at me. I usually grumble and groan at being woken up so early on a Sunday when I know that some of my friends get to sleep in. But dancing quickly takes away my grumpiness. That and my mother’s huevos rancheros and homemade champurrado. Our Sunday treat. After we eat, we clean the house. Top to bottom. And we do it dancing. She’ll take a break from sweeping the floor and dip me, singing along to Gloria Estefan at the top of her lungs. My mother is many things, but she is not a singer. I love her anyway. After we clean, she’ll take me to the park. When I was little, I would play on the swings or the slide or the monkey bars. Now that I’m in sixth grade, I prefer to sit with my mom while she reads. I read too. We’ll sit on a bench or on the grass and every once in a while we’ll check in. Ask about what the other is reading. Sometimes we’ll even switch books. She’ll read mine and I’ll read hers.

Why all this stuff about my mother? You came to hear a sixth grade valedictorian speech. Well. You came to see your own child graduate, I’m sure. To mark this small milestone in our career. I don’t know how many kids up here, agree with me, that this is a bit silly. But I’m sure there are some. But I don’t think you can have a valedictorian speech without acknowledging the reason you’re valedictorian in the first place. And that reason is my mother. Florencia Cruz. And it’s not that I literally wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her. I wouldn’t be here without her support. Her pushiness. Her insistence that I work hard and study hard and be kind to others and respect my teachers. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her.

This speech was very different 48 hours ago. 48 hours ago this speech was fairly basic. I talked about my school life. My teachers (who I am very grateful to by the way), Principal Chavez (who I am also very grateful to), the staff (also grateful), etc. I talked about what I want to be when I grow up. I think I said a teacher, but really I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I’m not sure what sixth grader does.

48 hours ago, I came home, and my mother wasn’t there yet. I watched television since there wasn’t anymore homework to do for the year and television is a special treat in my house. An hour went by, and my mother still wasn’t there. Two hours. Three hours. I could feel my body start to clench. My heart start to beat faster. I called my abuelo who immediately came over. We called her friends from work. And then we found out that an ICE raid had happened earlier that morning at her job. And they took my mother.

We don’t know where she is. We are still trying to find out and my teachers and Principial Chavez are helping us for which we are eternally grateful.

So.

My mother is the kindest, funniest, bravest, most hard-working person I know. She is everything that is good in my world. She is, though I don’t always admit, the reason I get up in the morning. I wouldn’t be who I was or where I was had it not been for her. I’ve said that already, but it’s worth repeating.

Maybe I do know what I want to be when I grow up.

When I grow up, I want to be like Florencia Cruz.

Strong, loving, dedicated, compassionate, honest, funny, fierce, loyal, phenomenal cook, bad singer, great dancer, professional eye-roller, Chingona.

A person of integrity.