A Conversation Between an Immigrant Parent and American Daughter

I am bathing in the realm of darkness, after dusk there is no goddess that lives within the sky to shine light. As I go to undress for peace my flesh is isolated by the spirits of my ancestors before me. My Ma has told me stories of those who immigrated to the U.S in search of the American Dream, the good fortune. She tells me how they’ve encountered helplessness but were able to push through with determination. It is those stories that leave me questioning if their struggles were at all worth it and if they are at peace with how the generation that came after them are living their life. If they are really satisfied.

***

My foul smell scatters before the morning unlike pollen from flowers before a gentle breeze of wind. I am awakened by the sound of the creaking door letting me know that my Pa has already left for work. He has been working double shifts since my Ma became ill. We don’t know exactly what she has and without any health insurance, and seeing we can barely afford the rent of this house, my Pa can not take her to the hospital. Even with being sick my Ma is still her usual self, the self that babbles about her past and how joyful she is to be in the land that could care less about her. 

I walk to their room that is down the hall where the walls have cracks that lead to the ceiling. The cracks are getting bigger that we had to take the pictures off the wall in fear of them breaking and the last rainfall, there was water seeping through flooding the floor. Now we have buckets placed throughout the house it’s hard to not fucking trip over them. I stop in front of a broken window my Pa has yet to fix, I look out and see a small stray pup being pushed around by the bigger ones.The bigger dogs form a circle around the smaller dog and as the small one cowards the bigger dogs establishes their dominance, letting the smaller one know it’s place. Similar to our society, one needs to establish their status and the rest of us are made aware that we do not stand by them, we simply watch them from the back. Animals are nothing like humans. Animals understand the law of nature but humans, they seek comfort in their blissful ignorance. 

I knock on their door, “ Ma estás despierta?” I asked softly as I opened the door.

“Sí, cariño, estoy despierta. Tu padre no sabe cómo deambular por la casa tranquilamente.” she said. 

I fully open the door and see my Ma trying to adjust herself up using her elbows. I quickly hurry by her side but she flutters my hand away. My Ma looks like an average middle aged woman. She is 5’2 with long black hair with gray highlights that is always kept in a braid. Her olive skin is always lathered in lotion but never in suncream, she didn’t believe in sun damage. She used to have a round figure but the sickness has been eating her away. She once looked strong but is now frail. Her eyes were a deep brown color that held stories she saw, ready to jump out. 

“I may be old but I’m not weak.”

“Do you need anything?” I ask, trying to avoid one of her tangents about her old days.

“You know I was your age when I started working,” For fuck’s sake “your Abuelito got sick just like me and he couldn’t even mo-...” 

I stopped listening to her completely. Having 16 years living with her has acquired me a new skill that allows me to tune out her voice and yet nod when needed to. She goes on and on on how she had to dig her family out of poverty. How she was only a teen at that time and even though her exhausted body had enough, she needed to continue the harsh labor for her family. 

When Ma goes on her long tangent, all I could think of was how my ancestors, mi gente, were engulfed by the ideals that society perceives. They were promised a decent life if they worked their ass off but instead they were left with nothing but desires of a life they wish they could have.

***

The necessity of peace weighs lightly in my hands. I want peace. Peace from being another generation that carries the same path from previous ones. Peace from being told that I need to bear children so I can give them a better life. Peace from being labeled as the one who will break the cycle that has left mi gente lost. 

***

I’m not alone in my mirror. Looking at my reflection with a face that has not yet been caught, the face that only appears when I glance at the mirror. I find myself questioning the face I see. It is said that we have three faces: one is the one presented to the world, one that is only seen by those close to us, and the last one is the face that no one gets to see. It is the face that appears in the mirror. When people see me, I wonder which face they see. The one that says I’m Mexican or perhaps the one that speaks like the majority of people and that is American. Or is it the face of my past ancestors? I don’t know. 

***

    Everyday has become a constant routine. My Pa leaves for work, I go check up on my Ma, and I somehow trigger one of her tangents but today she looks more worn out. Her black hair is now more gray. Her full cheeks are now hollow and her body seemed to lack a soul. Her eyes, they have become dull as if there are fewers stories held in there. She has been resting more but it seems like my Ma usual self is perishing slowly. 

“Your Pa and I came to this country,” my Ma said defeatedly, “a country where freedom laid beneath our feet.”

“Freedom” I scoffed, “freedom isn’t given, it's fought for and even if you do you’ll be lucky if you don’t wind up dead.” I said as I put a wet cloth on her forehead to cool down her feverish skin.

“The soil we stepped on, I knew had memories of those who fought to be deemed as humans.” Ma said, staring out the window. “Oh the joy your Pa and I felt when we were finally able to cross the border.” 

“You mean the border that separates the rich from the poor. The privileged from the beggars the-…” I paused as my Ma’s eyes saddens, “I apologize Ma but our people were foolish to believe that our lives mattered only beyond the border.” I said quietly.  Oh the joy they must have felt. 

“Mija no confundas la tontería con querer sobrevivir.” Ma said frowning. She positioned herself up and reached for the drawer next to her. She opens it and pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper. As she brings it closer to me I can see that it’s not a paper but a photo. The photo contained a group of people. They were wearing clothes that fit them big and were covered with dirt. Some even had ripped pants and sandals for shoes. As I take a better look, I can see that my Ma was among these people. She looked younger with less wrinkles. She was wearing a torn dress; her hair was braided and tied with a ribbon. As I am looking at the photo I am reminded again of mi gente. I looked at each person in the photo and realized that no one was smiling. 

“I did not know anyone in this photo,” my Ma said while caressing it, “some were parents, some were siblings, and some were just doing what they were born to do. All I knew was that we were working the fields hoping to earn pesos.”

“Isn’t that what we are doing here, Ma.” I whispered. 

“Yes mija but here you have hope that you won’t end up like me, vieja y pobre.” She chuckled.

“Ma ya duermete.” I said as I put her back into her original position. 

“You’ll see mija, the life here is not the same as the life your Pa and I lived back in our Rancho.”

“Si Ma.” I said emotionlessly. I get up from her side and walk out the room as I turn off the light. Foolish. The joy they felt was the only source that kept my parents living. They can’t see that that joy they felt was nothing more but desperation. My generation that lives beyond the border have been fed the hopes and dreams that their own parents could not have. In the end, my people came to a country where freedom was nothing but a fragment of their imagination.