My mom and stepdad are both immigrants. My mom grew up in the tropics of El Salvador until she was 16 years old. At the time, El Salvador was in the midst of a 12-year civil war. My mom’s motherland was no longer safe, and danger was rising quickly. When a relative of my mom in the United States offered to bring her here, my mom took the opportunity.
My stepdad is from Chiapas, Mexico, a state in the very south of Mexico that borders Guatemala and has a deep history of Mayan culture. My stepdad grew up very close to the ocean. Fishing with his parents was the main income that his family made to survive. However, just like El Salvador, Mexico was witnessing a struggling economy and danger.
The journey to the United States for both my parents was treacherous. Both my parents walked miles and miles through the unforgivable desert of Mexico. My mother was separated from her group, where both the men and women were assaulted and she witnessed the aftermath. My dad and his group were held at gunpoint by a group of narcos who mistakenly thought they were their rivals. Their journey to the United States was far from memorable but my parents had a dream.
Before my mom met my stepdad, she was a single mother for years. She never got the education she deserved in El Salvador or the United States. However, her lack of education did not stop her from being curious or creative. In order to provide for our family most affordably, my mom would take me to Deseret Industries to shop for clothes, decor and supplies for our home.
Trust me, I hated shopping at the DI because we would spend hours upon hours there. It wasn’t until one day that I wandered off and found the book aisle. I was like Alice in Wonderland, discovering a whole new world. I found and read books about fairies, “The Magic Treehouse,” “The Hunger Games” and more. After that, I stopped hating going to the DI.
Reading benefited both my mom and me for a long time. I excelled in English during elementary school. At one point, I was sent to a fourth grade class while in the second grade during reading time. My reading skills were valuable at school and also at home. I was able to read and translate important papers for my mom, such as my sister’s PTA letters, bills, immigration documents and even the citizenship test. It was survival for both my mom and I.
However, as I got older things started to change a bit. I started to lose my passion for reading, and my mom remarried my stepdad. But the grief and turmoil of growing up in an immigrant household eventually caught up to me. I had no way to understand my feelings. It wasn’t until one day my mom took me shopping at Ross and I found a pink notebook for $5. This journal became a part of me. When I tell you I wrote everything, I wrote everything. My thoughts, feelings, secrets and even prayers. Writing transformed me into a better person. It was the one thing that truly brought me back to earth.
I may not have grown up rich, but I was rich with culture and knowledge thanks to my parents. Whether that be cooking Alfredo pasta with my stepdad and trying to figure out the missing ingredients. Or dancing to salsa with my parents on our Sunday mornings. Or adding a bunch of sequins and flowers to a denim jacket my mom and I thrifted. My parents coped through art.
The arts not only built my relationship with my parents but also with my siblings. We found a bond in Christopher Nolan’s “Batman,” 2000s reggaeton and world history. It brought our family together.
I tell you this because the arts and immigrants are important. They both go hand in hand, and that is what makes the culture in the United States so rich. The arts can be overlooked, which is why I think immigrants find comfort in them. They’re hidden, yet they feel safe enough to express themselves through food, music, dance, film, literature, fashion and more.
Immigrants have unforeseeable talents that they feel like they can’t share with the world, just like my parents. It is the bridge I found to connect to my parents and crossed it. I ask you to do the same.
This is my love letter to immigrants in the arts: you are important. And to my fellow children of immigrants, our parents’ ceilings are the floors we walk on. Keep them safe and make them proud.
