The Scholarship

THE ESSAYS-Chapter Five

Contestant #1: Lupita Hernández

I haven't hugged my mother or father in over a year. This may seem unique to most kids living in the United States, but for those of us in towns with a high number of undocumented immigrants, it just makes me one of the many unlucky ones.

My ten-year-old sister and I are what people call "anchor babies." It's a not so nice way of saying we are United States citizens born to illegal immigrant parents. To tell you my story, I must first tell you theirs.

My parents came from Chiapas, Mexico to Los Angeles, California on tourist visas nearly twenty years ago. They were young idealists and wanted to help raise money for the Zapatistas in the wake of the rebel movement.

 I think back then they would have called themselves activists, but they also wanted to escape the crushing poverty of their hometown. At the time, it seemed like a win-win situation; they could help others while helping themselves.

When they came to California, they learned quickly that jobs were not as easy to come by as they were led to believe. My parents slept on couches and floors of strangers with whom they had friends in common. It was only through these acts of kindness that my parents were able to avoid living on the streets. 

 By the time they had established themselves with jobs, an apartment, and extra money to send back to Mexico, their visas had long expired; they became two of the millions of undocumented immigrants living in the United States. Neither of my parents had much of an education, so they worked at restaurants, construction sites, and maid services—sometimes having to leave a job if the place was raided by immigration law enforcement.

When my mother became pregnant with me, she and my father talked about going back to Mexico and raising their family there. By then, the Zapatistas had retreated from the public eye, and there was not much to which my parents could return. 

 My parents were part of a tight knit Mexican community in East LA where their friends had become family. They attended a local church and even ran the youth group for a couple years there. America was now their home.

Growing up, I had no idea my parents were undocumented. It just wasn't something anyone talked about. Our community was made up of mostly Mexican-Americans who were just working hard to support their families. They paid their taxes and tithed their church. The only difference was the authenticity in their social security numbers. The documented families actually made out better because they had access to government programs like Medicaid and Child Tax Credits. My parents may have paid into Social Security, but they could never see any of its benefits.

I was born at Los Angeles Community Hospital. My el bautismo was the party of the year, according to my mother, but I don't remember it, of course. I do remember when my sister was baptized. I ate too much cotton candy and threw up all night.

My childhood was a pretty typical American childhood except most of the people in my neighborhood spoke Spanish as their first language. I called my adult neighbors tía and tío. As I said, we were like one big family. My parents struggled with English even when I started school, so I spent a lot of time reading to them. I would read ingredient lists on the back of macaroni and cheese, articles from the newspaper, fliers that were left in our mailbox, and legal documents. By the time I was ten, I was doing both of their taxes.

I excelled in school because I wanted to make them proud. Then in sixth grade, our class read Esperanza Rising, and I fell in love with literature. I remember reading the book to my mother and asking her if her childhood in Mexico was anything like Esperanza's with a big house and fancy dresses. She laughed and told me most childhoods there are not like that, and I should be grateful to have my childhood in America. I used to think that meant she was ashamed of her Mexican childhood, but now I know she was referring to my citizenship.

When I reached high school, I had a perfect GPA. I took Advanced Placement classes and started a book club on my campus. My favorite teacher, Mr. Harper, taught American Government, so I joined the debate team, too, because he was the advisor. Our debate team made it to the state finals, and Mr. Harper told me I should be a lawyer because I argued well and had a way with words.

I was well protected in my childhood. My biggest complaints were sharing a room with my little sister and not being allowed to wear make-up like most of my friends. My mother told me I had to wait until I was sixteen before I was allowed to "paint my face" as she put it. Even though I'm finally sixteen, I refuse to wear make-up; I'm waiting for my mother to show me how.

Two years ago, everything changed. We went out less as a family. My parents became overprotective of my sister and me. They wanted to know where we were, who our friends were, and if any strangers asked us questions about them. The news was constantly on at our house, and neighbors visited in whispered tones instead of the boisterous greetings we once received.

I remember one night sitting in front of the television with my parents and hearing some man say, "Remember, everybody who is here illegally is subject to removal at any time." My mother started crying, and that's when I knew. Later that night my father pulled me aside and told me the story of how he and my mother came to the United States. I didn't understand why they couldn't just go get naturalized. They'd been here for so long. Why wouldn't they be able to become citizens?

My dad explained it wasn't that easy. After their visas expired, they figured they could eventually renew them when they had more money and could prove they would be assets and not liabilities as citizens. They worked hard and saved up enough money to go see a lawyer. The lawyer told them if they admitted to being in the states illegally, they would get sent back to Mexico. He told them to keep their heads down, and they would be fine. He quoted statistics and ushered them out the door. 

 That was the real reason they decided to stay when they found out they were going to have me. They never wanted me to have to go through what they were going through. They wanted me to be a documented citizen. I suddenly felt responsible for all the trouble they seemed to be in.

The week my parents started talking about moving we had to make a quick trip to the store to pick up a few items for one of my sister's school projects. I remember it so clearly. My sister was whining and asking why she had to do the project if we were just going to move, when two men approached our car as we were getting inside. My mother told me to take my sister and go to the neighbor's, but I didn't move. She yelled at me and started crying, but I couldn't walk away from them. The two men arrested my parents right in front of my sister and me. My sister ran to my mother and clung to her shirt. My father kept saying, "It's okay. Everything's going to be okay."

That was the last time I saw my parents in person. They were processed and bussed to Tijuana, but they had taken precautions. They had filled out a Power of Attorney form that gave custody of my sister and me to our upstairs neighbor, Ms. González. They had set up a bank account in Mexico, so they were able to get out of Tijuana quickly. My parents are barred from the United States for another nine years, but it's not likely they'll be allowed back in when that time is up.

We FaceTime each night. My sister still cries every single time my mother appears on the screen. Every. Single. Time. My mother has this saying. Al mal tiempo, bueno cara. It means, "Put a good face to the bad times. Be positive." It's difficult to be positive when you don't know what's going to happen next.

Ms. González is getting older, and I don't know how much longer she can care for us. My sister is a handful. She gets in trouble a lot at school. I've tried talking to her, but I am not her mother. Her mother is stuck in another country my sister and I have never even visited trying to figure out a way home.

One of my earliest memories is attending a street festival with my parents and neighbors. I remember eating elotes and dancing with the other kids. I was having such a great time that I didn't realize I had danced right out of my parents' sight. I ran through the streets screaming, " Mami! Papi!" It was the most scared and lost I had ever felt—until now.

College is a big dream for me. Without college, my sister and I will probably end up moving to Mexico. Yes, we would be with my parents, but we would be in a strange country with corruption, violence, and inadequate education. Going to college means one day being able to financially take care of my sister. It means a steady paycheck and quality health insurance. It means one step closer to becoming an immigration lawyer, so I can have all the tools I need to get my parents back where they belong because America just doesn't feel like home without them.