FROM HERE AND FROM THERE

by Naomi Perez WRIT 1133: Writing & Research | Professor Kamila Kinyon

Perez leading a student protest she organized in 2019

WHEN I WAS EIGHT YEARS OLD, I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND the concept of death. I could not imagine that the end of one person’s life could trigger a series of events that would upend my entire existence, shaping the person I would become. But one night in 2009, it happened.

I was living in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It was the only home I’d ever known. My family lived there, and so did my friends. Life in Albuquerque wasn’t perfect, but it was happy. As a second grader, my most pressing worries concerned when the next Hannah Montana episode would air. I spent most days with my extended family when my mom was at work. After her shift ended late in the evening, she’d pick me up and take me home. She worked hard to support us. On weekends, we would go to Chuck E. Cheese to make up for all the time we’d missed during the week. I was happy with our life together.

We got the news that my grandfather passed away late one evening. He lived in Madera, a city in Chihuahua, Mexico, where my mom grew up. We packed our bags and set out on a journey to cross a border I never knew existed. In those first days in Mexico, I thought I was starting to understand loss, as I said goodbye to my beloved grandfather. Then, my mother broke the news: hers was a one-way trip. She could not return to Albuquerque. I had a choice, go home alone or stay in Mexico.

How do you tell an eight-year-old girl used to playing with her cousins, singing with her aunts, and cooking with her grandmother in New Mexico that she may never see them again? How do you tell an eight-year-old that if she wants her old life back, she must leave her mother behind? How do you tell an eight-year-old her government does not want people like her mom in the country?

My mother explained that she had committed an immigration offense by having me in the U.S. She was hoping for a pardon, but there were no guarantees. It was an impossible choice. We knew the opportunities I would have in the U.S. were far greater than those in Mexico—a country overrun with corruption and forced poverty. But a life apart from each other didn’t seem like a life at all. So, I stayed in Mexico, hoping my mom would receive the pardon and get her visa. But she didn’t. And the education I was receiving in Mexico was not adequate. I longed for my old life and the opportunities in America, but I didn’t want to leave my mom.

After four long years of waiting, I decided to return to Albuquerque without my mom. The humid air felt heavier than usual that day. I avoided her, thinking it would make saying goodbye easier. It didn’t. Cheeks wet with tears, I got on a bus not knowing when I would see my mother again. It could be months, maybe longer.

Back in Albuquerque, I went to live with my aunt. From the day I was born, she had been like a second mother. Now, she was my “legal guardian.” Even though she became my guardian so I could enroll in school, it felt like a betrayal. I had a mother; she was in Mexico. But, I pushed through the feelings. I hoped the pain would be worth it. I excelled in school and began working towards my dream of attending the University of Denver. I also found community and empowerment as an activist for immigrant rights. It was a way to focus my energy on a cause and share my lived experiences.

But I still missed my mom. I called her as often as I could. Sometimes my school days were so busy, we wouldn’t even get to say goodnight. I spent the school months in Albuquerque and summers in Mexico with my mother. By the time I was 13, I was traversing the U.S-Mexico border by myself.

Summers were like the Chuck E. Cheese visits of my childhood. We had to make up for lost time! But the cycle of loss would hit me every August. The week before school started was the hardest. While my American friends were excited for new classes and picking out school supplies, I spent the week crying, wishing my mom and I never had to say goodbye. I was torn between two places—here and there. I missed my mom so much. I even became a big sister while living apart from my mother, a bittersweet and painful occasion. My family in the United States understood my pain and were my biggest supporters. My grandmother and aunts lived in Albuquerque, and I saw them every day. They reminded me the power of family—keeping me laughing, keeping me company, and keeping me sane.

However, I saw firsthand the pain the U.S. immigration system inflicts on families. I also knew that being an American citizen was a huge advantage, and my mother had sacrificed too much for me to waste that opportunity. Both for me and my mom, I needed to achieve my dreams, to make sure the sacrifices my family and I were making were worth it. In a way, I felt that if I was successful, it would erase the pain we endured. There was nothing I wanted more than to make my mother proud.

So, I began working on my college path. We couldn’t afford tuition, and I didn’t want to saddle my family with debt. In my sophomore year, I earned my first scholarship, worth $16,000. I called my mom when I found out. There was hesitation on the line. She was choked up, trying to tell me how proud she was, and how our sacrifices were finally paying off. Not long after I won the scholarship, my mother called with news of her own.

She had been pardoned by the U.S. government, and after years of trying, she was able to get her visa. She would finally be able to come and see her family again! Every year since I had left, she had traveled to the border to ask for her visa; and

every time, she had been denied. Until one year, a nice immigration officer offered to file a letter of forgiveness on her behalf. The letter stated that, yes, she did something illegal by having a child in the United States, but she was sorry and didn’t know it was illegal since she was only 17 at the time. According to the immigration officer, it was a long shot. It worked! I’ve met many immigration officers in my life—some good, some not-so-good. Although I have not yet met the man who helped my mom, I’ll never stop being thankful for what he did.

These experiences with family separation led me to become a youth activist and organizer. I became self-aware of my status and wanted to see change. Working with these organizations, I learned about the process of family separation. In 2019, I even took a trip to Amarillo, Texas, to see children who had been recently separated from their families during migration. Every moment I spent learning about the unfairness and injustices of the immigration system led me to want change, and I knew I would need an education to do it. My role as a youth advocate opened many doors. As a first-generation Mexican-American, going to college is a big deal. Getting into college and persisting means I am beating the odds. This inspired me and prepared me for the road ahead. On November 8th, 2018, my mother arrived home to find me crying. When she asked why, I simply replied “I got it.” She knew exactly what I meant. I had been named a Davis New Mexico Scholar and was awarded a full-ride scholarship to the college of my choice. My mom embraced me and we both cried together. We had done it.

I would be the first person in my family to attend a four-year university. I would be able to attend my dream school on a full-ride scholarship and not worry about the financial burden it would cause my family. It also meant that every sacrifice I made had finally paid off.

It has been 8 years since I came back to the United States without my mom. The journey has been hard, but I know it was worth it in the end. At DU, I’m double majoring in Communication Studies and Spanish with a double minor in critical racial & ethnic studies and writing practice. I have made Dean’s list four quarters in a row and hope to graduate with honors. Each fall, my mom and my aunt drive me to Denver and help me move into my dorm. Although the goodbyes are still not easy, we know what it means for me to be here. The sacrifices my family and I made have all started paying off, and I cannot wait to see where I will end up.

Perez the day she committed to DU as a Davis New Mexico Scholar (left). Perez with her mother and aunt at her high school robing ceremony (right).

image provided by author

Naomi Perez is currently a second-year student at the University of Denver and is a firstgeneration college student. Naomi started her academic journey at DU in 2019 as a proud Davis New Mexico Scholar, as well as a New Mexico Simon Scholar, and hopes to graduate in 2023. She is majoring in Communication Studies and Spanish as well as minoring in Writing Practices and Critical Racial & Ethnic Studies. Naomi is originally from Albuquerque, New Mexico. She has been an activist and organizer since she was 15 years old and hopes to pursue a career with nonprofit organizations after her graduation from DU.

I have always been a fan of writing. I always seem to have better control over my written words rather than my spoken ones. When the Covid-19 pandemic started, I was taking writing 1133 as one of my classes. Everything was closed, and my main priority was to stay home and keep my family safe. I also had to start working full time while attending online school since I became my family’s only source of income. The love I have for my family motivates me daily, and it was most prominent during times of struggle. It seemed as if the only way to keep myself sane was to focus on my academics and pour my soul into my writing, and what better way to cope than writing about the people who mean the most to me.

One of my major assignments for Writing 1133 was an autoethnography, which is a form of self-reflection that required me to explore my personal experiences. My story is something I will always be proud of. I was brought up by an incredible mother who taught me that no matter what happened, I should keep fighting for my dreams. Sadly, the thing that happened required me to live apart from her. However, every challenge I faced during these tough times only made me stronger and led me to where I am today. These experiences helped me learn and created a deep passion within me for activism surrounding immigration. I am always grateful and honored when someone gives me the space to tell my story; I am also thankful to those who choose to read it.