the beginning...

...Waking up in the middle of the night, it was hot, she was wet and she was nine. How was she supposed to know that the lady smooshed up next to her all night, wasn't supposed to pee on her? How was she supposed to know that when she cried in the middle of the night because it was dark and crowded, that there was a bed somewhere someday waiting for her? How was she supposed to know that running as fast as you could because "la migra" was coming, was not the normal for a young girl who had never even seen the inside of a book? How was she supposed to know that crossing the river every night to work, would later serve as a catalyst, pioneering the crossing of all her kin?

My grandparents had just moved north and money was scarce, but word had traveled that there was money to be made just across the river. She was nine years old, the oldest of three kids and she was a cotton picker. Her white nap sack itched, it was heavy and it was her conduit to survive. She filled that sack with cotton day after day, and night after night, she slept outside, risking her life for change...

That is just a sample of my book for my momma. I am so lucky to have an indigenous culture within me, even more fortunate to have the ability to search for its beginning. Her beginning is my beginning, my beginning will belong to my kids, and their kids...we all have a beginning that we hope will one day be told as an example of our greatness and our accomplishments. I hope that the life that I have created for myself is satisfactory and worth the struggle my momma made in coming to América.

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