I awoke to the smell of coffee and eggs sizzling in the frying pan. The morning was calm as we gathered around the table, anticipating Grandma’s cooking. Before joining my family, I helped my grandmother with her insulin injections, a practice I learned at the age of six after watching my grandfather do it for her for years. While gathering around the table, my cousins visiting from Mexico asked us about our life in Dallas. My brother and I were the only cousins from our family living in the United States, so these questions felt normal. Texas was all I knew, and I felt proud of it, I would constantly exclaim, “I’m from Texas” with a big smile and this morning was no different. Immediately after saying these words, I heard a loud noise from the kitchen. Grandma rushed into the dining room with a snide look and sharply said, “No tu naciste en Mexico. No eres Americano! Eres Mexicano.”
I could feel my face shift in confusion as her words sank in. Why did she keep saying this? Doesn’t she know we are from Dallas? We live and go to school here? I looked over at my mom for clarification, but she doubled down and insisted we were from Texas. I was seven then, and all I needed was my mom’s confirmation to ease the doubt. As children, we usually follow what our parents say because that’s all we need to make sense of our world. But who could trust an elementary school kid with sensitive information that when revealed in passing could lead to a family’s deportation?
I first acknowledged the cracks in my parents’ story in High School when I saw my friends getting their driver’s permits and first jobs. I wanted to be just like them and establish myself as a ‘grown-up’. I would ask my parents all the time when it was going to be my turn to drive and get a job. My father would often say, “Tu trabajo es ir a la escuela…cuanto me gustaria ser joven y no tener los problemas de adultos.” [Your job is to go to school…oh how I would enjoy being young and not having adult problems]. His proverbs at the time didn’t feel like a good enough explanation but as an obedient child, I relented. Slowly, I watched as my friends started to go through all teenage rites of passage while I was left behind.
Eventually, the frustration of not feeling and being able to do what everyone else was doing pushed me to confront my parents. While he was driving home one rainy night, I looked over at him and decided to break the silence. I mumbled, “Is what grandma said true…that I wasn’t born here?” I closed my eyes, took a breath, and braced myself for what I knew he was about to say. I heard my father let out a frustrated breath and hesitate to say, “Si… ninguno de nosotros tiene papeles.”
Although I was expecting what he said, nothing could have prepared me for how much his words affected me. My lower lip began to tremble as I held back tears. I brought my hands to my face to hide my tears and shame from my father. I felt like my body and mind were not my own because who I thought I was gone. The truth is, I was born in Mexico but came to the United States under a tourist Visa when I was three years old. About 150 miles, 2 hours, and 48 minutes made a significant difference in my life and it wasn’t my choice. I thought about this distance constantly and found it hard to sleep at night because I catastrophized every possible scenario. Was who I thought a lie? Would my friends still want me? Would today be the day my parents wouldn’t come home?
Everywhere I went, I would quickly take an inventory of who was around and determine whether I was safe. I caught myself feeling shame and fear at speaking Spanish in public at the possibility of being accused of the truth. I realized my childhood dream of becoming a physician was no longer within the realm of possibility. Every hope and plan for my future shattered and I began to spiral into despair. Isolation became synonymous with how I felt about being trapped in a Country that didn’t recognize me but felt like home and a Foreign Country that saw me but was extraterrestrial. I was disappointed and felt like being Mexican vilified me. The shame I felt before grew deeper, but I also felt guilty for feeling this way.
And yet, this dichotomy of not belonging served its purpose. There were many times I found myself in front of a document with jargon above my reading level and expected to translate. I was my parents’ navigator, especially in my mom’s healthcare as she struggled with her diabetes. I would find myself constantly in the parking lot of the doctor’s office for my mom’s appointment when she looked over at me with a worried expression. She would ask me to go into the room with her because she was concerned about understanding the doctor. When the doctor entered the room, we were bombarded with questions. My mom’s eyebrows would slant, and she’d clench her jaw while briefly holding her breath as the questions started to build. She looked at me confused but hopeful, as she said, “Mijo que dijo”. Complex is the feeling of the mind because although I felt shame at my language and circumstances, it also served as a tool of support and nurtured my interest in helping others like my mom. It was during these moments that I appreciated my language and upbringing but continued to be trapped under the shadow of immigration.
However, during my last year of High School, the storm clouds hovering over me began to shift and I could feel the heat of the sun again. I felt blissful joy when former President Obama enacted an executive action allowing applicants under 30 brought to the U.S. as minors to apply for work authorizations [DACA]. This policy allowed people like me to obtain a driver’s license, travel within the U.S., work, and receive in-state tuition. Those 10 digits tied to my name now gave some semblance of an identity and freedom. I could now attend a university, pass background checks, and stop making excuses or lying to my friends.
Despite the new liberties extended to me, most medical schools in the country require applicants to be U.S. citizens or permanent residents. DACA recipients are not eligible within these specific parameters. The media, politicians, and my mother often told me to be happy with what I was allowed to do and move within my boundaries. However, I wasn’t going to concede defeat and decided to wait until my status changed. Why should we be complacent within a system that thinks of us as less than others and doesn’t allow us to grow and give back to society? I understand the circumstances of the law and politics but as a 3-year-old, I didn’t have a say, and I don’t know any other place than the U.S. just like many others in my situation. My loyalty and passion for the community are tied to the U.S.
While I was teaching pre-medical students, I began to date someone. When we started dating, I felt they couldn’t like me without knowing everything about me. Fear prevented me from telling them the truth. I would allude to having a secret but not being ready to reveal it. In time, the fear eased, and through tears, I revealed to them my status and worries. Mentally, I was bracing myself to be pushed away, but they held me tighter and told me, “Everything will be okay. I love you,” and I love them. The love they showed me then alleviated a lot of the shame I felt. I realized then that being who I was, a Mexican undocumented immigrant, was not a villainous trait but gave me a different life perspective.
Here I am, now married to this amazing person because of the love we developed through the years of knowing each other. Yet, I acknowledge that I’m one of the lucky ones who not only got a love story but is now able to follow their dream of becoming a physician. The system does not make it easy for us, those who want to contribute to society but are seen only in a negative light. I had to wait five years for my medical education because of the long permanent residency process. Even now, I must submit textbook-sized thick documents, notarized witness letters from friends, and family function/everyday pictures to prove that I have a bona fide marriage. Although the process has been extremely challenging, I’m still grateful because otherwise, I wouldn’t have met my life partner. We are a team.
I’m a medical student at UTMB John Sealy School of Medicine and find myself on the other side providing support and open dialogue to patients who are just like my mother. I openly embrace my roots and upbringing because I’ve seen the connection it builds the moment a patient realizes my background. The tone of the interaction changes, their shoulders relax, and at times they openly exclaim, “estoy feliz que estas aqui porque estaba pensando si me iva tocar alguien que habla español”… “todo esta caro y difficil pa los inmigrantes”… “de donde son tus papas, yo soy de […]”. I now look into their eyes and think of our journeys and how luck shouldn’t be the only factor in getting to this point.
Medical Humanities & Arts Anthology 
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