A few months back, a friend sent me a link to a story that said girls are more likely to succeed if they’re raised by strong, “pushy” moms.
“I know all about that,” I said to myself, recalling how many times my mom pushed me to graduate from college and become a journalist when all I wanted to do was give up.
From childhood, my mom taught me that our ancestors emigrated from Mexico to give us a better life and that out of gratitude we should seize the opportunities available to us in the United States.
Over time, this belief broadened my horizons, gave me direction and confidence, and showed me that my ancestors had already carried the heaviest loads. All that was left for me – and my kids – to do was prosper.
My family began immigrating to the United States in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Some were children. Others were newly married couples. Still others were adventurous young men flying solo.
Their reasons for making the nearly-3,000-mile trek were varied but profound. Some came to work. Others came to study. Still others came fleeing social unrest triggered by the Mexican Revolution.
When my ancestors arrived in Orange County, they joined fledgling Mexican American communities in Anaheim and Santa Ana and provided for their families by picking oranges on the Irvine Ranch, hauling scrap metal in Westminster and harvesting seasonal crops in Northern California.
But life was bittersweet. While they enjoyed new freedoms, they also faced segregation. Society dictated where they could attend school, buy property and sit in movie theaters.
Years passed, laws changed and my ancestors assimilated. During World War II, the women entered the workforce, and the men enlisted. Both my grandfathers served in the Army.
By the time I was born in the late 1970s, our family had a comfortable, middle-class life. My father drove trucks for years and later held a desk job, and my mom was – and still is – a school librarian.
I was raised in a modest Santa Ana neighborhood, near my grandparents and great-grandparents. I saw them often, knew their life stories and respected the paths they had blazed. As a young adult, I had hoped to build on their feats by earning my bachelor’s degree and finding a job after graduation.
All went according to plan, until I fell in love with journalism.
I took a writing course here, a design course there, and soon I was pulling all-nighters in the campus newsroom. I was soon hired by a local newspaper and began splitting my time between school and work.
Days turned to years, and before I knew it, nearly a decade had passed. I found myself married with a baby and another one on the way, and a few credits short of earning my degree. I was exhausted and ready to drop out. But my mom – who had earned an associate’s degree and was working toward her bachelor’s degree until health problems derailed her quest – wasn’t about to let another bachelor’s degree slip out of our collective hands without a fight.
She kicked the family history lessons into high gear and reminded me daily about our ancestors’ struggles. I finally finished my coursework and attended my commencement ceremony – with my family in the stands and my baby girl squirming within me.
Looking back, my mother was “pushy.” But I’m better for it. Her insistence helped me stick to my goals and launch my dream career, which in 17 years has led me from the halls of Georgetown University for a summer journalism program to a Hollywood coffee shop to interview my favorite rock star. In the past few months, her stories have also inspired me to enroll in graduate school.
Now that my kids are school aged – 4, 8 and 9 – our family’s immigration trek is again taking center stage. Driving near our home in Santa Ana, I point out the patches of land that their forefathers tilled, the homes they helped build, and the once-segregated movie theaters they frequented. When we get to the Logan neighborhood, I proudly show them my grandfathers’ faces in a mural honoring veterans.
When my kids bring home coursework about the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. fighting for racial equality, or Cesar Chavez advocating for better working conditions for farm workers, I remind them that they’re doing more than reading a story in a book. They’re studying issues that tangibly affected our family.
I pass these lessons along to my kids, not to open old wounds, but to help them appreciate their roots and see that they are embarking on the next chapter in our family’s immigration story.
My parents didn’t know much about the university system, so I had to navigate it and pay for it on my own. When it comes time for my kids to enroll, I will impart the knowledge I’ve gleaned to help them find their way. Will I, like my mom, push them toward higher education? Yes. Will I push them to achieve their dreams when they want to quit? Absolutely. We’ve come too far – figuratively and literally – to let our family’s trek end now.
