“Do I look too Mexican?”, my mom said before leaving the house. I was about 12 when I fully understood what she meant. My siblings and I grew up in Plainfield, Illinois: a place full of resources, not so much representation. I felt a piece of me was missing, like there was something I needed to bask into to feel the most myself. I couldn’t name this feeling, but I knew I wasn’t alone. My mom hadn’t realized beauty is not defined by the standards of western America, which slowly trickled into my belief system. Self-acceptance is something I still struggle with and am learning to overcome. It wasn’t until my first visit to the motherland, Mexico, where this acceptance began to flourish.
       I was 14 years old when I had my first visit. My family introduced me to the place of the unknown, the culture I had never known. This place is called Tlaltenango, Zacatecas.“Tlaltenango, Zacatecas” I said to myself. I couldn’t remember the last time I spoke with words that required such enunciation.  Tlalte has concrete-made houses and establishments along the pathway of streets. Nail salons, puestos (vendor stands), carinicerias (butcher shops), mercados (grocery stands); all evidence of my people trying to make it in this world. Most people got around by motorcycle, particularly parents riding with their toddler in the front seat. The smell of vehicle exhaust is nostalgic in a way that makes me miss the home that never was. Powerlines hung along the tops of the skyline. Feisty, unclaimed chihuahuas guarded rooftops of these homes. My grandparents had a kitty notorious for visiting them in the morning and night. They left a plate of sopita con arroz for them, religiously.
       Waking up in Mexico was nothing I could describe in words. The weight of trying to fit in washed away. I saw my parents speak comfortably to strangers, for what felt like one of the first times. They didn’t have to rehearse their conversation in their head: “Asi se dice?” was no longer part of their vocabulary. The excitement of knowing I was going to see girls like me, girls with thick curly hair and others that spoke my native tongue. Knowing I was going to encounter some form of representation, some form of me no matter the space. Little things like entering a tiendita (small business) that had soft playing banda on the radio made me feel represented. Nothing compares to the feeling of being seen.
       The second place I was introduced to was Atolinga, Zacatecas, my dad’s hometown. To get here, you must drive a two-and- half-hour journey up a mountain. Round and around you go, with limited rail guarding to protect your fall. Once you get over the impending fear you will fall, you look up and realize the clouds are closer than you could have ever imagined. Constant mutters of “my ears popped” circulated the car. The views I saw going up this mountain are still one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I look forward to it every time we go. Once you’re at the top, an hour-long drive awaits before you arrive to the town. At last, you are greeted by an archway that reads “Bienvenidos a Atolinga, Zacatecas” (welcome to Atolinga, Zacatecas). One thing about Mexico, is they’re going to instill beautiful architecture wherever you go. Entering the town, bright colors of tienditas welcome you. The smell of carnitas and all things flavors meet the tips of your nose. In the days and nights of Atolinga, residents gather in “el centro”, the center of the town. Plants, trees, and a bright letter billboard of the town’s name, Atolinga, decorates the space. People gather here with their carts, selling fruta, papas, y nieve.  This was the place for all things social.
       Although there were many positives from this experience, I learned about the lives many endure in Mexico. Seven AM or midnight, boys and girls no younger than five years old walked alone, selling pieces of candy. “Se lo vendo a dos pesos”, (2 cents a piece). The look in their eyes told me this was not their first time. They braced for decline and continued their walk through the town. This was how they would spend their days. In that moment everything clicked. I understood why immigrating was so necessary for my parents. They needed to make a new life for my siblings and me; the life they never had. Stability was something my mom never had the opportunity to experience, but she and my dad made sure their kids did.
       At the age of fourteen, my mom and her siblings immigrated to the United States, leaving everything she had known. Moving apartment to apartment, she completed her sophomore year of high school and withdrew at the age of fifteen. At this time, her parents joined her siblings to live in the U.S, and she needed to support her family’s finances. By the time she was eighteen, she earned her GED. My mom dreamt of going to college, of becoming a teacher. (Many years down the line, her dreams would be lived through her daughters.) The luxury of life stability had not reached the grasp of my mom’s hands. Instead, she continued to support the income of the family. A couple of years later, she met my dad and together they began a family of their own. My dad is a man unfamiliar with the term “rest.” Carrying the weight of two jobs, he worked to provide safety for us—stability. He dreamt of owning his own mechanic shop and can pretty much do any hands-on task.  He laid his dreams to rest; he couldn’t let his family fall. He continued his two jobs and gave us the life we needed. I could never thank him enough for the sacrifices he made.
       How does one repay their parents for sacrificing their all? Their time, dreams, life, for you.  Although I’m getting my Bachelor of Arts because I was lucky enough to be provided with the resources to do so, I am genuinely passionate about what I will do. I do this for my family, for my people. To represent a culture that goes on without it. For the record, I will always look “too Mexican.” I look forward to filling professional spaces with culture like my own. Con migo llevo las suenos de mi familia y antepasados. With me I take the dreams of my family and ancestors. Because of them and the sacrifices they made, si se pudo.