Personal Narrative: Personal Experiences Of Immigrants

My grandparents fled Mexico during the fifties when the country was becoming too dangerous for them to live there. My grandmother was only nineteen when she married my grandfather. In fact, the only reason she married him was because she saw him as her ticket out of the life she hated. My grandmother didn’t want to be stuck in Mexico, and promised to give my grandfather children if he brought her to the United States. Just one month after my mother was born, my grandparents crossed the border and started their trek into California looking for work. My mother would tell me how my grandparents worked for hours in the burning heat of the fields, picking fruit and vegetables and attaining little compensation in return. How they would work in the canneries all night long during winters in dangerous working conditions to pay the rent that month. How my grandmother would be harassed constantly because of her broken English, and my grandfather would never be taken seriously by “real” Americans because of his immigrant status. For decades my grandparents were shoved into boxes that perpetrated immigrant stereotypes, and despised every second of it.
Almost sixty years later, my sister and I are born from my Mexican mother and white father (NEED TO ADD MORE AOUTz
Numerous immigrant parents and grandparents fear for their offspring; they worry that the trials they survived will become the pains their kids and grandkids will bear. That is why various second and third generation of children feel lost within their skin, as I did. Because their heritage may be detrimental to their lives in America. Their immigrant family members do not want their kids to be put into boxes that they will never be able to escape from. My grandparent’s map was one that lead them to a personal hell for a period of years. They did not want my sister and I to face that