They are doctors and pharmacists, business owners and students who were brought to the United States as children, unaware that they had entered illegally or on visas that later expired. Without legal status, their hopes for the future were dim.
“I never knew he was going to be who he was today,” Daruka said. “I was just being a mom to him. I was just working hard for him. Because life changes. Life changes sometimes.”
I am and always will be the proud son of Mexican immigrants from El Paso. My parents came from Juárez, Chihuahua, to the United States in the 1950’s, newlyweds with only a few dollars in their pockets. In the east side neighborhood of Ysleta, they built an adobe house that at first had no electricity and an outhouse in the backyard. Yes, in Texas. They followed other Mexican immigrants who had been coming to the United States for decades. They followed even some Mexicans who were already in the state before Texas was ever Texas. These Tejanos didn’t cross the border; the border crossed them.
When filmmaker Mylène Moreno decided to find a story in 2003 that would illustrate for a national audience how Orange County had changed from the white, conservative stronghold of her youth into something more complex, she chose Nativo Lopez.
He knows this part of his journey should be the best one — living in a suburban Seattle apartment, learning English, starting a new job and trying to make friends in a place that has embraced him.
It looks as if immigration, that ceaseless churn on a tireless planet, has hit another of its patented half-court shots. How on the turbulent Earth did the fourth son of immigrants from a giant country long discouraging toward female athleticism end up as the exhilarated play-by-play voice of the very American women’s Final Four?
Public transit commuters rarely interact with those around them, much less take the time to dig deep into their personal lives. But aboard a bus in Arlington, passengers will be introduced to six complete strangers and get to know their entire family histories through a new exhibit.
“The only crisis is that we have a lunatic with a lot of power,” Lakshmi said on “The Daily Show.”
My immigrant father considered adopting an American name a prudent measure to avoid mispronunciations. To me it felt like admitting defeat.
For most of the past year, Samuel Oliver-Bruno stayed in the basement of a church in Durham, N.C., taking refuge against a deportation order that would separate him from his seriously ill wife, his son and the quiet life that he had lived in the United States off and on since 1994.