Love in Human Form

Stories hold power- the power to move and transform. In a world where grace, empathy, and compassion seem to take a backseat in the minds and hearts of so many, it’s more important than ever that we, the people, share our stories. So, here is mine.

I was born in El Salvador in 2000, as the aftershocks of a brutal civil war that left over 75,000 civilians dead rippled through the country. With no time for people to catch their breaths, gangs began developing within El Salvador’s infrastructure, and terror settled in for the long stretch; it is here that I was born. My father worked as a public transportation driver and was robbed and held at gunpoint three times while working. 

When I was 2 years old, he decided to immigrate to America to try to save enough money to move our family somewhere safer. He worked in a Taylor Farms cooler at night and slept during the day, but no amount of overtime could make up for the cost of living in California and sending money back home on a $6.75 wage. A new plan was devised. My mom immigrated to America when I was three years old to work in the cooler, leaving me in my grandmother's care. I did not see either of my parents for four years. Then, at 7 years old, I immigrated to America and was enrolled in the second grade at Loma Vista Elementary. 

I did not speak the language, and neither did my parents. Fortunately, there were programs and tutors available at school to help me learn English. I quickly picked up reading and became one of the top readers in my class by the third grade. I loved school, but more than anything, I loved reading. I loved getting lost in worlds about girls my age who lived in two-story houses and didn’t know what it was like to not belong somewhere. Normal seemed like the epitome of existence to me and so, so far from my reality.

Once I learned enough English I became the designated family translator and spoke for my parents at restaurants, banks, and parent-teacher conferences. It’s hard to explain the shame I felt walking around with parents who were so obviously immigrants. It feels wrong to say that I was ashamed of my parents; I guess I’m ashamed to say I felt ashamed of them. I was ashamed of not being normal, of the poverty we lived in, and of the grime I couldn’t seem to wash off my skin. I learned to make myself small in response to that shame, always holding an apology on the tip of my tongue. 

It felt like I was alone. All the time. I was different in ways that I couldn’t share or often even name. My self-esteem suffered greatly; I began to believe I had to make up for the inconvenience that I was. People said I was “easy-going” and "nice", but I wasn’t. I was afraid. Afraid to speak up for myself, afraid to stand up for myself, afraid to dare to have a voice. Undoing these beliefs has been the work of my life; and beliefs, I’ve come to understand, are central to the human experience. That’s why when people, be it preachers or politicians, get up on a podium and plant seeds of fear about “others”, it’s time to get curious. Why would someone want me to believe people different from me are dangerous, less human than me? Consider end goals like control, power, and money. 

Consider how we can make our responses meaningful. I know that there are people who have judged me and my community as less than, who have voted to put people in power who speak of us as pests that must be exterminated. I see the cruelty that goes on in the streets as people get dragged off in unmarked vehicles to detention centers with deplorable conditions. It hurts me, and it makes me angry- so I hold this pain. I sit with it. The pain of being told “you don’t belong” feels like vinegar on open wounds. Yet, if I respond by telling the people who spread that message that they deserve to go to hell, I’m spreading the same fear and hate they are. Instead, I pull out two chairs and a box of Kleenex. I let the anger sit long enough for it to tell me it’s sadness. Sadness at the way people treat each other. And the sadness helps me understand that the cure is remembering we are all love in human form.

My response is to look those who say my family and I don’t belong here in the eye and smile- a real smile. My response is to not make snap judgements about who they are or what their values and morals are but to leave as much space as I can for grace, empathy, and compassion. The same things I ask of them, I must be willing to give. I remember that the world has never changed for the better by spreading more hate, and so I offer love; I offer my voice to spread a message of hope—real hope, the kind that lets you plant a seed believing you’ll eat the fruit it bears. I believe in this hope, and I believe in you. More than anything, I believe in the power of us.