First-Generation Daughter

by Anonymous

Folklorico Dancers, “The salsa”

Read by Hattie Rose Bellino, a recent UCLA graduate with a bachelor’s degree in International Development Studies and Public Affairs. At UCLA, she worked as a teacher with infants and children with disabilities and conducted research on violence against LGBTQ+ educators. She recently completed an equity fellowship at Children Now, a non-profit dedicated to improving children’s policy in California. Now based in Brooklyn, Hattie is excited to continue her commitment to equitable policy and grassroots activism.

Hattie Rose Bellino

I love characters who come alive, like flesh on a page. They represent an aunt, a sister, or a stranger who, from one conversation on the bus, becomes a friend. The character in this story is one I’ve neglected in my adolescence, one I cherished in young adulthood, one I wish could have remained as innocent and brave as she was as a child.

Greetings from a world not too far from yours. My story begins, like all great stories, with a beginning. Here is mine.

I was in kindergarten when everyone labeled me different. I was an unusual case: no English background or knowledge, no English-speaking parents, no one in my family to guide me. With hard work and an amazing teacher who saw something in me that I didn’t, I thrived and began my first attempts at being a storyteller. A bilingual storyteller. I spoke only Spanish at home and only English in school. The rule of our household was to keep our culture alive. But sometimes I kept our culture under the mattress, hidden secrets, like all precious items.

One of those hidden secrets is that I am the daughter of immigrant parents. I was formed like a generational recipe, perfected by adding ingredients to enrich the flavor. For me, the first ingredient to being a first-generation is being different. School was like a race. You knew who was going to be ahead of you. Those who were ahead were there because their parents were educated; those who bothered me for mispronouncing words or not saying them fast enough were girls and boys who had the same brown sugar cane skin I had. But they were not like me. Their parents spoke English with heavy accents, but the teacher understood them. No one understood my mother until one day a translator showed up. Translating took only a few minutes.

Being different also meant my sister was different. She has autism, and everyone would laugh.

“She looks funny.”

“Why doesn’t she talk?”

“Why does her face look like that?”

Those sentences stalked my nightmares.

My mom read to me in Spanish, and I read to her in English. She hunted for every bilingual book in the public library. Libraries became my sanctuary, my oasis. There were challenges. There was name-calling. But deep down I knew my voice needed to be heard, that I deserved a chance to shine, that I was not meant to be silenced.

My story needed to be heard.

The next step to being a first-generation is marinating in your roots. Standing proud for what your parents want for you.

Being a bilingual storyteller is a privilege, an honor. During my senior year in high school, I was a student assistant in the main office and became a parent translator, a friend of my peers whose parents had brought them from El Salvador, Honduras, and Mexico. They wanted to learn, but most teachers spoke only English. Fewer than 10 teachers on a campus of 2000 students spoke both English and Spanish. I wanted to help. So I did.

It started in English class when a student walked in, silent and scared. The teacher wanted to communicate with him, but she only knew English. She asked the class if anyone spoke Spanish. I raised my hand.

Who knew that raising my hand would be the beginning of the next ingredient in being first-generation: Paying it forward.

First, it was a peer from Mexico. We talked for a minute, and I offered to give him a tour of the campus, to show him where the rest of his classes would be. I tutored five students, with one learning to play piano during the pandemic. I taught them English, and they taught me more Spanish, a win-win. They graduated from high school. That was one of the greatest accomplishments.

And I graduated with a scholarship.

But of course, you want to have fun, and that’s where the salsa comes in. My salsa is my dance. I started learning folklorico dancing. At first, I did it only during the summer, and then I fell in love with my inheritance from my parents—the richness of every handmade tortilla, each embroidered skirt created over months, every spice added to the mole.

With every dance I learned, a wave of understanding came to me from the place my parents came from. I began to understand this was not just their story. This was everyone’s story.

I earned a spot at the university of my choice and into their EOP program that supports first-generation students. Four years in school, I graduated with honors.

Parents were happy. I was happy. I’d made them proud of me.

That is the beauty of this step of being a first-generation: You learn to appreciate the struggle it took to reach this place. You see what you believe is the final result. All you can think is “This is It. This is the dream.”

I can speak both English and Spanish. I did everything asked of me and more.

How mistaken I was.

I lost sight of an important step:

People. History. Life. Change.

I love history because history writes a story all its own.

Unfortunately, history has its thorns.

Little did I know history would hit close to home. To casa.

Today’s world is different from 2024’s.

Back then, I was not afraid to go outside my home. Back then, I was confident I would return. Now I fear the trauma of seeing someone being picked up by La Migra. Immigration.

These days La Migra is one of the most popular words.

For me, it was a normal ingredient, like when baking, you need flour; when making an omelet, you need eggs.

Every day, every moment, everything we have together is a precious gift.

Now we fear the country that made me a citizen might tear our family apart.

We fear going to public places I once considered safe–churches and supermarkets, schools and malls.

They could be there at any moment. They hound us like we are criminals.

You may ask why I fear them when I am, indeed, a citizen, but you don’t see the news the way I do. They grab citizens, too.

I carry my real ID and wish it was a tattoo stuck on me. I don’t want to be traumatized. It is one thing seeing this story through a screen. It is quite another seeing it in person.

One day my neighbor went to our neighborhood supermarket. She thought the coast was clear. She didn’t know agents were grabbing anyone who looked like an immigrant. She fled the scene with her daughter. Her daughter kept screaming, “I’m a citizen! I’m a citizen!” My neighbor hid with her daughter until someone came to rescue her. Now she is terrified of going outside.

One night, one neighbor caught my eye.

I was outside, seeing my cousin off to her car, and I felt him watching me. It was late. When I looked up, I was shocked to see in the light from the streetlights that a neighbor was there, dressed as an ICE agent.

I told my mom. She told me he is a good person.

I did not know how to respond.

These months have been the most challenging of my life. I see fear everywhere I go. I see people like me fearing to go to work, fearing their next moment, fearing for loved ones.

Living with the idea that one day your mom or dad might not come home is hard. It hits like a punch. Sometimes I can’t sleep.

Most nights, I sleep too little because of horrible thoughts that invade my sleep. I try to keep a brave face for all our sakes, and even that can be unbearable.

Sometimes I wish my parents had done something earlier so we weren’t living in this dilemma. My dad says that his pride was his weakness when he was given the chance to become a citizen and denied that chance. He said his pride would be wounded. My mom is doing something now, but the process is years long.

And as for me. Now, I dress differently for work. I don’t wear cultural shirts or jewelry because I work in a neighborhood where ICE agents are stationed. I see them. One day, I was wearing a black dress and makeup, and one of the agents looked at me straight in the eyes. I looked straight back at him. I was not questioned. Later, I told my mom I showed no fear, but I feel so sad for what those agents represent—the tearing apart of the very fabric of my being.

People being taken were hard-working friends, members of the community, neighbors. I miss peaceful bus rides and the loud band music coming from workers’ trucks when they used to pass by. On the bus, I feel people looking at me whenever I speak Spanish.

Everyone is thinking the same thing.

“Is she different?”

“Is she an immigrant?”

“What is going to happen if someone grabs her?”

I start questioning myself to save myself from those glances. I speak English. I dress differently. I bury myself inside the American side of me. Yes, that is me, but only part of me, and now it is the only part that makes me feel safe. I expose secrets only to those I trust, secrets like the fact that I speak Spanish fluently and that I am a proud first-generation daughter.

I wish my story could help someone who needs to hear this:

Te escuchamos. Te entendemos. No consideres tu idioma una debilidad, sino un sincero renacimiento de tu identidad. Te queremos. Queremos lo mejor para ti. No estás solo en esto.

We can hear you. We understand you. Don’t consider your language a weakness but a heartfelt renaissance of identity. We love you. We want the best for you. You are not alone in this.

This is the recipe of my life as a first-generation daughter.

I love and am thankful for the sacrifices my parents made for me. Thanks to them, I was given the opportunity to have an education and to give many of my peers a chance to thrive and become valuable members of the community.

I love characters who come alive like flesh on a page. They represent an aunt, a sister, or a stranger who, from one conversation, becomes a friend on the bus.

My character is dedicated to all first-generation daughters because you are meant to change the recipe, perfect the dish to make ourselves proud of one another.

© Author, a writer, a dancer, a university graduate and a proud first-gen daughter.