Hold On Be Strong
I believe one of the greatest tragedies in life is that of the child forced by external factors to grow and mature too quickly. In undocumented and mixed-status families, it’s a fate that is placed heavily on most, if not all, children within the household. If that family is one with multiple children, however, the oldest sibling always seems to play the role of sacrificial lamb and is tasked with carrying the heaviest burden.
My oldest brother was close to 9 years old when we first arrived in the United States. I would have been 3 at the time. The differences in the ways that a 9-year-old and a 3-year-old perceive their surroundings could probably be measured in light-years. There is so little that I can recall about the age of 3, and so much that I remember about being 9. I remember my favorite teacher, Mrs. Thomas. My closest friends in elementary school whom I've lost touch with throughout the years (Max, Jorge, Aaron, Ashley, Amy). I remember the small homes and trailer(s) we lived in at the time. The pet salamander that I found under an old piece of wood in an open field after a rainstorm. So many memories that live with me until present day, and probably forever. With this in mind, I ask myself: What must my older brother have been experiencing when, at the age of 9, he was uprooted from the only place he’d ever known and placed in a barren, flat land in the middle of the United States?
His ties and recollection of our home country were rooted far deeper than my own. He must’ve remembered the lush green mountains that surround our home city in the valleys of Southern Mexico. He must’ve remembered the Pacific Ocean beaches that Mom would take us to visit on occasion. The horseback rides with Grandpa. The hugs and kisses from Grandma and Great-Grandma. His best friends and classmates. These memories must’ve been swirling around in his head when he was placed into a completely foreign society from the one he was born into. He wouldn’t have years to acquire and hone an American disguise, like I was afforded as the youngest. His path far more abrupt and upfront. Going to new schools, learning a new language and adjusting to new customs while dealing with poverty and housing instability in a single-parent home. The protective veil of childhood that often shields us from bad experiences was quickly ripped away from him, and the trauma of assimilation was placed directly at his feet.
Forced to traverse this trauma with little to no guidance, I would see how our status negatively impacted my brother and the opportunities afforded to him as we got older. He would’ve been the first sibling to understand that something as simple, yet crucial, as a driver’s license was out of the question for someone with our status. The first to know that the educational and career opportunities after high school were far different for us than those of our American counterparts. The first to experience the pain of hearing the word “illegal” used as a derogatory label and to understand that it was being used to describe people like him, his brothers, his mother. And yet, throughout all of this, he managed to persevere and play the role of big brother and guide for his two younger siblings, who would soon experience many of the same things that he had. As he was learning these new American customs, his younger siblings were right there, absorbing this knowledge and information like sponges. He was the first to learn how to shoot a basketball, the first to learn about Southern hip-hop, the first to experience the pop culture of the 90s and early 2000s. He was even the first to show any interest in art and make money from it when, in high school, he’d draw the names of his classmates in bold graffiti lettering on computer paper for a small fee. It’s no surprise that many of the same interests that I hold onto dearly today stem from the interests of my oldest brother during this time. I only wish that these interests, for him, had been acquired naturally and weren’t introduced into his life because of forced migration and the necessity of assimilation.
As we live in this current era of rampant xenophobia, my mind drifts often to those eldest children in the many undocumented homes throughout this country. They, as always, will be the ones dealt the hardest hand. They will have to traverse this evolved, dangerous and cruel minefield brought upon them by the U.S. immigration system. They will be the ones faced with questions about where Mom is and why she was taken away. They will be the ones most deserving of an embrace, a pat on the back, an “everything will be okay.” Instead, as always, for their survival and that of their younger siblings, they will have to be the strongest. It’s a cruel fate. One I wish wasn’t so common, but one that they are uniquely tailored for. I suspect—better yet, I know—that if they’re anything like my older brother, they will somehow persevere and provide guidance that sets up their younger siblings for success. But they will still need that embrace.
