Little Revolutionary

Once upon a time, there was a little girl. Short black hair in pigtails with a fleco  jumping from her hairline to the top of her eyebrows.  She wore a long black skirt imprinted with colorful flowers mirroring her cheerful spirit.  It was paired with a white shirt and a hefty carrillera de balas across her chest. She was beautiful; she still is.

She carried the Adelita vestment in honor of all those Mexican revolutionary women before her time. At an early age, she became a warrior like them neglecting her childhood to protect her siblings. As the oldest of three, she took upon herself the role of a caregiver while her hardworking parents earned a living. She understood the struggles and joined the force. She was strong; she still is.

One day, she was asked to pack her bags to embark on a trip with no return. Her innocence prevented her from understanding the magnitude of this journey so on she went. No good byes were said, no tears were shed, and no real appreciation was made of what behind would stay. Along her two little brothers and some tios she hardly even knew, the little girl rode away on a pick up truck headed North.  She was brave; she still is.

The final destination wasn’t the adventure she expected. No one warned her of the difficulties and of the hatred she would encounter. Not a drop of English did she know, but she started school right away. There, she took on the real challenge. The little girl went home every night to her dictionary. She translated her homework word for word. What should have been a thirty minute task prolonged into an eternity. All she could think about during those sleepless nights was that she did not want to be embarrassed again in front of her new classmates by that angry teacher who would scream at her with slurring sounds using striking hand gestures.  She was a fighter; she still is.

In the middle of it all, she had hope. The little girl wished that one day she would be able to come out of the shadows to let the world know she existed. She always contemplated the idea of her fingerprints matching a nine digit number justifying her presence. She knew that without it achieving her aspirations would be twice as hard, but she refused to give up. She was a dreamer; now she lives.

 

14 Comments

  1. This honestly gives me chills. Although I’ve never experienced this exactly, I understand it completely. I remember my best friend telling me how much harder he had to work to get to the place where he now stands. I think about my other friend who would come to me at lunch to study because they WANTED to succeed by that definition.

    This is very well written. Thanks for sharing!

    Liked by 3 people

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