What is an immigrant?
This world does not belong to anyone,
We are all its guests.
My own prosperity seems like an unexpected gift,
How or from whom I know not,
Yet not far from being a miracle.
Sometimes I feel like I am in a dream,
Yet I remain happy to be alive.
My existence is borrowed,
I thank those responsible,
And even if there was no one to thank,
I would still feel it appropriate to thank into the thin air.
What use is anything that I can do,
But what use is to not do anything at all?
It is our purpose to give to this world
Not to take from it.
The devil has fooled too many into the wealth of this world,
But the true wealth cannot be held or touched.
That which feeds our souls is what prepares us for the next world.
Truly we are not worthy for either.
Who am I?
Some say, I am not Mexican enough.
Some say, I am not an American.
You don’t define me,
I define me.
I am a farm worker,
And I am a scholar.
I am American
And I am Mexican.
I am Purepecha
And I am proud.
I am a worker of the San Joaquin Valley fields,
And I am a student of the University of California, Berkeley.
My president doesn’t love me,
But I love me.
My family is Libertarian.
My family is Liberal.
My family is Conservative.
My family hates politics.
I love my family.
I have seen my mother work the fields and I cried.
I have seen my mother become a business owner and I cried.
I have seen my father work the fields as an undocumented worker and I cried.
I have seen my father become a citizen and I cried.
We have both seen the Mexican National team lose, and we both cried.
I am the son of immigrants.
I am the son of Americans.
I am the son of Mexicans.
I am the son of the pueblo that burned down the haciendas.
I am me.