Two Grandfathers, Two Journeys: Between Immigration Histories
here is a residual presence in a space marked by absence. Minutes, days, and even weeks were spent holding our communities close before ICE raids woke up the tranquil yet lived-in streets I grew up on. An entire summer of unmarked cars blurring past my house, followed by shouts of a growing crowd and the incessant buzz of my phone with worried texts and Instagram posts to warn the community. Here, I was confronted with the nature of this absence. My closest friends, their parents, classmates, the local gas station clerk, were deported or feared deportation. Their absence lingers. It’s quiet, but it lingers in the soft cries of their family members, in bolted-up doors, in empty streets, and in unfamiliar faces moving into homes that mirror my own.
The impacts of immigration in my life are not limited to the actions of this current administration, however. While the last few years have illuminated the issues associated with government policies restraining immigrant communities, I grew up influenced by two very different immigration stories on each side of my family. I am a third-generation Mexican American from Southern California. I’m also the granddaughter of a Jewish immigrant from Austria. My father’s family came to America illegally from Aguascalientes, Mexico, and I was raised within a predominantly Mexican lifestyle. I grew up alongside my siblings, cousins, grandparents, and aunts—thirteen people in one house—learning to cook from my grandma, celebrating friends’ quinceañeras, and remembering family during Día de los Muertos.
These are just the traditions my family kept close generations after immigrating. While I was growing up, I never felt like these traditions were bad or wrong or unpatriotic. We shared in our values and resources, worked hard, appreciated what we had, and celebrated the Fourth of July alongside other immigrants and non-immigrants alike. As I got older, I found that the tremulous journey, cultural expression, and general existence of my Mexican family was looked down upon. It was done the “wrong way.”
On the other side of my family, immigration was treated like an accomplishment. It was prevalent in historical valor, and less prominent in our everyday lives. My great-grandparents escaped their home in Vienna, Austria, days before Hitler’s invasion. Family diaries describe their route in messy red scribbles and newspaper clippings. My grandpa was born once they were safely in the Dominican Republic. Later, he moved to California and became a U.S citizen. My grandparents’ house was adorned with volumes of family diaries and heirlooms, marking a remarkable and brave journey.
Immigrating from Mexico, though, was a hindrance. These contrasts struck me as ICE became an ever-growing, radical presence in my life. It forced me to examine my relationship and proximity to these issues, reflect on my identity and heritage, and grapple with the drastically different reception of my White immigrant grandfather and my Mexican immigrant grandfather.
While neither of my grandfathers are alive today, the years that I had with them kept me close to their journeys and experiences. Today, they keep me grounded in my work to understand these differences and my hope to help families grappling with various methods of persecution under an immigrant status. My connection with immigration is multipronged and unique to my own mixed identity. But as the world seemingly gets smaller, and we get closer and closer to each other, these labels will become superficial, and pride in our heritage alongside respect for the diversity of our communities will take root. I believe so, at least.