The Migrant Life

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It’s almost the end of April and my parents already making plans on when to make our summer journey to our second home. The beautiful state of Idaho. Daddy sending a money order to the labor camp post office to secure housing. As we gather around the kitchen table we listen to what lays ahead for this nomadic family of humble peasants. It’s a long road to our destination. Knowing that we must say goodbye to our friends in the Rio Grande Valley and rejoicing in the fact that we have friends waiting for us in the valley of treasure. I always longed for those moments. The trip. Looking outside through the small window of the camper of our truck and savoring every view outside. The flat barren landscape of Texas is left behind while the majestic mountains of New Mexico. Colorado. Utah. Come into view. The transformation of life becomes evident. Mesmerized by the dark skies and seeing the beautiful cities alight with fire as we journey by like meteors towards our destination. How I miss those magical moments. Never knowing if I will ever come close to heaven like I did during those treks. The quietness of the small space I called my own inside that camper. Savoring every view. Keeping it deep inside my heart never forgetting that this is who we are. Proud. Humble. Vagabonds. Chicano. Fighters. Blessed and determined individuals with a story to tell. Calling ourselves migrants yet knowing that we are more than that. Knowing we are what our parents have always wanted us to become. The voices and storytellers of their struggles to mold us into who we are today. Never forgetting who we are because of them. Our jefitos. What would we become if not for them. Look at their battered hands. The story begins at their palms. The journey is there for us to see. If we could only open our eyes. • Chema

 

Arturo Murillo