Personal Narrative: My Journey To Mexico

I am not white, but I am not Mexican either. I am, however, a first generation Mexican American with parents from San Luis Potosi, Mexico. Perhaps I do not know what it is like to cross the border that refrains me from being Mexican, or the color of my skin that refrains me from being white, but my own personal experiences make me the Mexican American that I am today. Growing up I celebrated the Fourth of July with fireworks, and the Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe with matlachines.

One thing is a dream in serving God, and another thing is to do it. When we came to the US with Adriana, my wife, was a new star for us. We got married before came. However, also was a new beginning in my ministry… God planted a new and bigger vision in our hearts.

Be who you are and don 't let anyone tell you otherwise. These are some words we 're hearing more and more everyday ever since the recent election. A lot of issues have come up ever since the election. People are literally scared because of what the future has to offer with the new elected president. That isn 't something that anyone should have to go through just because of they who are and what they identify as.

There were rice plants on my left and farm animals on my right. I grew up in New York City, so you can imagine the millions of questions that were running through my head. I’d never been to the countryside of the Dominican Republic before, but when I finally did, I couldn’t be more ecstatic, despite the scorching Caribbean sun burning down on my brown skin. I hadn’t visited the Dominican Republic since I was four years old. All I had was vague memories of my grandmother’s boisterous laugh and the chickens in the backyard I loved chasing after.

It was about a 5 mile walk just to get to the border between Mexico and America, we would have took a cab to the border but the last time we took a cab it was a disaster. We waited in line to get out of Mexico for hours and hours there were probably a lot of people in line because there was no where to stay in Mexico and right when I got to the front of the line to give the person my passport to get out of Mexico I heard something behind me I assumed it was just another person waiting in line it sounded like they were dragging something heavy and metal. So I turned around to see a tall ugly man with a steel club. The he took duct tape and wrapped it around my mouth I was screaming

I believe the term, hispanic, itself does not define who I am. I define who I am and who I want to become. However, I do come from a Mexican heritage. Coming from a Mexican heritage has influenced and deeply impacted my life. My heritage has taught me a lot.

“What was it like?” I asked, scrambling to keep up with my aunt. She paused, her tall thin frame standing in the doorway. Dishes lay scattered around us. Dinner had ended hours ago, and everybody was upstairs..

Growing up as a first-generation Mexican American was a huge advantage for me in that it allowed me to grow up in a culturally diverse community. I learned how to work well with people of all backgrounds and empathize with people from all walks of life. However, while being the first in my family to go to college was a momentous accomplishment, the lack of instruction and guidance lead me to commit many mistakes that could have been easily avoided during my first years at college. My timidity and downright arrogance lead me to believe that I did not need anyone’s assistance and thus I found myself denial that there was a problem in terms of my grades during my first semesters. I have since addressed this issue and have worked diligently to

Its 1914 and I just got the news that we were finally going to America! We have been waiting for several years trying to save up money and figure everything out. Going to America is almost every ones dream here in Europe. Just like Oscar Hammerston said, “ You gotta have a dream.

Culturally, family is the base of my Hispanic heritage. As a child my mother taught me that family is the most important aspect of life. I remember my abuelita and uncle visiting every Thanksgiving and telling stories about their youth, from my uncle getting lost in Yosemite National Park to my abuelita regularly being dragged by the ear to Mother Superior’s office. When she came to visit, my abuelita would always share the family albums that she had stuffed in her suitcase. With every picture there was both a story and a lesson.

and I personally love Mexico. I would like to be able to go one day. I believe that we can learn something from all cultures and from the Day of the Dead I learned that we can dedicate a whole day to our loved ones who are no longer with

Day 2 Immigrant. That word gives me a label here. I am crossing the border to the U.S because my parents think it will give us a new beginning and a better life. I think they’re wrong. Our life in El Salvador was fine: We had a nice house and we were healthy.

I used to have this grudges in my heart when everything go hard that would made me wanted to blame my parent. But I can’t because I was not raise to think that way. When I come to America, I was eleven years old and no one asked me if I wanted to come it just happen in a second. I was in a cold place with extended family that I never met before and that one person who raise me and made me feel secure was still back in the country. I had to lived months without her and next thing you know I adapted and convince myself they are doing this because the wanted the best for me.

This would be my fourth time visiting Mexico. Crossing the border is the most nerve racking thing that you could do and I know from experience how dangerous it can be driving to your destination. It was the December the week before finals and my parents had planned on taking a trip to

The most meaningful intellectual experience I had occurred the last time I had the chance to visit my home country, Venezuela. It was late July of 2010, and I was visiting the only family members that remain in Caracas. The moments I arrived I was immediately confronted by the immensely deteriorated state of the airport. The walls were peeling in places, the duty-free store was only the size of a small supply closet, and even the baggage claim carousels were dirty and undulating in weakness. The entire airport was empty, pathetic, and gray, and the people arriving were just as sad to be arriving.