Brown Pain: How a People Carry the Burden of the Migrant Experience.

I moved to Rifle, Colorado in 7th grade. My most transformative years were spent in Western Colorado. I come from a Catholic household. I’m Hispanic. My family history comes from the indigenous people of Mexico. As I grew into the young man I am today, I dejected my Mexican heritage. 

I look around my community now and see the same faces I grew up with. Still, my people are silent and afraid of speaking out. Still, my people work until they die. Still, my people are underrepresented. What is different now is that I am on the other side of my studies. I now understand the importance of advocating for people that have never had consistent representation in our small community. I write this article now but these are not my native words. This is the manifestation of brown pain now translated for those who choose not to hear it in our language or accent. I say now in English: this is our struggle.

The immigrant struggle is muted by silence. Most immigrant families are afraid to speak out because speaking out would mean they would be identified. In today’s political climate, to be identified is dangerous—to ourselves and to our families.

When I was growing up, the sentiment from our immigrant elders was that they were happy to get any type of opportunity in America. But opportunity must now be defined. Opportunity for most immigrants is not the same opportunity afforded those of legal citizenship. For the undocumented, opportunity means only the chance of survival and humble living. It means manageable finances, unattractive work and hope that their children will be better off than them. 

When you are underprivileged you take any job available to you. Low-paying jobs with zero benefits and long hours are what many immigrants cling to for financial stability. They work long hours for years with little or no hope for retirement. For many in the Hispanic community, the mindset is to work until you die and hope you made enough to put your children in a position to survive themselves.

My grandfather used to be a ranch hand. He was one for decades. He worked nearly every day of his adult life. My grandfather was made of iron. He’d never show how he was feeling. Not even to the family. No situation was too dire. No amount of misfortune was enough to crush his spirit. In America, my grandfather figured he could do anything just as long as he tried hard enough. I’d visit occasionally and have dinner with my grandparents. Every dinner, my grandfather preached the importance of trying hard to break the cycle of Latino families. “Work hard now so that you don't have to work hard your entire life. Don’t work until you die,” he’d tell me. 

Eventually, he got too old to work on the ranch and had to find other sources of revenue. Late in his life, after working in the US for over 20 years, he couldn’t find a job that would take him. In financial desperation, he fell into a pyramid scheme. That didn’t last so he found odd jobs out of the state. My grandfather died at the wheel after he fell asleep hauling lumber across New Mexico.  He died because he was tired. I know many Latinos that are tired. I don’t want them to die tired—at the wheel.

My mother too lives in what I call Brown Shame.  Even though she speaks fluent English, she would never speak directly to my girlfriends because she was ashamed of her accent. Recently when she went to dispute an energy bill, she was screamed at because of her accent. My mother is regularly belittled publicly for the way she speaks. She was belittled only a few weeks ago when she and I went for her eye exam. I accompanied her to translate if needed. The doctors nearly canceled her appointment because they weren't convinced she could say the alphabet. They never once spoke to her directly, instead, only addressing me although we were all in the same room. 

Once when my sister had a dispute with a storage unit manager over whether or not she was allowed to be moving her own things, my mother made us leave immediately and lectured us in the car about how we should never raise our voice to white people no matter the situation. 

We try and try again to find footing in this country only to be pushed out and ridiculed by social norms. We do not succeed as a people because we are not allowed to—and at times we don’t allow ourselves because to make noise in protest is to draw attention.

A large portion of our population works as laborers or in the service sector instead of jobs that require higher education. Those in our population who do make it to college and graduate with a degree are trailblazers;  there are few to look up to who look like us.

Our educational heroes are our friends going to college for the first time in their family’s history. What’s more, the people of color we do encounter on our college campus are rarely in administrative leadership positions. Especially in Western Colorado, it is hard for a Latino student (or any student of color) to find representation on a college’s faculty.

For the ignorant or the privileged, it’s easy to recommend the concept of savings and acquiring capital. What must be understood is that gaining capital is nearly impossible for most undocumented immigrants. Planning for the future is a luxury when the present is threatening to leave you without anything to call your own. 

There is no access to wealth if you’re undocumented. There is no access to a driver’s license, social security benefits or to a bank account without a social security number. If you are poor and undocumented in this country, you have slim chances of really succeeding in this country. The best you can hope for is survival.

Undocumented Latinos have to fight every single day. Having DACA  (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) eases the Brown experience a little by allowing some of our younger community members access to opportunity. But it also spares them from the single most degrading question we can be asked: “Do you have a social security number?”

Just one little piece of paper—one document-- keeps the undocumented from reaching their full potential. It’s degrading and it demoralizes us because we have so many dreams that can’t be achieved without a small thin piece of paper. 

Becoming a citizen through legal means is an arduous process that can last several years. It’s less of a risk and more practical for migrants to overstay their visas than to apply for citizenship. Even crossing the boarder illegally is seen as a preferable option to waiting for citizenship although it is an often deadly and expensive process that subjects immigrants to murder, death by dehydration, rape, physical injury and psychological abuse. It is common knowledge between migrants that crossing into the US boarder is to risk your life. No one risks their life in such a brutal way to merely immigrate for the fun of it. The decision to do so is made out of necessity. Although there is a legal process to obtain citizenship, it is not comprehensive enough to sustain the volume of applicants or provide intuitive services. 

The struggle to survive is not exclusive to one generation of undocumented immigrants. Children who are born in the US to undocumented parents begin their lives behind the starting line. Not only is there pressure on the parents to provide an adequate life for their child but there is a new pressure on the child to outperform and lift their family lineage out of survival mode.

Being of Mexican descent, I constantly feel an immense amount of pressure to succeed.  The word “enough” is not in my vocabulary. I must succeed. If I don’t, the effort of my parents and their parents was for nothing. Many Latinos I’ve met feel the same. We carry the burden and the weight of our people on our backs. I can say confidently, that I would sacrifice any amount of sleep, blood, sweat, tears, effort or health to succeed. Because I and my Latino brothers are living not just for ourselves but for those that came before us.

Here’s what breaks my heart the most: the American dream for many immigrants is less than the bare minimum for someone who has had the advantages of citizenship. My grandfather and my other relatives were looking for something basic. This is all they ever wanted--they were content with being able to live humbly. Yet humble living to them didn’t even include doctors, education, government programs, social status or anything else that comes simply by being a legal citizen of this country. 

They paid their taxes every year. Most undocumented pay more federal tax per year than did the President of the United States in 2016. Undocumented Latinos help pay for social programs and benefits of this country without enjoying any of their benefits. We are taxed but not represented. It has been in the country’s financial interest to keep it this way.

And yet, today we find ourselves in the early stages of cultural progress. Our immigrant elders have laid the foundation for the success of their kin. As the years pass, I have full confidence that there will be more Latinx representation in administrative and leadership positions across the country. This is partly due to a slow acceptance in the American people of racial equality,  but mostly due to the hard-working nature of our people. The never-give-up attitude will prove to be the driving factor in our success. As the younger generation of Latinos enter the adult world, they are realizing the representation and empowerment so elusive to our elders. 

So young Latinos, I urge you to vote if you are able to. I don’t care who you vote for but you must vote. We have generations of relatives that have fought too long and too hard and deserve to vote through us. 

We are the voice of every Latino faced with injustice before us and for those who might face injustice in the future.