Even though I was born in Jalisco Mexico, I consider myself a first generation Mexican American. I never lived in Mexico and have only gone back to visit on occasions. Though being Mexican is not only being born there or having Mexican parents but living the culture. The music, food and most of all the family. All of my relatives here in California and in other parts of the US have struggled in some way to get here, mostly illegally. They all started working in the fields harvesting oranges, cherries, tomatoes, and grapes to name a few.

My mother was born in Nuevo Leon Mexico and would travel between Texas and California to work the different seasons and crops. She dropped out of school in the 6th grade to work in the fields in order to help provide for the family. My father is from a small town in Jalisco. He left Mexico after high school for the United States along with his cousin. They both made several attempts to cross the border until they were finally successful. Most of my father’s brothers were already in California and he want to join them to also be able to send money back home. My father found work in the orchards near Lindsay California where he met my mother.

Once married and after having my brother they moved to San Jose California. There my father entered a trade school while working as a janitor. My mother found a job working at an electronics company putting together circuit boards. They worked long hours, swing and night shifts. Soon they were able to purchase their own home.

This is not a unique story. Thousands and thousands of families here in California and throughout the United States have similar stories. All of my uncles, aunts and cousins have similar stories. We have become machine shop workers, mechanics, electricians, truck drivers and yes landscapers. Some have even joined the armed forces.

We are Immigrants.

We are Americans.