Immigrants Are People Too

by Sonya Badillo

My grandmother Maria Reyes Avila came to this country when she was twenty-one years old from Mexico City.

She was one of fifteen kids and the only one who decided to take a chance and move to the States for the possibility of a new life and better opportunities.

When she came to this country, she had no money, no job, nothing but the clothes on her back and the dream of a better life. She started as a maid for the wealthy people of Los Angeles until she saved enough money to buy her first apartment. Her first apartment was not big or fancy; it was a single bedroom with a shared bathroom and no air conditioning or heater. But she made it work and continued to keep her hopes up.

One night, she and her friends decided to go dancing at the Hollywood Palladium, and that is where she met my grandfather.

My grandfather, Reinaldo Muela Avila, immigrated to America when he was eight years old from Monterrey, Mexico. When he first came to this country, he was undocumented and could only find work as a grape picker in the fields of Oxnard, California. It was the only way he could provide for himself and his family. He used to tell my siblings and me stories of how he would come home from work with a sore back and calloused hands. He used to say that when he got his papers, he would always carry them around with him because he was afraid of getting stopped or being deported. He would tell us that the people he used to work with were also undocumented, but they did not have their papers yet or could not get them, so he would help them forge fake papers.

My grandfather worked several jobs so that he could save up enough money for himself and his family. He worked as a cook, a bus driver, a cleaner, and a busboy. One night, he went to the Hollywood Palladium and met my grandmother. He said that she was way out of his league, but he still pursued her. My grandmother would tell us that when she first met my grandfather, she thought he was nice, but never thought she would see him again. After two years of dating, they got married and had my uncle Rey. Then they had my tía Elizabeth, my tía Marylin, and my mom.

They knew that they needed to get an education to further themselves in their careers, so they decided to go to college. My grandma got an AA degree from Los Angeles Community College, and my grandpa transferred to Pepperdine University, where he majored in theology. After college, my grandpa worked for the U.S. Department of Consumer Affairs as a research analyst. He used to joke that he was border control—except behind a desk—because he used to spot fake documents. And because he used to forge fake papers, he was really good at spotting them.

My mom was the last one to go to college because she was the youngest and the baby of the family. She attended Mount Saint Mary’s University, where she majored in English and graduated with her bachelor's degree. She planned on attending dentistry school, but she got pregnant with my older brother, so she dropped out of school at twenty-one to take care of him. She got her teaching credential from Perdew University and started working at various schools to earn money for her family.

Instead of throwing her out of the house, my grandparents jumped right in to help her. They took care of my older brother and then my other brother when he came. While my mom was at work, my grandparents were the ones taking my older brothers to school, after-school programs, and making sure they got home on time. When my mom married my dad and had my sisters and me, my grandparents did the same for us. I remember coming home from school and my grandma having a table of dishes already prepared, our toys laid out ready for us to play with, and the TV turned to our favorite Disney Channel show, Kim Possible.

When I was six years old, my grandpa was killed by a drunk driver in a driving accident, and my grandma was permanently paralyzed from the waist down. The person was caught but then paid the bail fee, and we never saw him again. My grandma then decided to move to Virginia with my tía Marylin and her family. We still kept in touch, but it was not the same as having her here.

During spring break, we got the news from my tía that my grandmother had passed away. She was ninety-six years old. We attended her funeral and wake the next day.

Unlike the stereotypes about immigrants being drug dealers and thieves, my grandparents were nothing like that; they were good people who just dreamed of having a better life. They wanted to come to America for the better opportunities that were available here, which is what all immigrants are looking for.

They are simply looking for a better life—nothing else.

The last time I saw my grandma, I asked her if she ever became a United States citizen. She said that she and my grandpa were both only permanent residents, not even true citizens.

I asked her if she regretted it, and she said that she never did. She believed that even if she were a citizen, she would never truly be treated as one.