My full name is hard to remember, or so I'm told. It's Mexican, which clearly defines my origin as Hispanic in plenty of surveys. But I believe to ask for my origin in terms of race is wrong, because my race is not what defines me. To know my true origin, you must understand my name. I am named after two women. My mother told me they lived with heads high and hearts strong. They didn't stand for injustice or silence. They were Natalia Reyes, my great-grandmother, and Alfonsa Reyes, my grandmother. I never met my great-grandmother, but I visit often with my grandmother- my Abuelita. Despite the language barrier, we always have a good time. She always tells me “Mija, te quiero mucho”- my little girl, I love you very much.
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I was curious why. So one night, I asked. That's when my life changed forever. The night my mother told me about the abuse that went about in my family my mind spiraled. My great-grandmother and Abuelita were abused by their husbands throughout their lives. I couldn't believe it. My grandfather seemed so nice. An anger rose inside, my heart filled with grief. Angry, I asked my mother why they never left their abusers. Her hair fell into her eyes; there was a pause as she looked for an answer to her ten year old daughter’s question. Finally she responded, eyes watering. “Mija it wasn't that simple. Where would they have gone? Your great-grandmother had no money. And your grandmother was an immigrant to America with broken English and children. Society wasn't like the way it is today. Women couldn't just leave. Men were dominate.” That night, and many years after, I wondered, what if what happened to them happens to me?
Several years later- the morning beautiful, innocent- I'm stretching on the bleachers in black yoga pants and a hand me down tee,
I was curious why. So one night, I asked. That's when my life changed forever. The night my mother told me about the abuse that went about in my family my mind spiraled. My great-grandmother and Abuelita were abused by their husbands throughout their lives. I couldn't believe it. My grandfather seemed so nice. An anger rose inside, my heart filled with grief. Angry, I asked my mother why they never left their abusers. Her hair fell into her eyes; there was a pause as she looked for an answer to her ten year old daughter’s question. Finally she responded, eyes watering. “Mija it wasn't that simple. Where would they have gone? Your great-grandmother had no money. And your grandmother was an immigrant to America with broken English and children. Society wasn't like the way it is today. Women couldn't just leave. Men were dominate.” That night, and many years after, I wondered, what if what happened to them happens to me?
Several years later- the morning beautiful, innocent- I'm stretching on the bleachers in black yoga pants and a hand me down tee,