Words hold power, it is a privilege to have the words and resources to clearly express what you have lived and what you have felt, it makes you feel powerful. If words do make you powerful, then I have lived powerless most of my life. My lack of power comes from my lack of words: is your pain valid if it does not have a name?
     My pain started in 2018, it was the middle of summer, with one of those hot days that make you wonder if you are still on Earth, or if you have traveled to hell. The sun is at my back as I walk on the bridge to cross the U.S.-Mexico border. It was the beginning of my new life; I would move from my mother’s house in Juarez and go live with my sister in El Paso. My friends told me I was lucky, that I’ve had won in life for being born in the U.S. I felt victorious, the anticipation of starting high school in El Paso was all I could think about, recalling scenes from Hollywood movies wondering if it was going to be the same. In the middle of the bridge, the line started to enter the customs office. My nervousness kicked in, waiting in line, with my birth certificate in hand, anxious because I did not know English and I was going to talk with an officer, thinking the worst scenarios in my mind, what if they do not let me in? what if I get stuck at the border forever? what if my sister gets in trouble because of me? The only thing that calmed me was that my sister would be there with me; she had crossed the border countless of times before, and she knew what to do.
     As we came closer to the officer, I kept repeating when and where I was born. When it was our turn, the officer asked my sister some questions and proceed to ask me questions as well; the moment he started speaking to me, I froze. I started sweating and feeling anxious because I could not understand most of the words he was saying. I stayed silent as I did not know how to answer him.

     “Why are you not responding?” The officer asked me, clearly exasperated.
     “I don’t speak English very well,” I said, enunciating as much as I could.
     “You do not speak English? But you were born in El Paso.”
     “She was, but she was raised in Mexico, where our parents live.” My sister intervened.
     “But you were born here, you are American, but you do not know English, so what was the point of you being born here?”
     My sister and I stayed silent; I could not understand most of the words that he was saying but I could feel that his tone was reprehensible as if I did something wrong. I could feel my heartbeat racing.
     “I am guessing that if your parents had you in the U.S., it is because they wanted a better future for you. If you want a good job, you’ll need to learn English fast, you do not want to end up cleaning floors all your life, right? You’ve already won in life.”
      My stomach dropped, he said the last part in his broken Spanish, he wanted to make sure that I understood him, and in a way, he was right, my parents migrated to the U.S. in search of a better life and when they had me they were expecting the same. If they had not been deported, they would probably still live and work in the U.S. The final decision relied on me and my siblings to decide in which country we were going to build a future.
     After we finally left the customs office, I started to breathe again, my sister explained to me what the officer had said. The conversation kept rolling in my mind and a new fear was unlocked, I feared that the language barrier was going to be a bigger problem than I thought.
        Throughout the years I would cross the border many more times. It always amazed me how you could cross to another country with just a couple of steps, how a metal wall could be the only division between two territories, two cultures. As I reflect on how easy it is for me to cross the border with my citizenship, I think of the many families that risk it all to get to the U.S. sometimes leaving family members behind, or in the worst cases, losing their lives.
     When I feel homesick, I tend to consume media with a feeling similar to mine. The movie Brooklyn portrays a story about the immigrant experience that resonates with me. The protagonist is an Irish woman that migrates to New York, she leaves behind her mother and sister in Ireland, with the hope that one day they will see each other again after their circumstances improve, but months after the protagonist moves, her sister dies. The pain that comes from losing a loved one and not being able to mourn it with your family because it is not within your means to be with them, is one that my family thinks about frequently. On one of my visits to Mexico, my aunt confessed to me her fear of dying alone, as all her sons live in the U.S. but as undocumented immigrants, which stops them from visiting her anytime soon.
     There are different variations of the “immigrant pain,” mine comes from homesickness. After moving to the U.S. I realized the importance of having a sense of community. I quickly found comfort in my high school in El Paso. My ESL class is where I made all my friends, kids the same as me that have just moved from Mexico, Venezuela, or Colombia to the U.S. Our shared experiences united us and made me feel that I was not alone in my pain, but when I thought I had found my place, cruel life showed me otherwise.
     In my junior year, my sister and I moved to Kansas, a small town that always smelled like cows because of its meat factory. The town was so small that there was only one high school. Finding a sense of community was especially hard there. I had no friends that I could talk to in Spanish, and I felt that I had no real connection with any of my classmates. My sister, my only real friend, was busy all the time working night shifts six days a week, and that made me reflect on if living in the U.S. was even worth it in the end; the achievement everyone praised.

     This year would be my fifth year living in the U.S. and the lessons I have learned have been many, and even though I am grateful for having the privilege of living in the U.S. sometimes it does not feel like the place that I picture myself living the rest of my life. I think of the many lives that have been lost in the journey to cross the border, the people that were not victorious. A story that shook me to the core was of Oscar Alberto Martinez and his daughter of two years old who drowned in the Rio Bravo trying to get to the U.S. side of the border to request asylum. These are painful reminders that not everyone’s future is secured, that I have the fortune of already being on the other side of the border, and that my decision of staying or leaving will not only impact me but my family as well, and our chances to become successful.