10 Years • Joel Pimentel

Chapter 7

Joel looked at me and got up. "I'll see you tomorrow." I nodded and got up too. He said goodbye to my parents after he got to the bottom. I took my time but at the same time hurried. Once I got to the bottom where my parents stood, my mom gently grabbed my hand and we walked inside.

"Is it about what happened at school?" I asked nervously as my father closed the door behind me.

We all gathered around the kitchen table as the awkwardness filled the room. My mother looked down at her delicate hands waiting for my father to say something.

"If it is, why are you guys making it seem like it's my fault?" I said innocently.

"No. It's not your fault." My father said grabbing my hand. "It's actually ours." He said rubbing my small hand with his thumb.

"Yours?" I asked confused. "How?"

"Alfonso it's not our fault either." My mom spoke up. She seemed to be in deep thoughts.

"Leticia, you know it is. It's our fault we left our country thinking we'll be giving her a better life by giving her opportunities we never hard." My father said out of breath. Regret soon appeared all over his face.

"But how is that our fault?" My mom said frustrated. "That has nothing to do with what happened."

"Our country?" I looked at both of them confused. I pull my hand away from my father as they both looked worried. "Stop looking at each other and tell me please!" I begged

My mother looked at me and took a deep breath. "Your father and I were born in Mexico. At a young age, we came with our parents here. But our parents got deported. I hide here and had to grow up quickly. I had to learn English and be independent. One day, I decided to go back home. Living here was depressing. Its like I don't matter since I'm undocumented. So I went back."

"When my parents got deported, couple days later, I went back. I was too young to be here and be independent. I wanted my parents. I learned English while I was here though." My father said. "I promised myself I was going to come back with my wife and kid, one day."

He looked over at my mother and smiled. "Years later, I met your mother. We told our stories and promised we would come back to California. But agreed to not hurt our child or children by letting them know their background story."

"So When we were moving, we decided not to let you know where we come from. You're young so we believed you would never ask." My mother said.

"We were wrong for doing that." My father said.

"Okay obviously I know we're Hispanos. But I thought I was born here. Like the boys." I said. "Did we migrate?"

"Si Mija." My mom said ashamed. "We're Mexican. Ever since you were born, we decided to not let you know where we lived. We didn't want to hurt you."

"That explains the California sign." I whispered to myself remembering everything. It all makes sense now.

Now I know why I can't fly out. Now I know why I have to be careful with specific vehicles. Now I know why my father would go to the fields to work. He was a campesino. It all makes sense.

"Why would you kept that away from me?" I asked confused. "Did you think I'll be embarrassed?"

"In a way, yes." My father admitted.

"Why would I be embarrassed of where I was born and my background?" I don't understand. I will never be embarrassed of where I come from. My parents stayed quiet and didn't look at me.

"Is there another secret?" I said a bit mad. I'm eight years old and I know many believe I'm too young to know things but I'm a smart girl and very mature.

It hurts that my own parents are already keeping secrets away from me. Especially ones that involves my identity. This sounds ridiculous and I'm just waiting for them to tell me it's all a joke.

"No mija. There's no more secrets" my mother spoke up. "We were living the life of a campesino family. Just like the book you read in school last year. What was it called?"

"Cajas de cartón." I simply said. "Our life was nowhere near as painful as Francisco's. We didn't suffer like he did. We had some similarities but not the-" as I spoke, I was reflecting and comparing his life to mine. I stayed quiet as I thought.

Francisco was young like me. His family would travel from different places because of the season and crops they would pick up. I, in the other hand, never moved. My father would pick up the same crops. Due to the fact of him traveling, he would be transferring schools every season. It was hard for him to stay in one school and really focus. I'm lucky I didn't suffer as much and that I had the ability to study back in Mexico.

I let out a small chuckle. "I always read stories of people having this fear of their parents getting deported. I always thought to myself, if I was in that position. I would never leave my house." My parents eyes got watery as my vision got blurry. "Little did I know I'm in their shoes too. But the fear is of me also being deported and leaving everything behind here."

"Mija, everything will be okay. Okay?" My mom's breathing got heavier.

"What if one day I come home from school and find the migra here? Ready to take us?" I let out the tears I was holding back.

My heart breaks at the fact that I'll one day be taken back to my country and never see again the people, or should I said person, that I care about.

I stood up and told my parents I was going to sleep early not caring that it was barely going to be seven.

Now I know why parents didn't want to tell me anything. I really wished they wouldn't had confessed. But no matter how many times I wish I didn't knew and that this news was still a secret, I'm glad I know. I'm glad that there's one less secret. But now I'm afraid. Little Amelia has to grow up.