Why I decided to become a mother of Spanish Heritage Speakers.

It all started when a female immigrant to the U.S. decided to take another path in life, different from the traditional: she began her journey to the north.  

My mother met my father at a quinceañera. My father was just out from the Catholic seminary. He was the chosen one, from a numerous family of eighteen siblings, which was fortunate for me as it gave him access to a formal education. He fell in love with my mother’s face, smile, innocence, and her determined attitude without knowing the radical side of his first love after having entered secular life. They dated for five years until my father built their home in Cali, a condition given by my grandma. According to my calculations, when my father saw the house built, he advanced the great announcement by conceiving me in my mother’s womb. Their marriage was celebrated on March 7, 1970, and my birthday was on the twelfth of October of that that same year.  

My mother was a hopeful bride, expecting a life full of love, affection, and good treatment. Nevertheless, she found herself with a man who was not affectionate, raised by meticulous catholic priests, and of a selfish personality. The harmony lasted for very little time. They tried at first, and immigrated together to New Jersey, hoping to add numbers to the Colombian community in the northeastern part of the U.S.  

My mother liked the lifestyle at the north. On the contrary, my father found it difficult and returned to his life as a secondary teacher in a school near the city of Cali. My father returned to Colombia, but my mother decided to work a little more to return with money and open a dairy store (or any type of store) in the garage of our house in the city. This intention took a different road. My mother returned to Colombia a year after my father. She was changed, but she was still hopeful. During that time they could not live together, and my mother told my father about her plans of leaving.  He did not believe her plans because her visa had expired.  

In 1976, a day and date that I do not remember, my mother decided to sacrifice her motherhood. She decided to find a better future for me and to be a free woman for herself. She bought a plane ticket to Puerto Rico, a territory of the U.S. Upon entrance, a Puerto Rican customs agent pointed out to her that her visa had expired. My mother pretended ignorance and stated that her trip was only for a weekend of “fun shopping” and asked the officer to please show her to a good hotel. He very nicely recommended one and said that he would visit later that day in case she needed something.  She thanked him and left with only a handbag. When she got out of immigration, she went to an airline window and bought a direct flight to New York. In the seventies, global systematization did not exist and only cash was needed for an immediate flight purchase. My mother was able to get into Kennedy airport with an expired visa. A friend welcomed her to her new life as a migranta. 

Like her, there are many women who sacrifice their maternity seeking a better future for those who she loves: her children. My mother and I reunited after five years. I was a pre- teen and we did not get along. Two years after I came to the U.S. for the first time, I left her and decided to continue my upbringing with my formal educated father, who allowed me to be myself, just under the strong advice that I continue my love for reading (my mom tells me that when I was little, he would make me kiss books even before I was able to speak). Finally, when I was twenty-three years old my parents decided to exile me to the U.S. so that I could find a better future and would be able to live comfortably. This is the best decision they had taken together.     

After reading “a couple” of books, I wanted to bring a child to the world so they could enjoy the world just like I do; that was my reasoning at that moment. However, now I do not think the same. I believe that I decided to give birth to thank my mother for what she did for me. I could not limit her from the feeling of being a grandmother. For me, at thirty-two, one child was enough, but she would pressure me with the idea of a needed sibling, and that I was raising a lonely boy. I knew I could not let my son be an only son and could not let my mother without her female grandkid. My daughter was born beautiful, resembling her grandma’s beauty and determined attitude.  

Now, I am a mother of two Spanish heritage speakers. The day that each of my children were born, I felt vulnerable. Since their birth dates, any decision I make not only affects me but affects them too. I am a different mother, one of those Colombian mothers that speaks with popular expressions of wisdom and intense behaviors denoting love and care. I am only halfway through raising my children and my only hope is that they will quickly find a way of surviving on their own happily. I hope that they listen to my cantaleta without chancleta, that they look at my role modeling, and that above all, they realize their hardworking Colombian immigrant parents, although a little different, are similar to any other parent. If one day they decide to have children, I wish it is for them and not for me. I do not need grandchildren. I need them to be happy, live well, have a profession that they love, and enjoy the world the way I have enjoyed it, or better. I want them to always help others, respect others, and take care of the planet where mother nature lives. Lastly, I hope that they will maintain their heritage language.