The story of immigration did not start when we moved to the United States about 7 years ago.
It started when I was 5 years old, nearly 18 years ago.
I'm originally from Ecuador, but at the tender age of 5, my family decided to move to another country for better job opportunities because in Ecuador at the time, everything was going down the hill, and Chile back then was a pretty attractive country for others. But my parents did not count on the racism present in the country.
Moving to Chile meant that my family of 5, my parents and 2 siblings, had to start from zero in life. I will never forget our first night because we had to sleep on the floor of a very old apartment building, and we had to sleep so close to each other to conserve heat due to the winter season in Chile just setting in.
Due to the decision of my parents moving to Chile, I started to wonder where my dad and mom were because they left early in the morning and came back late at night. I rarely saw them at home because both of them were working, trying to provide for their family of 5 members. My siblings, who were just 2 and 3 years older than me, had the duty to take care of me.
When I started to go to elementary school, I saw that many of my classmates had parents that were caring for them and were already there when they got out of school. For me, it was quite unique because I used to wait for at least 1 hour or 2 until my mom picked me up, because she was getting out of work around those after-hours of my school. Frankly, it was heartbreaking because I always thought that she did not care for me or my siblings.
By the time I turned 16, and when my family was sort of economically stable and I was able to see my parents a bit more often, still living paycheck to paycheck, my mom gathered the family and said the following words:
"Chicos, tuve un sueño. Dios quiere que nos mudemos a Estados Unidos. Vamos a salir del país al final del año."
To me, my entire world got destroyed because I knew that the same story of immigration, of living in the minimum, would repeat again. And again, I would stop seeing my parents during the afternoons.
Long story short, when I moved here, I thought that the people in America, more specifically in Utah, were so naive and oblivious to the scarcity and the fight that many people worldwide live every single day to bring some bread to the table. I could not relate to anybody in high school because I thought that they did not have any idea of what the real world felt like. They did not know struggle or hard work. Like I said, I started to become a bitter person.
Due to these experiences, I started to find peace in God and joy in the little things of life. Since I went through all the hardships of immigration since I was little, my heart has healed through God, and now I try to extend my hand to those in need and provide support to those that need it.
Being Latino has taught me that it is not about what you go through, but rather, it is about what you do with the things that you've been through, just like the courage and grit shown by my parents.