I long ago condemned myself to a constant state of yearning. I’m no longer just Colombian, nor American. I’m an immigrant. My tongue speaks a “broken” language. Spanish with forgotten words; English never rolling off as is “supposed to” in my thick accent. Trips to the grocery store filled with quests to the international aisles and Mexican supermarkets. Revelry filled music and dances that cannot be replaced by hip hop or pop, walking down the school hallways feeling like an outcast -one or two friends at much the first year, all of them other immigrants. Jobs without diplomas for my parents and for lower wages because in the States they’ll earn more washing dishes than in Colombia as the bosses of importation companies; barely seeing them because they have shifts of twelve or eighteen hours; taking care of my sister and giving her the attention they couldn't give her. I remember crying those first months because I felt like drowning; I was not prepared to raise a toddler. There was so much pressure, so much fear, so much loneliness; I was tired and had no one to talk to -family in Colombia were already worried, my mom and stepdad were transitory figures, too tired to be anything else, and my friends had disappeared already. But we were here and falling wasn't an option; going back was not a possibility. Now, I sometimes have these flashes of normalcy that last an instant. I think I can visit friends and family, that I’m home. And then I’m back in the huge buildings and empty streets. A sensation of wonder and melancholy filling me. Guiltily grateful for where I am. Behind is violence; behind is street harassment, the nonexistent opportunities for teenagers -no certainty about university, high rates of unemployment and poverty, not even a minimum wage for undergraduates- and the slaving jobs, the constant scandals about corruption, the apathy and complaint without action, the suffocating debts and loans, the avoidance to wear expensive things because there are thieves in every corner, the rarely heard protests, the bloodthirsty massacres. Behind is a culture of fear. I’m guiltily grateful because it feels like I'm a coward. My loved ones should be safe too. But what can I say? Tell your parents to leave the jobs they studied years for to come wash bathrooms? Leave your family and friends behind to experience the same yearning I feel? Come endure the discrimination and stigma we try to think doesn't exist so your kids will able to go to college? Ran away from the mandatory militar service that will get you killed to work in construction or maintenance? Neither option seems perfect because they both require us to give up something: status, comfort, loved ones, stability. In both countries we simply survive and the revelry of our people is the only thing to makes us feel alive. We can pursue the American dream that might leave us drained, or stay in Colombia where we might get killed. So we choose to believe home is the people; we make a place for ourselves in a country we'll always be foreign. We become immigrants. As one of them I decided long ago to study and create my own company (a book editorial or a publicity company) to give work to immigrants, then use the money I'll earn to go back and give my people the opportunities they never had. So they won’t have to run away, like I had to.

I long ago condemned myself to a constant state of yearning. I’m no longer just Colombian, nor American. I’m an immigrant. My tongue speaks a “broken” language. Spanish with forgotten words; English never rolling off as is “supposed to” in my thick accent. Trips to the grocery store filled with quests to the international aisles and Mexican supermarkets. Revelry filled music and dances that cannot be replaced by hip hop or pop. Jobs without diplomas for my parents and for lower wages because in the states they’ll earn more washing dishes than in Colombia as the bosses of importation companies. Flashes of normalcy that last an instant. I think I can visit friends and family, that I’m home. But then I’m back in the huge buildings and empty streets. A sensation of wonder and melancholy filling me. Guiltily grateful for where I am. Behind is violence; behind is street harassment, the nonexistent opportunities for teenagers -no certainty about university, high rates of unemployment and poverty, not even a minimum wage for undergraduates- and the slaving jobs, the constant scandals about corruption, the apathy and complaint without action, the suffocating debts and loans, the avoidance to wear expensive things because there are thieves in every corner, the rarely heard protests, the bloodthirsty massacres. Behind is a culture of fear. I’m guiltily grateful because it feels like I'm a coward. They should be safe too. But what can I say? Tell your parents to leave the jobs they studied years for to come wash bathrooms? Leave your family and friends behind to experience the same yearning I feel? Come endure the discrimination and stigma we try to think doesn't exist so your kids will able to go to college? Ran away from the mandatory militar service that will get you killed to work in construction or maintenance? Neither option seems perfect because they both require us to give up something: status, comfort, loved ones, stability. In both countries we simply survive and the revelry of our people is the only thing to makes us feel alive. We can pursue the American dream that might leave us drained, or stay in Colombia where we might get killed. So we choose to believe home is the people; we make a place for ourselves in a country we'll always be foreign. We become immigrants. I decided long ago to study and create my own publicity company to give work to immigrants and use that money to go back to fight for my people so they won’t have to run away, like I had to.