Mercedes’ Immigration Story
My first home was my grandma’s. We lived with her for years. She hid what we were too young to understand, but her past showed in how she moved, spoke, cooked, and loved. Her trauma wasn’t loud, but it was there. She had immigrated from the Dominican Republic to a small two-bedroom apartment in New York, packed with enough memories to fill a mansion. That’s where she taught us who we were through stories, routines, smells, and quiet corrections when we forgot our roots.

She didn’t just leave home for herself, but for her three daughters. I’ve been told how hard it was, especially while tied to a man who hurt her. I never met him, but I know what he did. They first lived in an even smaller place chaotic with poverty, kids, and dreams to salvage.

She was the first woman in our family to reject illegal paths and try to start a legitimate business. That took courage. She wasn’t perfect. Sometimes sharp, sometimes silent. Like she was carrying too much. But living with her helped me understand why.

She built a community on Myrtle. The streets became our extended home. Food was her language. Arroz con carne most nights, and if we were lucky, habichuela con dulce. Her cooking wrapped the apartment in warmth. She didn’t say “I love you” often but she served it on every plate.

That’s what I admire most about her: despite everything taken from her, she never forgot who she was and she made sure we didn’t either.
 

– AM

Relationship:  Grandchild of im/migrant Grandchild of im/migrant