Anxiously I was shifting in my seat, I couldn't help but open the white tiny box in front of me. My tiny hands were sweating profusely scared my parents would catch me. Opening the box, my nose received a hit of a sweet and somewhat spicy aroma. Immediately before even touching the beads that were dipped in gold, my mother came running at me. “Ariadne, qué estás haciendo?! Te dije que esto no era para ti.” She ripped the box out of my fragile hands and scowled. I saw this box again on my sixteenth birthday. A cold shiver ran down my spine knowing if I touched it, I would see that nasty scowled face from my mom. As I gave the box back she said, “Es para ti.” For me? A couple years ago I cried myself to sleep after touching it. Two minutes after receiving this rosario my grandmother called me. I could hardly hear my grandmother's frail voice over the house phone. She talked my ear off. The Rosario I had wrapped around my neck was a gift from generations before me. It has been passed down and preserved the best to its abilities. My grandmother couldn't stress this enough but losing this rosario would make our family collateral damage.  I wouldn’t allow myself to be at peace with this holy grail. This Rosario is not where it is meant to be. That’s Mexico. The same goes with my parents.​​ They gave up their life and changed from one culture to another yet still haven't completed their American dream. Afterbeingherefor25twentyfiveyearsthereisnothingbutscrapsforthem.Therosarybydefinitionisadevotioninhonorofthe VirginMary.WhenIwearmyrosary,Ishowmydevotiontomyfamily. 

– Ariadne Martinez

Relationship:  Child of im/migrant Child of im/migrant