I use to think my family was cursed. That curse seemed to begin long before my 24-year-old grandmother came to the U.S in 1978 with a 6-month-old in her lap. With no money, knowing no English, and having no family, they were left to figure out what it meant to live in America: navigating the confusing road of obtaining a job, learning English, and trying to become educated. And then there are the lives of the second generation: my younger aunts and my sister and I. We too faced tales of urban poverty and inequitable education. For my entire ancestral lineage, it seems as though we have done nothing but struggle. While in the wake of these realizations, one could say that it only left me reticent towards chasing that American Dream. However, I recently visited my grandmother's homeland where she brought me a Hamsa bracelet after visiting the broken down house she was raised in. Every day, I look down at my wrist, and I’m reminded that I’m protected. That la mal de Ojo (the evil eye) did transpire its mythical suffering onto me and my family, but that hand wards of the evils that may come our way. The Hamsa symbol is important to me because my grandmother gave each of my family members some representation of that Hamsa when that was all she had to give. In whatever form, it is a reminder that I belong to an interconnected chain of struggle that while may be composed of a trail of broken dreams, tears, and hardship, it is one filled with hope, strong-will, and bravery. 

– Mathew Pulley

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