The Undocumented Speak Out Everybody has a story to tell. It doesn't matter who you are or who your audience is. This is true even for recent arrivals in this country.You can still speak, still shout out, "Hello, America! I'm here!" This is true, even if you are one of those people who are invisible, identified only by the label that in the minds of many renders you a non-person, an alien somebody. But you have personhood. You can still say, "I am somebody. I have a right to

I embrace the perpetual life link to the multitude of experiences, ordeals, occurrences, escapades, adventures, as well as the delightful, amusing, entertaining, pleasant and satisfying episodes that span my past life and that have impacted my present views that in turn continue to build my near future. Our entire life is filled with so many happy, sad, and fulfilling activities. Some we try to accentuate while others we attempt to squelch and yet, they all emerge at unexpect

Maria Ramirez My heart was pounding with excitement to return to central Mexico. The scenery was breathtaking. I could not wait to visit other amazing states in the Republic. I didn’t nap, I did not want to miss a thing, especially the people that got on the bus offering their homemade delicacies. Their humble baskets cradled finger-licking treats. No companion was necessary, I had no worries about being hijacked by the cartel. I no longer travel by bus due to the risk of be

Recently, I was asked how I decided what to write and how I approach the subject. I had never given this much thought but it appears I write about what is happening where I am. During the height of the Chicano Movement, I wrote and presented my poetry at rallies, meetings, and evening sessions with other poets. In the 1980s I worked on a Ph.D. and wrote three thirty-page term papers every three months to fulfill the requirements for my doctorate. Before I retired as a tenured

Two women who lived with several Mexican states between them found themselves in a common place and time in a breath-taking setting, El CREFAL (Regional Center for the Education of Adults in Latin America) in Pátzcuaro, (Michoacán,) México. They shared an experience they had in common. The two women had been sent to prepare to go to the United States as exchange teachers. I had hosted these ladies in past years at my Colorado home for these programs of which Colorado and Mexi

My heart was pounding, not from fear like in these present times, but with excitement. No companion necessary, I had no worry of being hijacked by the cartel. The only delay, a quick stop, the driver opened the door and a line of thirsty, desperate migrants walked into the bus and quickly sat on the empty seats. My heart raced, not knowing what was going on. I stretched my neck and stared toward the driver, the other passengers behind me, and in front of me. No one said a wor