Growing up poor, Latina and migrant
By Yolanda
Miranda
I was 12 years old when my
family finally stopped migrating to pick the harvest. My older brothers and
sisters had grown up following the crops through California and surrounding
states, gotten married and had their own families.
At last, my father had found a stable job on a
2,000-acre ranch. We got to live in a large two-story farmhouse with a barn that
was on the ranch. The house was dilapidated, but we felt as if we had landed in
paradise. We lived in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley, half way between
Delano and Earlimart, where my grandparents
lived.
We kids were delighted that we
could attend the same school all year round. I had lost count of how many
different schools I had attended while the family followed the harvests. Our joy
was short-lived. We quickly found out that we were looked down upon as
second-class citizens, or worse.
When
we hopped off the school bus, we were greeted by the school nurse who gripped
long wooden sticks. She took us, the migrant kids, aside and started running the
sticks through our hair looking for lice. Once, she found some on my head. I was
put back on the bus with some others and sent home. We were told we could not
return to school until we were lice-free. I could see the embarrassment on my
mother's face. She told me that no daughter of her's would bring shame on the
family by having lice. It was my fault, she said, because of my thick hair.
Then she sprayed my hair with kerosene, wrapped my head with a rag and let me
scratch my scalp until she decided that all the lice were
dead.
I finally was presented at school
where the nurse used the long 'chop sticks' to go through my hair before
pronouncing me fit to attend class. I walked into the classroom with my head
bowed down to my chest, unwilling to meet anyone's eyes. I felt as if I was
naked. Then I saw my cousin Lupe Valdez. She looked at me and winked. All my
fears melted away. When the lunch bell rang, she came over, held my hand and
said “Landi, you’re getting behind in reading but I''ll help
you.” Help me she did. From then on, although my cousin was only a few
months older than me, she became my guardian angel, my mentor and my
protector.
As a child and a Latina, I
was far from alone in experiencing such pain from being treated as less than a
human being. Such events are part of the daily life of women of color as they
grow up and live their lives. We can never outgrow it in this society, it seems.
Even women who should be honored as respected elders are often treated as if
they are still children. Events like International Women's Day remind us that we
are not alone. We feel strong when we think of the worldwide solidarity of women
of color. Viva La Mujer!
Posted: Sat
- March 1, 2003 at 07:08 PM