Mennonite Central Committee

Nancy Rivera is the Service Program Co-Administrator/Regional Associate for MCC Central States, Southern Tier in Texas. Nancy participated in the 2007 MCC Migrant Trail delegation and is helping to plan this year’s delegation.

This is a reflection of her experience on the Migrant Trail.

I set out for the Migrant Trail because forgetting can be such a simple thing. It’s as if once we find ourselves in a comfortable place, having a secure job, a house and vehicle of our own, we immediately forget where we came from. Memories become a bit fuzzy, our native tongue becomes something foreign to us and our traditions are not so important to us and begin to fade away. And so little by little, immigration becomes more of an issue that affects others instead of something that affects us, our family, and our friends.

Weeks before the trail, I was a complete mess. My anxiety levels were at their maximum. But as the Migrant Trail approached, I had amazing conversations with people. I am a person who needs security and I cope with my anxiety by being as prepared as I can be.

Then my friend Marina reminded me of something as we were sitting in her living room talking about my own guilt over my anxiety. She challenged me to think of the people who are just like me, people who need to plan ahead of time in order to cope and deal with their anxiety. What would they do in such a situation? How do they cope with their stress? They probably wouldn’t stay back home, they would set out towards El Norte!

I also talked to Harley Eagle (MCC Anti-Racism Co-Director) who reminded me to think of and to reconnect with my ancestors, people who have come before me and have laid the path out. He also reminded me to think of my own family while on the trail, whether they approved of what I was doing or not. Karin Kaufman Wall (MCC Peace and Justice Associate) also reminded me of the importance of embarking on this journey with people who I knew like Monica, Hermano Lupe, Jodi (others in the MCC delegation). People in whom I would find the support to keep on going, people who I would look out for and they look out for me, people who would be my family.

And last, when I was at my peak and afraid of the long and strenuous journey, I was reminded and comforted by my prima (cousin) of how we came from people who walked. Our grandmother would walk everywhere back in México. We would walk everywhere with her or alone as well, we just never knew or measured how much we had walked.

As I walked in the desert, I looked around and couldn’t help but think of home. The mesquite trees, the cacti, even the rocks reminded me of the land that surrounds our home in México. As I looked down, watching my steps, trying to find the best way to walk so that it minimized the amount of pain that my feet were in, I was suddenly taken back to my childhood. I was now following my grandmother and my cousins were walking along with me as we were on our way to the presa (dam). My grandmother would take us on these adventures while our mothers were taking a siesta during the hottest hours of the day. These were a few of the times where us young ones and those who were older were at the same place, just a bunch of kids waiting for an adventure. I then looked up and was quickly brought back and so I thought… how could a place that is so amazing, a place that brought so many beautiful memories, be a place that has caused the death of so many people, our people!

I carried a cross with me during the Migrant Trail. My cross read the name of a young woman, Maria Lucia Martinez Nava who died on February 23, 2004. Throughout the trail I wondered what she went through when she decided to leave home. What did her family think of her decision? Did she go on this journey alone, or was her family able to accompany her? Did she ever stop to think about the risks that came with this trip? Or maybe thinking of the risks is a luxury that only we have. I still can’t forget that she was my age, 26 years old, when she embarked on her journey towards El Norte and that this was the last decision she would ever make in her life.

I’m a Chicana, and these are my people, people who risk their lives for a chance of a better tomorrow, people who are ever so brave that the amount of courage they have is unheard of and unimaginable. And although these are my people, I now understand that I will never know how it feels to be them. I will never know the fear that a man faces as he leaves his family and the country that he so dearly loves and holds close to his heart. I will never know the fear that a woman faces as she asks for contraceptive injection before she makes her journey across the border, knowing the reality that awaits her. I will never know the fear that children face not knowing what will become of them if their parents were to be deported back home.

All I know is the dead skin that my blisters left behind, the nail that is only partly attached to my toe but that will fall off any day now, and the teachings that I received from the elders throughout the walk. And so I left the Migrant Trail with these last words that brother Luis gave to Monica and me, “hechenle muchas ganas al estudio,” in other words, give all you’ve got to your studies. Since then, those words have been going through my mind and I’m learning what they mean to me. What does it mean to be a Chicana with an education? How does my education affect others beyond my family and my immediate community? How can I contribute to the betterment of my people? And so, little by little, I try to understand my own role, as the child of immigrant parents, in what has taken the lives of so many of our people. Yet, I'm still challenged by so many unanswered questions!