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Migration into the united states of america
Essay on mexican migration to the united states
Essay on mexican migration to the united states
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My parents are from Oaxaca, Mexico who migrated to the United States, specifically Los Angeles, looking for the American Dream. Both parents grew up in a poor town called San Andres Yaa and San Cristobal Lachirioag. Unfortunately my dad went to the wrong path. Instead of coming here to live a better life he made his life worse. My dad fell in to alcoholism and he made our life undesirable. My life, my world, and my home depended on an alcoholic father. To make things worse my family suffered economically since my dad was the only one who worked. I had to resist the arguments and violence that my dad would do towards us when he came home all drunk up. My dad had two persons living in one body, one would be the loving father, and the other would
At the age of two my parents made the long and devastating journey to bring me and my siblings to the United States from Mexico. Wanting a brighter future for us, my parents fought tooth and nail to give us the world they didn’t grow up having. Ever since stepping foot on the U.S soil, going back seemed impossible. The effects of this life-changing move, couldn’t mask the unforeseen disadvantages. Lacking exposure to Mexico’s colorful culture, little to no bonding time with my family from abroad, and the struggle of trying to blend into an environment that was so different, soon began to interfere with my overall identity. Realizing this, my wonderful parents prepared a transformative trip back to my homeland, and back to the past, facing
Affected by my family, my background, and everything around me, I was born in a family who is the first generation to get here. My grandmother, and my parents, along with some other relatives, moved here in search of better opportunities, like those from other countries for the same idea. They started out fresh but had a hard time to get started, when I was little, I assumed it had to be somewhat easy, but for people who do not know English it is like starting from scratch, but they did well, they’ve made it.
I have to introduce you to three individuals, not random individuals, but siblings - two brothers and a sister. They may seem just like any other people, but they have a secret that isn’t easily realized unless you know them. They belong here in the sense that they were born here, but their hearts belong to another land. They are the children of immigrants; the first generation to be born in America. It is a unique experience that to others may seem odd or exotic, but for these three is just as normal as learning to ride a bike.
My family of origin is Haitian. My grandfather was a crop farmer in Haiti. My maternal grandmother passed away when my mother was eight years old. As a result, my mother became somewhat of a foster child. While her father was living, his work prevented him from taking care of her, so he sent her to live with multiple families so that he could provide for her. My mother was abused in many of the homes she was placed in. My Mother came
Being a Hispanic have impacted all my entire life; I lived 15 years of my life in Mexico I love being there because most part of my family live in Nuevo Laredo, I was cursing my last months of 8th grade and one day my mom told me that she was thinking about send me here to the U.S to start learn English; since I’m a U.S citizen and I didn't know the language of my country, I accepted. The most hard prove was live without having my mom at my side, since I live with my aunt now; when the days passed here in the U.S I started to depressed myself because I missed so much my house and all my family, one day in the middle of the night I call my mom crying and I told her that I really want go back to Mexico, but she didn’t take into account my desire my mom just explained me that it will be the best for my future and with the time I will be thankful with her for don’t let me go back. My mom, and my grandmother are the ones who motivates me to be a better student. Actually I’m in dual enrollment and I have taken AP classes; sometimes is hard for me talk, read or write in another language that the one I was accustomed but, every time I fail I get up and persist until I’m able to do what I want.
I come from a low income family with no background. My parents do not speak English. When we first moved to America, I had to teach myself English and then teach it to my parents. It is agonizing and heartbreaking to see how hard my parents work for my siblings and I. As immigrants, they work day and night in order to provide us with a better education and life. My mom leaves for work at 4 am and comes back at 7pm. My dad leaves at 5 am and comes back at 8 pm. Ever since my sister and I were young, we had to act like adults. We did all the chores, study, cook and more. My parents sacrificed a lot for me, just so I would have a taste of success that they never...
I moved to the united states of America on February 14 2002, I came here to start afresh and begin a new life of opportunity, I must admit I never knew what to really expect other than what I've seen on television as such, it was a dream come through for me. However upon my arrival I realized and experienced that it was really as expected but in order to live a good life I had to work hard to achieve it. In my family I am the first son of my father and that automatically puts a lot of responsibility on me, responsibility on me to care for my parents, siblings and even my grand parents this has been hammered repetitively in me, we are an African family and the culture is different even the norms as well,
My grandmother has a certain look in her eyes when something is troubling her: she stares off in a random direction with a wistful, slightly bemused expression on her face, as if she sees something the rest of us can’t see, knows something that we don’t know. It is in these moments, and these moments alone, that she seems distant from us, like a quiet observer watching from afar, her body present but her mind and heart in a place only she can visit. She never says it, but I know, and deep inside, I think they do as well. She wants to be a part of our world. She wants us to be a part of hers. But we don’t belong. Not anymore. Not my brothers—I don’t think they ever did. Maybe I did—once, a long time ago, but I can’t remember anymore. I love my grandmother. She knows that. I know she does, even if I’m never able to convey it adequately to her in words.
Since I am not of native decent my family has gone through the immigration process on both sides. My family tree dates back generations to Ireland and England. My father is mainly Irish, his Irish roots trace back to his grandparents. His family had remained in Ireland for centuries until later immigrating to the U.S. The history further than my great-grandparents is vague as my father’s family had lived in Ireland for generations before. Despite being predominately Irish my closest roots with immigration come from England. My grandfather on my mother’s side is a first-generation citizen and is the only immigrant I have known in my family. He often discusses his roots in England and what life was like adjusting to life in America. His stories provide a unique perspective of life in America, verse life in England where our family originates from.
My father was born in Mexico and lived there for roughly twelve years. His father ultimately decided to immigrate to America for a better job opportunity. It is likely he made that decision from seeing other family members and friends do the same. In 1977, my dad along with his father, mother, and siblings immigrated to America. They lived in northern Chicago in a mostly Hispanic neighborhood. Although it was not entirely
As time went by, living in Massachusetts, my close knit family started to part. There were many events added to this, but, the biggest of them was learning who my father really was. My father always had an air of mystery to his character. I finally figured out what that was. My dad has bipolar depression and also suffers from alcoholism. The move to the north was very difficult for him, money was tight, which made his symptoms worse.
The American dream is a goal many hope to live. This desire dream of many individuals includes a hardship, and dedication. The United States represents freedom to many immigrants who fought for a better way of life. America has been a nation of immigrants, starting with its original inhabitants, who left their homelands for a chance to start a new life. According to an article by Gilder Lehrman Institute, over the past 400 years immigrants have escaped to America for many reasons. In the article some reasons for their escapes from their homes was due to war; others for the freedom to practice the religion of their choice. Freedom is the key in America, and the pursuit of happiness, which many fought to be part of. Many immigrants take long journeys for the economic opportunities. Even after thousands of years of immigration history America is still the land of the free, and the country where many can accomplish their American Dream.
Life changes in matter of seconds. Imagine waking up to news of moving to a different country as an innocent young child, leaving friends and family behind and moving to a country thousands of miles away. I can still remember how terrified I was of leaving my homeland and coming to a new, different environment. Going to a place where I had no friends or family was the hardest thing ever. My friends and family members were very upset and they were crying because I was leaving. I was trying to be strong and hold back my tears. I had no choice of staying or leaving because I was only 11 years old and I had to leave with my parents. They had to leave the country because they owned a clothing store and it was no longer performing like it used to. They wanted to leave Egypt and live the American dream. My life went through a complete change because I moved to a new country, had to adapt to a new culture, learn a new language.
Our whole lives we grew up thinking that we would never get to meet or see him. Sometimes we all thought that he had another family over here in the US and that this was the reason he never left back to Mexico to visit us, or that he was dead, but we were all wrong. In May 2005, our mother passed away at the age of 26, she was a very young mother and left three girls behind who 's ages were six, eight, and ten-years-old. After this tragedy, Alejandra along with Fernanda had to move in with our aunt. I, Maria, stayed with my grandmother. We lived with them for about a year. That year was the hardest because our lives had changed in just a snap of a finger. My grandmother wasn 't the nicest person to me, I was hit and sometimes I wasn 't fed. Luckily my sisters had better luck. One day, Alejandra got a call from our so called father to let her know he was leaving the United States and would be on his way to
My father spent his early life running. Running from the terror in Mexico to the United States. Running from the gang and violence-infested communities in southeast Los Angeles to Houston. With each start he was not only running away from something, but towards something: towards a safer future for his family. In his eyes, the desired future was not attainable in such areas where conflict was prevalent. The only viable option was not to wait for the tensions to subside but to take matters into his own hands and search for the harmony that he never experienced. Growing up, I noted how these experiences influenced my father’s values in the way that he tried to raise his family. While these accounts did not directly affect me as much as they