For my AP Human Geography project I was asked to create a memoir emphasizing with someone's experience as a migrant or a refugee. For my project I chose to look through the eyes of a Peruvian boy escaping poverty and drug violence. I believe that these stories of human experience have the capability to change people's views of other groups of people and I think that is what we should all be doing when we walk around in our daily lives Exercise compassion and empathy and help create the world that we all want. I was inspired by a book I read and other articles. I used some stories and ideas in my memoir.
Enjoy!
Hello. My name is Jose Carlos. I am 17 years old, yesterday. And this is my third year away from my mother. On my birthday every year I would go to the market and buy a Tuna fruit for us to share. We would pick off the thorns and let the sweet juice dribble down our necks. This was the singular thing every year that would be different from our daily rice and beans. Yesterday that didn’t happen, but I hold onto the hope that next year it will. When I was just 8 years old my mom and dad and I were heading off to el norte, the north. We were coming from Peru where we had little food and land and were barely surviving. We had almost made it to Panama when our truck got stopped at the border. We were sitting on the bench with the driver and transporting coffee beans into Columbia, acting as a family business when in reality we paid our smuggler to get us through Columbia safely. My mom and dad knew of the drug crimes and didn’t want their only child to grow up in such an unsafe place. But that is exactly what happened. While the officer checked our truck, my parents and I went to go relieve ourselves. It had been over 10 hours throughout the harsh hot day. When we came back to our smuggler, he was on the ground dead and my mom and my dad were handcuffed. My mom whispered that I would be ok, and that I should meet her by the jail at noon the next day. I didn’t know where I was nor where they were taking mi madre and so in the dead of night to the sound of my parents screams, and my own wailing, I went off to the side of the road and fell asleep. Life after that things were always on edge. I eventually found my mother, but my father was nowhere to be found. I heard rumors that instead of going to the male jail across the street from the female jail, he ran off to pursue our initial dream. My mom was heartbroken and for the first few months all I could get out of her was short bits of what had happened. Apparently coca leaves had been found under the bench we had been sitting on. Our smuggler wasn’t just a migrant coyote but a drug trafficker. More than I can count I have been threatened by the local gangs to join their cartel but I have the ironic protection of my mom in jail, arrested eternally, for a crime she unknowingly committed. When I turned 14 I knew that soon the gangs would be on my heels for me to join, just as my family had predicted six years earlier. I had to go somewhere. I loved mi madre dearly but I could see her slipping into a state of grief. She was feeble, in mind and body. No matter how much the jail gave her to eat, she would give 75% of it to me. She would barely touch her own food saying that I should take the food to grow strong, and follow my father's footsteps, and make a better life for myself and my family. I took that into my heart and repeat it like a mantra every day. I was able to learn how to read and write because on of a woman in the prison was a school teacher before a similar fate to my family had befallen her. So with my sporadic knowledge of the world and my goal of reaching Estados Unidos, I set off on my 14th birthday. I left a short note to mi madre telling her how much I loved her and little else. If the local gang had found it, I would barely take a step outside the village. They owned every pile of dirt I had walked on since I was 8 years old and they thought they owned me too. But I was going to prove them wrong. I had already. Which brings me to present day. I am now residing in Mexico. It has taken me 3 years to travel North. I have encounter more bad people than I have count, but I have made a friend. Her name is Andrea Maria and we have been traveling together since I turned 15. We met on a train heading through Honduras. A gang of boys at least 5 years my senior were harassing her and teasing her. She was the only girl on the train and it was clear what was going to happen if someone didn't stop it. I knew that she didn’t deserve to have this fate, and I knew that all of us on the train were there for the same reason. This was my 5th time riding on the train and I had gotten to know the culture. So I voiced what I knew, just as mi madre had told me, and Andrea and I walked to the back of the train, holding onto each other for support and talked about our hopes and dreams. I told her about my family and how I am afraid I will slip away and lose courage like my mom. She told me she ran away from her dad that beat her. We listened to each other and held each other tight because that was the only thing that could ever seem right at that moment. We are now both 17 years old and living at a migrant sanctuary in Mexico. We have been targeted time and time again but we feed off of the comfort and resilience of each other. Andrea is pregnant now. All we want is for our baby to become a citizen of the Estados Unidos. Tomorrow we set off to San Diego. Our host knows of a passage that many families similar ours have taken. They call it the Tuna route because just like the Peruvian fruit, it is quite thorny in the beginning, but once you get to the good parts, it feels like heaven.
Enjoy!
Hello. My name is Jose Carlos. I am 17 years old, yesterday. And this is my third year away from my mother. On my birthday every year I would go to the market and buy a Tuna fruit for us to share. We would pick off the thorns and let the sweet juice dribble down our necks. This was the singular thing every year that would be different from our daily rice and beans. Yesterday that didn’t happen, but I hold onto the hope that next year it will. When I was just 8 years old my mom and dad and I were heading off to el norte, the north. We were coming from Peru where we had little food and land and were barely surviving. We had almost made it to Panama when our truck got stopped at the border. We were sitting on the bench with the driver and transporting coffee beans into Columbia, acting as a family business when in reality we paid our smuggler to get us through Columbia safely. My mom and dad knew of the drug crimes and didn’t want their only child to grow up in such an unsafe place. But that is exactly what happened. While the officer checked our truck, my parents and I went to go relieve ourselves. It had been over 10 hours throughout the harsh hot day. When we came back to our smuggler, he was on the ground dead and my mom and my dad were handcuffed. My mom whispered that I would be ok, and that I should meet her by the jail at noon the next day. I didn’t know where I was nor where they were taking mi madre and so in the dead of night to the sound of my parents screams, and my own wailing, I went off to the side of the road and fell asleep. Life after that things were always on edge. I eventually found my mother, but my father was nowhere to be found. I heard rumors that instead of going to the male jail across the street from the female jail, he ran off to pursue our initial dream. My mom was heartbroken and for the first few months all I could get out of her was short bits of what had happened. Apparently coca leaves had been found under the bench we had been sitting on. Our smuggler wasn’t just a migrant coyote but a drug trafficker. More than I can count I have been threatened by the local gangs to join their cartel but I have the ironic protection of my mom in jail, arrested eternally, for a crime she unknowingly committed. When I turned 14 I knew that soon the gangs would be on my heels for me to join, just as my family had predicted six years earlier. I had to go somewhere. I loved mi madre dearly but I could see her slipping into a state of grief. She was feeble, in mind and body. No matter how much the jail gave her to eat, she would give 75% of it to me. She would barely touch her own food saying that I should take the food to grow strong, and follow my father's footsteps, and make a better life for myself and my family. I took that into my heart and repeat it like a mantra every day. I was able to learn how to read and write because on of a woman in the prison was a school teacher before a similar fate to my family had befallen her. So with my sporadic knowledge of the world and my goal of reaching Estados Unidos, I set off on my 14th birthday. I left a short note to mi madre telling her how much I loved her and little else. If the local gang had found it, I would barely take a step outside the village. They owned every pile of dirt I had walked on since I was 8 years old and they thought they owned me too. But I was going to prove them wrong. I had already. Which brings me to present day. I am now residing in Mexico. It has taken me 3 years to travel North. I have encounter more bad people than I have count, but I have made a friend. Her name is Andrea Maria and we have been traveling together since I turned 15. We met on a train heading through Honduras. A gang of boys at least 5 years my senior were harassing her and teasing her. She was the only girl on the train and it was clear what was going to happen if someone didn't stop it. I knew that she didn’t deserve to have this fate, and I knew that all of us on the train were there for the same reason. This was my 5th time riding on the train and I had gotten to know the culture. So I voiced what I knew, just as mi madre had told me, and Andrea and I walked to the back of the train, holding onto each other for support and talked about our hopes and dreams. I told her about my family and how I am afraid I will slip away and lose courage like my mom. She told me she ran away from her dad that beat her. We listened to each other and held each other tight because that was the only thing that could ever seem right at that moment. We are now both 17 years old and living at a migrant sanctuary in Mexico. We have been targeted time and time again but we feed off of the comfort and resilience of each other. Andrea is pregnant now. All we want is for our baby to become a citizen of the Estados Unidos. Tomorrow we set off to San Diego. Our host knows of a passage that many families similar ours have taken. They call it the Tuna route because just like the Peruvian fruit, it is quite thorny in the beginning, but once you get to the good parts, it feels like heaven.
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Thank you so much for making a comment. It should be published in the next couple days .Have a Happy day!