On the 29 of June 2017 at 2:00 a.m., 20 or more men entered my home to kidnap my family. These men don’t care if you are young or old. They didn’t care that my little sisters and stepsister were crying in fear. They didn’t care about having my mother’s desperate cries and screams as she watched them drag my stepfather out while physically hitting him. Then she saw my stepbrothers and I get taken out of the house by the men. They lined us up on the street and pointed different types of guns at our heads. My stepfather negotiated with the men by offering his life and all of our possessions in return for my family’s freedom. They accepted his offer and freed my mother and my little sisters. A few minutes later they let my 13-year-old stepsister go along with me. My stepfather yelled, “RUN!” I took my stepsister’s hand and ran towards the border to Texas. Since I lived in Reynosa Tamaulipas, Mexico, I got there fast.
When I arrived at the border, I didn’t ask to cross, I only asked for shelter for that night. The reason why I didn’t go to the police in my country is because every cartel controls the police department, and I didn’t want to risk myself and my stepsister’s life. The border being 30 minutes away walking distance, I thought that would be the safest place for the night, so I could think about what to do in the morning. I also had to look for my mother.
Since my stepsister and I were minors and in danger, the American authorities took us the next morning to a place called “La Hielera” in Texas (immigration detention center). After being placed in “La Hielera” for a day they took us to the airport. Without any knowledge of where we were going, we arrived in New York. A couple of weeks passed without us knowing anything about our family. When we finally communicated with my mom, she said that my stepbrothers were with her but my stepfather was dead. My mother told me that it would be for us the best if we started a new life. The fact that I couldn’t give a proper goodbye to my stepfather has greatly affected me. It has changed the way I looked at my country. I never thought something like this would happen to us.
Even though this was a tragedy, I feel fortunate to be able to start over in the United States with hopes of seeing my family once again. The story of an immigrant in the United States of America is not easy to do or live. It is a very hard decision to make since you have to leave your country, customs, friends, and family. Three years and seven months from today my life made a 360-degree spiral. It began when I was only 17 years of age. Since then my life has changed so quickly that I didn’t have time to process what was going on around my surroundings. It still is difficult for me to adapt to the changes. I miss the language, food, laws, and traditions from my home. I always have Mexico in my heart.
The reason for me leaving my country is because of the delinquency of the government of my country. We, as kids, learn more about drugs than what we should be learning at school. Before learning good values and the value of education, we know about the street and who controls it. Being a child in Mexico is hard knowing the raw truth of the country. What is necessary to survive are the instincts that my stepfather didn’t pay attention to. He was a man that could have been more but decided to be less. He chose the easy life choosing drug dealings dedicating to sell what he hoped would change the life of his kids, wife, and stepchildren. My stepfather wasn’t a good example, but he had unconditional love. Everything he did was so that his family would have food on the table and a roof where we could go and be safe during those noisy nights of bullets flying where the innocent aren’t safe.