All to Remember Was the Crying

Writing Waves Writing Waves

Volume 2 Issue 2 Article 8

May 2020

All to Remember Was the Crying All to Remember Was the Crying

Citlalli Galvan

CSU - Monterey

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All to Remember Was the Crying

Citlalli Galvan

Keywords: Personal narrative, Generational trauma, Story telling, Writing

e sit on our leather couch in our home in Soledad, California. She was

snuggled up with blankets and our small dog while watching TV. She

was very relaxed, as if she didn’t have any care in the world. Although before

the leather couches, before the blankets, before owning the house, and even

before the family, she laid on the desert ﬂoor at the age of fourteen years-old.

She laid on the cold desert sand, huddled up in a ball, scared and hungry, not

knowing if it was the wind howling at night or the coyotes in the distance.

My mother can remember her times in Mexico. The little house that she

lived in that was on edge of her town, and the street dogs that she would

occasionally feed. She can recall her bike rides from her job in the tortilla mill

to deliver the hot, homemade tortillas to the people in the neighborhood. My

mother can remember the times she would have to wake up early for school,

get ready with her sibling to start the walk. My mother could laugh when she

tells me she was good in school; math was her favorite subject. During the day,

she can recall the smells of the taquitos in the street corners, yelling out to the

neighbors to come buy his tacos and hot dogs, the smell of mechanics working

on their cars in the heat. She can smell the gases and the oils they use, the

smell of cigarettes and sweat coming from the older men. My mom can close

her eyes and recall her laughing with her friends while bike riding through the

town, trying to avoid hitting anyone, she can recall them yelling out, the older

women looking at them in disbelief of them being unladylike, they had no care.

They were teens, doing whatever teens did back then, living their best life.

Whenever we go out to hike, my mom makes connections to her walking to

school early in the mornings. She lived far away and had to walk everyday with

her oldest sister and her younger brother. When we would sit by the lake, she

would laugh with my dad and explain to him that she would have to bathe in

the lake that was a few feet away from her small house. My mom would bathe

Galvan - "All to Remeber Was the Crying" Writing Waves Journal

with her older sister, she can still feel the icy water while smelling her aloe vera

shampoo. Whenever my mom made connections or would bring up memories

of Mexico, she always had the good memories. It would have seemed that she

had a stable life in Mexico despite being lower income, but I couldn’t help to

notice she never spoke about her traveling from Mexico to the United States.

When the topic of immigration would be brought up, she would stay quiet as

if she wasn’t able to talk about it. She wouldn’t bring up any memories or any

connections, as if she was being silenced by a dark looming cloud that would

rain down on her if she were to speak about it. I don’t know if anyone notices

it, the small hint of being scared in her eyes, the way she would tense up and

gulp; as if she’s trying to ﬁght the words from leaving her mouth. Her family

also didn’t speak about it. Not my aunts, and not even my uncle, and certainly

not my grandparents. They must’ve been so young when it happened, to leave

their home for a mysterious land, with no idea what the plan was. They’ve been

in the United States for years now, why is it hard for them to remember the

trip that changed their lives forever? Was it traumatic?

I showed my mom an old picture of her. She was hugging her grandma from

behind with a big smile on her face. I wanted to know the backstory. Not the

backstory of that picture, but of what happened to that young smiling girl. I

asked my mom to recall the story of her migration story. I was scared that I

reached a point where we couldn’t continue, but then sighed and stared at the

picture, as if the picture was telling her where to start. Just by staring at her

face—her eyes staring at the picture as if it would be the last thing she would

see—staring at her mouth as it would open and close as if she was gathering her

own words. Then ﬁnally, she started to form her words and so the story began.

It was 1993 and she was fourteen years-old. The oldest sibling was eighteen,

her brother was nine, the second youngest sister being about two years-old and

the youngest in the bunch was a baby. My mom stares at the picture some more

but she’s staring at the background - it’s the kitchen ﬁlled with pots and pans

and food items, it could’ve been lunchtime or dinner. Only my mom and her

older sister knew about the plan to travel away, they assumed it was a small

time thing and not a lifetime change. My mom half smiles when I asked if she

left anything valuable. She takes a deep breath and I can see the tears starting

to form in her eyes. She left behind the only home she knew, the home she grew

up in, the home where she shares precious family memories; the home where the

Navarro family went through thick and thin. She sni˜es and wipes away the

tears that were able to escape her eyes. She left behind her friends, the ones she

Galvan - "All to Remeber Was the Crying" Writing Waves Journal

shared secrets with, the ones that would take turns to sleepover at each other’s

houses, the ones she would go to school and work with, the ones she would join

to go shopping.

To this day, she doesn’t know what happened with her friends, whether

they still lived in Mexico or if they also moved to the United States. She can

remember the ﬁght her older sister and their parents had a few days before they

were going to leave. Her sister wanted to take her beautiful dresses with her, to

take them to show o˙ their culture to the Americans, but their parents argued

that they had to pack lightly for the trip was going to be long. At that moment,

my mom can still remember the confusion she had about this trip, but she felt

scared to question her parents. My mother choked back on her own words. I

can’t say I felt the same way when I was younger and we just moved towns, she

had moved across distant lands that seemed like a dream to some people. She

had a hobby to read books, those that were written in Spanish were obviously

her favorite, but since she came to the United States, she would try to avoid

those books and read the ones that were written in English.

All to remember from that day was the crying.

It was ﬁve in the morning when they went o˙ to start their trip. They had to

leave as early as possible. The kids had fear in their eyes, trembling not knowing

if it was because of the cold early morning or because of their fear in their small

bodies. Each kid holding a small backpack ﬁlled with clothes and some toys

they were able to ﬁt. Their father holding a bag ﬁlled with his clothes and a

smaller bag ﬁlled with whatever money he was able to save up, and lastly the

mother carrying multiple bags including her own baby daughter. My mother

can recall all the thoughts running through her head, but what about the rest

of her family? Was her brother thinking that he was becoming a man after

this trip? Was the older sister angry with her parent’s decision? What were

the parents thinking, were they complicating and contemplating if this was the

right choice for their kids?

And so, the Navarro family started their journey to walk over 1,595 kilome-

ters from Guanajuato Penjamo, Mexico to Ciudad Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico.

The trip took over about twelve days and eleven nights. The Navarro family

had no choice but to take this rigorous journey, just to start a whole new life.

They had to limit how much they would eat, ration it and keep it hidden away

so di˙erent animals wouldn’t be able to smell them. Had their parents thought

this through hard enough? Did they think of the dangers that lied ahead in

the desert, the vast land of cactus and other dried plants, animals such as rat-

Galvan - "All to Remeber Was the Crying" Writing Waves Journal

tlesnakes, scorpions and the coyotes that roamed the night looking for their next

meal?

My mother mentioned that throughout the entire walk, her father was in

the lead and no one could pass him. It was her father in the front, her brother

behind him, the oldest sister, herself holding her second youngest hand and

followed by their mother holding the baby in the back. The men had to be in

front of the women, as a way of showing that the men will protect them if there

was danger to come at them. Their father had told them that if he were to

die during this trip, then their brother will become the man of the household.

Although my mother loved her brother dearly she couldn’t imagine how this

journey to the new land could’ve taken away not only her only home but also

her only father ﬁgure. My mother couldn’t decide which was the hardest part of

the trip, the day when the blazing heat of the sun would shine its rays onto the

family, having to use their bags as shades and my mother having to withstand

the hot sand as it would seep into her sandals. Her second youngest sister would

cry to her family on how the sand burned her feet, my mother can still remember

the frustration and somewhat anger her father was holding in his eyes and in

his posture, he demanded to his son that he should carry his sister to stop her

whining. And so, the son listened and obeyed and carried his baby sister until

the night fell. The temperature would reach over ninety degrees, the blazing

sun hitting the Navarro family, sweat covering them from head to toe as if it

were a second skin to them.

In the middle of their travels, my mother can still remember seeing other

families also traveling to the United States by foot. As she was a young girl, she

tried to avoid eye contact. Their father had warned them that some families

will play the part of being desperate and then strike! They would have tried to

hurt you; steal your money and valuables and they will leave you in the desert.

They shall lay on the desert sand, bloodied and hurt, being left behind like some

trash by your own people, being left behind for the migration police or border

patrol to ﬁnd you and throw you into jail, or that’s if the coyotes or the vultures

grab you ﬁrst. The siblings kept that in their minds. I’m sure the image of them

laying on the desert ﬂoor, crying out in pain or crying out for their parents while

the sand burns their skin or while the coyotes in the distance are preparing to

strike the unsuspecting family would be burned into their memories.

As they walked and saw other families, my mother and her siblings avoided

their eyes and to the point where they avoided their cries of help, for food and

water. My mom would go with her mother for reassurance but atlas, her mother

Galvan - "All to Remeber Was the Crying" Writing Waves Journal

claimed the same thing. Those families don’t mean anything to them, and they

don’t mean anything to her, either. Of course, at fourteen years-old, my mother

saw that as the cruelest thing to do, but now that she is a mother herself, would

she tell my brother and I the same thing?

At nights, the Navarro family would huddle together to keep each other

warm. Her mother and father would take turns to stay awake at night to keep

an eye out. My mother can still feel the drastic change in temperature on

her tan skin. The day would go from low nineties or to the high one hundred

degrees, while at nighttime, it would fall to below thirty. At fourteen years-old,

still living in the middle of her childhood and here she was, sleeping on the

cold desert sand hearing the howling at night trying to distinguish if it were the

coyotes or just the wind. All my mother and her siblings had to cover themselves

was a blanket that their mother had knitted them. They huddled together and

held on to one another as if the winds were going to separate the siblings.

I questioned my mother if she ever doubted this trip. As I asked that question

it seemed that it shifted some gears with her. She stared at the television, not

really paying attention to the Spanish novella that was on. She seemed to be

gathering her thoughts. She gulped as if she was ﬁnding the right words or

much rather, trying to ﬁnd where to start. My mother seemed to be trying to

connect to the past – trying to connect with her fourteen year-old self – trying

to connect to the thoughts in her head.

Of course she doubted this trip, from the start of her parents telling her

to cut ties with her friends, to say her ﬁnal goodbye to them, to watch them

disappear as she went o˙ to the distance. She wasn’t sure if they were whisked

away by the wind or if it was her. She doubted this trip when she was told

to pack lightly and she wasn’t allowed to bring any of the small toys she had

or anything that seemed ‘Mexican’ although the bottom of her bag had some

candy, a small playing deck of cards and a small doll. The ﬁrst time she truly

questioned this trip was when they ignored the other migrant families in their

traveling. My mother said she would try to push these thoughts away and try

to ﬁll them with the fantasy that this new land will provide better for her. The

thoughts still lingered in her mind, that little immature fourteen year-old mind

of hers, ﬁlled with the thoughts of just turning back.

To turn back to her home.

She wanted to turn back – she had to turn back – back to her small home at

the edge of town. Back to the small icy water lake. Back to the soul crushing

thought that she can’t go back. It’s all behind her – it’s all behind her as she

Galvan - "All to Remeber Was the Crying" Writing Waves Journal

continued to be forced to push her small legs to keep walking. At nights, the

thoughts became more prominent in her dreams. She feels her siblings get closer

to her to keep warm. She can subtly hear her parents talk in harsh whispers,

but all she could hear was the wind. This time she knows it’s the wind - it feels

nice and it relaxes her, although she gets goosebumps on her arms and legs.

The fourteen year-old black haired, tanned child laid on the ﬂoor, closed her

eyes, and focused on the wind and her heartbeat.

A sudden thought comes from within the depths of her brain. If she were to

die while on this trip, she doesn’t know whether or not she feared it. What’s

scarier, going to a mysterious land with no knowledge of and with a language

barrier, or what if you don’t even make it? Would being dead better? She sensed

that it would be an escape from the blazing sun burning her skin, burning into

her scalp as the memories of this trip burned into her brain. The way she

sensed death would be as an escape, an escape from the walking, escaping the

harshness of her parents telling her to run away from the desert dangers, escape

the constant fear of the coyotes, or as they were called English, the ‘smuggles.’

They would get paid to help transport your family to the new land but don’t

ever try to double cross them or they’ll be searching for money that they never

received, escape the constant nights of sleeping on the desert ﬂoor and waking

up with sand all over, escaping this, escaping the travel that changed her life.

She thought, that little fourteen year-old mind of hers thought of being at peace.

I stared at my mother in disbelief, at such a young age to be having thoughts

of being at peace when she was ﬁnally dead. My mother couldn’t look at me in

the eyes, I looked too much like her. My mother was scared that she would’ve

seen herself if she looked at me. We shared the same eyes – we share the same

way our emotions are seen in our eyes. A beautiful display of the eyes being a

window to the soul. Now, being in the desert, she had her eyes closed. There

was no way to see what emotion my mother would’ve been showing in her eyes.

The moment that thought of being back home in peace was the same way that

death would be, that would be shown in my mother’s eyes when she laid on the

desert ﬂoor. I did wonder if the siblings shared the same thought as my mother,

or even if her parents had these types of thoughts. The thoughts would have

ﬂown between the family, like the gust of wind that would tremble the family.

The thoughts of wanting to stand up and stare back at their home, the roaming

thoughts that they would wake up and it would all be but a distant dream.

The haunting thoughts of just wanting to wake up and be at home. They just

wanted to be home and wake up to the smell of home-made food cooked by their

Galvan - "All to Remeber Was the Crying" Writing Waves Journal

mother or their grandmother. The thoughts of being at home, safe with one

another and sitting together. Atlas, they woke with sand all over, the blazing

sun hitting their already sunburnt skin, and to their father telling them to get

up and to start walking. It was all just a thought in the wind.

It was her older sister that yelled out the cities name Ciudad Juarez, Chi-

huahua, Mexico. It was 1993, The Norte newspaper started its publication.

The Museo Historico De Ciudad Juarez or known as The Historic Museum

of Ciudad Juarez in English, opens to the public to explore its history of the

city. The Mormon Temple is built as well, at that time it was the 71st temple

of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. During this time, there

was all time high of young women and children getting kidnapped for human

traÿcking, these women and girls were usually the unsuspecting immigrants

that were either away from their family with no contact or were desperate for

food and money. According to Ronald L. Mize in Interrogating Race, Class,

Gender and Capitalism Along the U.S.-Mexico Border: Neoliberal Nativism and

Maquila Modes of Production, he states, “The Subsequent criminalization of ‘il-

legal aliens’ rests upon US citizens’ racialization of those residing south of the

border and disproportionately endangers Mexican women and children. The

callous view of viewing Mexican women as disposable bodies is on display in

Cuidad Juarez where the maquiladora murders have resulted in the brutal mur-

ders of 300 women from 1993 to 2005 (Mize).” My mother can remember arriving

at the National Visa Center late at night, somewhat relieved that the walking

was over, but she felt a heavy sense of guilt resting on her shoulders.

The family decided to reside near the building for the night. There were

missing persons signs plastered on fences and street lights of women and chil-

dren. She didn’t know why, but my mother felt guilty. I suppose she felt guilty

that these women and children didn’t get the chance to see the other side, that

their travels didn’t end in succession and in happiness. My mother can recall

seeing other kids her age, but they were alone. She looked around the streets

as she was sitting close to her father, and saw those kids sitting on the sidewalk

alone. They had completed the journey alone. She felt sad for them even if

she didn’t know the reason for them traveling alone. I wondered why these kids

traveled alone, there were parents that sent their kids to the U.S on their own

because they couldn’t a˙ord the trip for the whole family or better yet, they

couldn’t a˙ord to feed another mouth in the house. These parents have pre-

ferred to send their child to a land they knew nothing about rather than trying

harder to keep their child.

Galvan - "All to Remeber Was the Crying" Writing Waves Journal

There have been other cases of families being separated. If the Border Patrol

would catch these families, the parents would yell at their kids to run away – to

run away to the “promised land” – to run away from their own parents. Although

they have traveled alone, others have traveled alone for their own beneﬁt. My

mother remembers that many kids in her area started to get involved with gangs.

These kids would join gangs to be powerful, but others joined hoping to be able

to provide some money and security for their family. My mother would try to

remember a certain tattoo that these kids had to prove that they were part of

a gang. These gangs would send children to smuggle drugs or weapons across

the border. As written by both writers, Lilian Chaves and Cecilia Menjivar,

Ninos Sin Fronteras: Un Diagnostico de la Literatura Sobre Ninos Migrantes

De Estados Unidos, “Children have shown that they, too, are active social agents

who take part in adult-like activities and who also make economic and social

contributions. These social actors are often seen as powerless, passive, and fully

dependent; however, these ‘new actors’ may assume several roles (as parents,

providers, smugglers, migrants, children, etcetera) across borders, such as when

an unaccompanied migrant teenager must ﬁnd full-time employment to provide

for her child (Menjivar).”

The interview at the border for her new life began.

My mother and her family had to separate to do individual interviews. She

felt very small and that any tiny mistake will send her back to Mexico. My

mother would recall that she was a fearless child, but the moment she sat on that

leather chair, fear ripped through her small body. The older woman interviewing

my mother spoke Spanish and English ﬂuently, my mother felt a small bit of

jealousy at the woman’s ﬂuent English. The interview lasted about an hour,

where my mother was mostly asked if she were to enter the United States if she

would work or continue an education. My mother obviously wanted to help her

parents, and she knew education would be better for not only herself but her

parents. Thankfully, the whole family passed through the interview, the parents

would work while the children would be going to school.

The family’s next destination was El Paso, Texas, United States. This time

they were granted to travel by bus rather than walking again. The bus ride

would only be about thirty-ﬁve minutes rather than walking for two hours and

twenty minutes. The parents decided that they were tired of walking. Once they

arrived at El Paso, Texas, there was a mix of Mexican migrants and citizens of

the city. My mother’s father was able to rent a small apartment for his family.

It was a bit cramped, but my mother was glad the trip was over. She was ﬁnally

Galvan - "All to Remeber Was the Crying" Writing Waves Journal

able to rest and was grateful that her family stayed together.

The Navarro family had lived in El Paso, Texas for about three years. Her

mother decided to move to Guadalupe, California, after an aunt had purchased

a house there, but sadly had to leave back to Mexico, and o˙ered it to her sister

rather than selling it. It was 1996 when they moved to their new house and

my mother was seventeen years-old and was a junior in high school. At this

period, the U.S. had started a blockade towards Mexican immigrants because

the Mexican population was getting too high and other Americans had the belief

that these “aliens” were here to “take away the jobs.”

It started on September 19, 1996 that the United States Border patrol be-

gan Operation Blockade. It had stopped over ten thousand immigrants from

entering the United States. It was stated in a New York Times article written

by Tim Gordon, U.S Blockades of Workers Enrages Mexican Town, “Border

Patrol statistics on apprehensions suggest that it has nearly halted the ﬂow of

illegal undocumented workers who have usually waded, walked or ﬂoated on

rafts across the border (Gordon).” It had me wondering, what if my mom and

her family had waited? Would Border Patrol still send them back even if they

were headed to Cuidad Juarez for a visa? Bill Clinton was president at the time

and was very tough on immigrants coming to the United States, so my mother

does say that she was grateful for her parents doing their best for not only their

future but also for the future of their kids.

Araceli Navarro, my mother, is a strong woman. Araceli was fourteen years-

old when she had to leave her only home with her family. She had to leave

behind her friends, her family members back in Guanajuato, Penjamo, Mexico,

all for a new land that was promised to be the biggest change of her life. It was.

Araceli would turn around and stare at the distance that held her home, her

arm reaching out as if she can grasp back the imagination or thoughts of turning

back. Araceli doesn’t regret coming to the United States, she met her husband,

pursued a higher education at Hartnell College studying for Early Childhood

Development, and has two kids and a dog. Araceli has a loving family, an

amazing home, and a job she loves. Araceli would still visit her home, she went

back ﬁve years ago, and she can visually see herself being a child again running

down the hall with her siblings behind her, all laughing and smiling. Araceli

once dreamt of standing in the desert in front of herself being fourteen again.

No words were said. Her younger self staring up at her adult self would ask,

‘Did we make it? Did mami and papi keep their promise of the great future?’

Araceli smiled at her child self and kneeled, being able to feel the hot sand, the

Galvan - "All to Remeber Was the Crying" Writing Waves Journal

same blazing sun and the smell of sweat on her skin and hugged her small child

form, ‘Yes, we made it little one.”

Araceli Navarro is a strong woman.

Galvan - "All to Remeber Was the Crying" Writing Waves Journal

Works Cited

Mize, Ronald. “INTERROGATING RACE, CLASS, GENDER AND CAPI

TALISM ALONG THE U.S.-MEXICO BORDER: NEOLIBERAL NATIVISM

AND MAQUILA MODES OF PRODUCTION.” Race, Gender Class, vol.

15, no. 1-2, 2008, pp. 134–155.

Chavez, Lilian, and Menjivar, Cecilia. “Ninos Sin Fronteras: Un Diagnostico De

La Literatura Sobre Ninos Migrantes a Estados Unidos.” Migraciones

Internacionales, vol. 5, no. 3, 2010, pp. 71–111.

Golden, Tim. “U.S. Blockade of Workers Enrages Mexican Town.” The New

York Times, The New York Times, 1 Oct. 1993,

https://www.nytimes.com/1993/10/01/world/us-blockade-of-workers-enrages

-mexican-town.html.

Galvan, Araceli. Personal Interview. 19 November 2019