In honor of International Women’s Day I would like to share a story about my paternal grandmother, Mamá Pelancha, and the strength she demonstrated in supporting our journey to the United States from Mexico. I don’t recall memories of my grandmother and it saddens me to know our worlds were separated by a border. However, my mother has shared a story with me which allows me to understand the type of woman my grandmother was. I first learned of this story this past year when looking deeper into our journey of migration from Mexico to the United States. I was also told I was going to be named after Mamá Pelancha (Esperanza) which means hope. I love my name but would have also loved the name Esperanza.
A mothers’ blessing, two suitcases, and one-thousand three hundred dollars. These were essentials that aided my family’s journey in coming to the United States. It was late April, 1994. For many days my paternal grandmother, Mamá Pelancha heard rumors about her son Alfredo (my father) wanting to leave our small ranch outside Aquila, Michoacán and head to the United States. Her response was always one of refusal, she would not let us go. This of course, was out of love. The initial plan was to leave early morning from our ranch hoping that Mamá Pelancha wouldn’t notice, since she lived in a neighboring ranch. That morning however, Mamá Pelancha unexpectedly rode in to my parents house. Panicked, my mother began making tortillas instead of packing, so as to ward off signs of our family leaving Mexico. Mamá Pelancha walked into our house and began helping my mom with the tortillas. At first there was silence, but soon Mamá Pelancha began questioning my mother about our family leaving. Despite wanting to keep this a secret she somehow knew. My mother stayed quiet, she knew how much the decision to leave Mexico was hurting Mamá Pelancha as she and my father were very close. Eventually the realization of my families’ departure sunk in. Mamá Pelancha left the house, mounted her horse, and headed towards the small town of Aquila, where my father was at, to see if one last plea to stay would work. As soon as Mamá Pelancha rode away, my mom hastily packed two suitcases, for her, my father, and her five children. My mother recalls leaving her gold jewelry hanging, abandoning the tortilla mix on her grinding stone, never having the chance to actually put things away.
My mother recalls arriving to Aquila and seeing Mamá Pelancha with sadness in her eyes but ready to give us her blessing. This blessing crystallized the leap of faith we took in transcending into an unknown world with the hope that it would be worthwhile. Family is an essential pillar in my culture, and while we sought out opportunities in the United States, it entailed pausing our familial relationship with no end in sight. That day, my grandmother set aside her pain to bless her son, five grandchildren, and her daughter-in-law, whom she held in high-regards. It was a painful goodbye. And so, our family not only set out on our journey, but we set out knowing we had Mamá Pelancha’s blessing.
Looking back, I think of Mamá Pelancha, and how difficult it must have been to let her family go. In December 2019 I visited her and my paternal grandfather’s graves for the first time since leaving Aquila, Michoacán. Today, on International Women’s Day I reflect on the blessing that Mamá Pelancha gave our family, a blessing that allowed us to embark on a journey of 2,643 miles from Aquila, Michoacán to Mattawa, Washington and begin our lives in this country.
UndocuJoy 