As soon as I get home, I strip myself of any trace of the outside and switch into something comfortable. After a tiring day at school, I just want to lay down.  I throw myself on the couch in the living room and let out a deep sigh. Almost out of habit, I start checking social media on my phone. I can feel my mother’s eyes on me. She’s sitting on the opposite side of the couch, with a massive cup of coffee. My eyes meet her piercing red, wrinkled eyes under her furrowed eyebrows. “She must have had a long day too”, I think to myself . “¿Tienes hambre, mija?” she asks me. “¿Qué hay de comer?” I hesitate. She gets up, makes her way into the kitchen. As I watch her prepare a bowl for me, my stomach rumbles. The hunger I didn’t know I had, is now overwhelming. I meet her at the dinner table as she sets the bowl in front of me. I look at the steam floating from my bowl and I look back at her to say “thank you” with a small smile. She knew exactly what I needed.

I’m one of the lucky ones. With their green cards my parents were able to find less straining work, as a chef and domestic worker. Don’t get me wrong, our life wasn’t easy but it was enough to make a family of 6 feel secure. Despite rarely being home and missing a lot of school events,(which was basically our entire life at that age ),my parents did what they could to be there for us. I didn’t always feel this way. For a long time, I held a lot of resentment towards them for not being around. My parents aren’t exactly affectionate. The only memory I have of getting hugged by them as an adult, was on new years at midnight, at a family party. They will rarely utter the words “Te amo”  but I have it written in a few Christmas cards. The hardships they have faced and face everyday as Mexicans in America, have made them tough. On top of this, living in a tiny pueblo in the middle of El Campo growing up, my parents and their parents were too busy working and worrying to learn to be emotionally available. Instead of being angry for what we lack, I have to remind myself to be grateful for what we have. They were working all the time to make sure I didn’t have to worry about money when I got older. Now that I’m older, I know to pay attention to the little things. Such as, the delicious home cooked meals and the silent “I see you. I love you. You are a part of me. I’m proud of how far we’ve come.” in the “mija” slipped at the end of a sentence.

“Mija” is a colloquial contraction of “Mi hija”, meaning my daughter. In Mexico, the word is used as a term of endearment towards younger women by an older figure, not necessarily related. My parents refer to me as “mija” sometimes, as well as my extended family like aunts, uncles, grandparents, and even strangers. In English, there are words like honey and sweetheart but it’s usually strictly used by family towards family. Calling a stranger a word that means “ my daughter” means something more. There’s a closeness, and understanding made between the person using it and the person it refers to. It’s very welcoming and warm coming from anyone, even a stranger. 

As I walk through the Atlantic Barclay station, I pass by several  older women with their carts of cut up fruit, chocolates and churros. They stand there day after day, trying to make a living while countless people with hundreds of dollars worth of technology in their hands, walk by them without giving a glance. I can’t help thinking of my parents when I look at them. No papers to get a real paying job but still working hard. When I get to the  platform for the D train, I see the usual churro lady waiting at her usual spot but this time she has a small child holding chocolate bars with her. I remember selling chocolate in elementary school and my parents having to buy a lot of it because no one else would. My eyes linger at all her options with no sense of hunger at all. “How much for one?” I ask the boy. He gives a worried look to his mother and “ una dollar” she replies. I hand her a $20 and before she can reach in her fanny pack to gather my change, I walk away towards my train that is entering the platform. “Gracias mija” she says behind me. I scan the train cart for a seat but all that’s left are the middle seats everyone avoids. My legs are aching for a break. A short brown man and I are going towards the same empty corner seat. He is in worn down clothes, thick yellow worker boots, and he’s covered in dust. “He must be aching for a break too”, I think to myself.  I offer him my seat but he quickly declines and stands on the side of me. He takes off his bag and there’s a big thump as he sets it down. When the train arrives at his stop, I watch him grunt as he swings the bag bigger than him onto his back. I noticed he dropped a hat he had in his pocket, by my feet. I pick it up and as I put the hat in the man’s crusty swollen fingers, he says “thank you, mija”.

Mexicans in America, like most immigrants, have to sacrifice a lot to make it here. With poor English and sometimes no documentation papers, they don’t have many options to support their new life. They are extremely hard workers and they have no shame because that’s what they’ve known their whole life. This tenacity is passed on for generations. It’s as if being referred to as “mija/o” means “I see you. You and I are the same. I am proud of us. Thank you for existing.” Their dedication to work is for their loved ones and despite it keeping them busy, they find a way to extend their love in small ways. Relaxing and self-care isn’t something that comes easy to them. They need a loved one or sometimes even a stranger to lend some extra kindness. They deserve it because however much tired we Americans feel, they probably feel 5x more tired.