Growing up poor, Latina and migrant


By Yolanda Miranda

I was 12 years old when my family finally stopped migrating to pick the harvest. My older brothers and sisters had grown up following the crops through California and surrounding states, gotten married and had their own families.

At last, my father had found a stable job on a 2,000-acre ranch. We got to live in a large two-story farmhouse with a barn that was on the ranch. The house was dilapidated, but we felt as if we had landed in paradise. We lived in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley, half way between Delano and Earlimart, where my grandparents lived.

We kids were delighted that we could attend the same school all year round. I had lost count of how many different schools I had attended while the family followed the harvests. Our joy was short-lived. We quickly found out that we were looked down upon as second-class citizens, or worse.

When we hopped off the school bus, we were greeted by the school nurse who gripped long wooden sticks. She took us, the migrant kids, aside and started running the sticks through our hair looking for lice. Once, she found some on my head. I was put back on the bus with some others and sent home. We were told we could not return to school until we were lice-free. I could see the embarrassment on my mother's face. She told me that no daughter of her's would bring shame on the family by having lice. It was my fault, she said, because of my thick hair. Then she sprayed my hair with kerosene, wrapped my head with a rag and let me scratch my scalp until she decided that all the lice were dead.

I finally was presented at school where the nurse used the long 'chop sticks' to go through my hair before pronouncing me fit to attend class. I walked into the classroom with my head bowed down to my chest, unwilling to meet anyone's eyes. I felt as if I was naked. Then I saw my cousin Lupe Valdez. She looked at me and winked. All my fears melted away. When the lunch bell rang, she came over, held my hand and said “Landi, you’re getting behind in reading but I''ll help you.” Help me she did. From then on, although my cousin was only a few months older than me, she became my guardian angel, my mentor and my protector.

As a child and a Latina, I was far from alone in experiencing such pain from being treated as less than a human being. Such events are part of the daily life of women of color as they grow up and live their lives. We can never outgrow it in this society, it seems. Even women who should be honored as respected elders are often treated as if they are still children. Events like International Women's Day remind us that we are not alone. We feel strong when we think of the worldwide solidarity of women of color. Viva La Mujer!

Posted: Sat - March 1, 2003 at 07:08 PM          

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