- Thank you so much for coming here to Centro tonight.
I see a lot of new faces, which is really refreshing
because as an agency that's been in this community for 33 years,
we strive to create community here.
I've been at Centro for about three years,
and there have been significant changes
in the way our Latino families and our neighbors have grown
and established themselves here.
But our task is still very much the same.
We continue to focus on programs that strengthen youth,
strengthen adults, and strengthen neighborhoods
because our job is yet to be finished.
And I think
a lot of rhetoric that you hear out there points to that.
That there's a need to strengthen our families
and to have events like this
where we bring this conversation to those in the community
that perhaps don't know enough about us.
So, tonight, I'm very proud that we have here
such a wonderful voice in Reyna.
She's such a wonderful voice in our Latino community,
and we get to share her with you
so that you become even more familiar
with the complex dreams of our families in Wisconsin
and the families that we serve here in Centro.
And they're complex because
they are the dreams of fathers, of mothers, of children,
intertwined with challenges, life passages, and so on.
So, you know,
I heard Reyna speak at the Madison Public Library.
I guess it was last winter.
It was really, really cold. [laughter]
Araceli Esparza, who's here,
who's a beautiful artist in this community,
invited me to come and introduced me to Reyna.
And what I felt in that
reading is that I had a connection to her and her story.
And no matter how cold it was, I felt like I was at home.
And I think that's what her book does
to so many in our community.
So, Reyna Grande, as you may have read on her website,
is an award winning novelist and memoirist.
She has received an American Book Award,
the El Premio Aztl?n Literary Award,
and the International Latino Book Award.
In 2012, she was a finalist
for the prestigious National Book Critics Circle Awards,
and in 2015, she was honored with a Luis Leal Award
for Distinction in Chicano/Latino Literature.
Her novels, "Across a Hundred Mountains,"
and "Dancing with Butterflies,"
were published to critical acclaim.
Now, "The Distance Between Us," her latest memoir,
reflects on her life
before and after immigrating from Mexico to the US.
Before we go on and welcome Reyna,
I also want to thank our sponsors for tonight,
without whom we wouldn't be able to do this.
Wisconsin Public Television, our presenting sponsor,
they're taping the event tonight.
The University of Wisconsin- Madison
Latin American, Caribbean, and Iberian Studies program,
the International Division of the University,
the Collaborative for Education Research
at University of Wisconsin- Madison,
otherwise known as "The Network,"
Grzeca Law Group Inc.,
Madison Magazine , the Cap Times ,
the Madison Reading Project, and Brava Magazine.
And lastly, I also want to thank Food Fight Restaurant Group
for donating the food tonight.
If you hadn't had a chance to taste it,
go ahead and go to the back, after the reading and Q&A,
to have a little more.
But without any further delay, I want to welcome Reyna Grande
and give her a big, warm welcome from Madison again.
[applause]
- If you don't speak Spanish, let me tell you that
the name Reyna Grande means "Big Queen."
[laughter]
It's a very hard name to live with
when you're only five feet tall, let me tell you.
[laughter]
I don't know what my mother was thinking,
but I do have an aunt whose name is Empress Grande.
The "Big Empress." [laughter]
Emperatriz Grande.
So, yeah, I think the Grandes
are obsessed with royalty or something.
I don't know. [laughter]
So I am very, very, very honored to be here tonight.
I think one question you might be wondering is,
how often do I come to Wisconsin?
And I have to tell you that I've been coming
for the past 12 years.
My husband is from Wisconsin.
He was born in Racine.
And I think he was made in Madison because
this is where my father-in-law and mother-in-law met,
here at the university. [laughter]
And they lived here for a while,
and then my husband was born in Racine, not too long afterward.
So he has family.
Grandma lives in Cambridge, which is not too far from here.
And then the rest of the family
lives in the woods in Manitowish Waters,
which is actually one of my favorite places in the world now
because it's really beautiful.
So, I feel very much at home here in Wisconsin
since I've been coming for 12 years.
I do enjoy the summers a lot more than the winters,
I have to say.
[laughter]
But it's always a wonderful place to come and visit,
and I always feel very, very welcomed when I come here.
So, I want to thank Karen and Centro Hispano for inviting me
to be here tonight to share my story with you.
I say that as an immigrant and also as a writer,
it is such a privilege to be asked to share my story
and to feel that my voice is being heard
because immigrants struggle to have our voices heard,
and writers also struggle to have our voices heard.
So it is such an honor to be here.
I want to thank Karen and Centro Hispano and also our sponsors
because they're the ones who make this event possible.
And also thank you for being here tonight because without you
it wouldn't be an event.
So, thank you so much.
Ultimately, my dream for all of us
is for our voices to be heard
and to feel that our stories matter.
So, tonight's event is called "An Evening of Dreaming," and
I want to thank you, too, for coming here to celebrate dreams,
especially the immigrant dream.
So you might know this already,
but immigrants are the biggest dreamers.
And it takes a lot of faith to hold on
and to believe in a dream.
It takes a lot of tenacity and perseverance
and something that, in Spanish, is called ganas .
Ganas : to turn a dream into a reality.
So, tonight, I'm going to be talking to you about
my latest book, which is "The Distance Between Us,"
and the book came out a few years ago
and it has gone on to have a really wonderful journey.
Many universities across the country
have chosen "The Distance Between Us"
for their freshman read or for their common read.
Communities across the US have picked the book
for their One Book, One Community.
A few years ago, the state of Maryland chose
"The Distance Between Us"
for their One Book, One Maryland,
and that was such a fantastic thing for a whole state, right,
to pick my book.
And, granted, Maryland is a little state.
[laughter]
But it's still kind of cool to say
that a state was reading my book.
So, yeah.
So now "The Distance Between Us"
is getting republished for young readers.
I did write the book for an adult audience.
And this September, the book is being reissued
by Simon & Schuster's children's division, Aladdin,
for young readers.
So it's going to be available for 10- to 14-year-olds.
So that, to me, has been a really wonderful experience
because I really think it's important for our young people
to have a mirror in which they could see themselves.
And I struggled as an immigrant--
As a child immigrant,
I always struggled to find books that I could relate to.
And a lot of the books that I read when I was learning English
were books like
"Sweet Valley High" and "The Babysitter's Club."
[laughter]
And, you know, there were no Latino characters
in those books, and it was really hard for me.
And I always asked myself, where am I?
Do I not exist?
Because I couldn't see myself in those books.
So that's why, for me, like
it's really special to be able to have this book
and to offer it as a mirror for our Latino youth.
And then, for our non-immigrant youth,
to be able to share this story
so that they can understand, you know, their peers,
the other students that they go to school with.
And I'm really hoping that, you know,
this will help to remind our young people
where they come from
and to recognize, you know, as Joe mentioned earlier,
that this is a nation of immigrants
and we did come from somewhere.
So this is what I'm going to be speaking to you about,
is about "The Distance Between Us."
And in the book, I write about dreams.
That is the theme of the book.
And there's a quote that I start the book with that says:
"Nothing happens unless first we dream."
And that is from the poet Carl Sandburg.
And I do believe with all my heart that nothing happens
unless first we dream.
And I am where I am today because of the dreams
that my family dared to dream.
And I'm sure that all of you are where you are today
for the same reason.
Because we dare to dream.
So I'm going to show you just some pictures
as I go along with my talk.
And then, after I'm done--
Oh, I'm going to read a couple of excerpts from the book,
and then when I'm done, I'll open it up for questions.
So if you guys have any questions,
feel free to ask me anything you want
because I'm literally an open book.
[laughter]
So, my journey began in Mexico
in a city called Iguala Guerrero.
And Iguala Guerrero is known as
the birthplace of the Mexican flag.
So it's like the Philadelphia of Mexico.
So it's "Cuna de la bandera nacional."
So, like Philadelphia,
it's also about three hours from the capital.
But unlike when you drive from, you know, Philadelphia to DC,
when you drive from Mexico City to Iguala,
you actually feel like you're driving into another world
because the two couldn't be,
you know, so different.
Mexico City is a big city with millions of people.
A metropolitan with a lot of culture too.
You know, a lot of old buildings.
But it's very, very different than when you come into my city,
which is very small and very, very poor.
One of the things that we do boast is that
the biggest Mexican flag in the country
flies over the city of Iguala.
And it's surrounded by very beautiful mountains,
and I'm sure those of you who've read my first book
"Across a Hundred Mountains,"
and also in "The Distance Between Us"
I write about the mountains
because they played a big part in my childhood.
Iguala, like I said, is, you know, very, very poor
because it's located in the state of Guerrero.
And Guerrero is the second poorest state in Mexico.
70% of the population there lives in poverty.
When you're driving from Mexico City from the airport to Iguala,
that's the first thing you see when you enter the city is
a lot of dirt roads and shacks
and most people there are still living without running water.
And some people are still living there with no electricity.
So there hasn't been a lot of progress.
And once in a while you hear that Mexico is doing better
or that the economy is doing better,
but that's true like in big cities
like Mexico City or Guadalajara,
but that progress never really reaches little places
like Guerrero, like Iguala.
There's so many things happening in my city
that I want to tell you about.
First, is that due to heroin epidemic
that we're dealing with here in the US,
that has affected my city in Iguala
because Guerrero-- Because, you know,
Mexico is the number one supplier of heroin to the US,
and the state of Guerrero grows the most crops
for the heroin trade.
So, my city of Iguala
is a distribution center for the Cartel.
And there are about 200 pounds of heroin paste
that gets shipped out of Iguala every week
and delivered to places like Los Angeles and Chicago.
So that is one thing
that the mountains that surround my hometown
are now covered in poppy fields.
And the other thing about Guerrero,
in addition to being the second poorest state,
it's also now the most violent state in Mexico.
And so when you enter my city, the first thing you see
are the federal police patrolling the city.
There are no state police and no local police anymore.
They have been removed.
So now it's the federal police
that's always patrolling the city.
And you will also see the city hall in Iguala,
which burned down, is now being repaired
after it got burned down during a protest.
And Iguala has now become a place
where college students can disappear overnight.
Just like what happened in 2014
where 43 students disappeared in my hometown,
and to this day they have not been found.
We still don't know what happened to them.
Many people have been arrested, but nobody has been tried yet.
And there's still so many unanswered questions,
and the Mexican government
continues to sabotage the investigation.
And, again, we still don't know where the students were taken
or why or what happened to them.
And that has really affected the city.
You know?
The feel of the city, the people who live there.
So it's been a tragedy that, you know,
because we still don't know what happened,
it's still very raw and very painful
and people there can't move on.
They can't move on.
They can't heal.
And also due to the disappearance of the students,
more and more disappeared have been--
What can I say?
More people who have families who have disappeared
have come out and said, you know, it's not--
It wasn't just 43.
It's actually thousands and thousands of disappeared
in Mexico.
And the mountains that surround my hometown
are covered in graves.
So, to this day, ever since the students disappeared,
they found over 120 mass graves
around the place where I grew up.
So that is my Iguala. That's my hometown.
And I talk about this because it's really important
to always know, like, you know, where immigrants come from.
Right?
And what is happening in their towns and their countries
that is causing the migration.
So, with my family, you know,
a lot of these things hadn't happened yet.
My family immigrated here due to
the economy and the poverty and the lack of opportunities.
But now that the people that are migrating from my hometown
are migrating for not just the poverty,
but now because of the violence and the stability
and all of these things that are happening in my town.
So, back then, in Iguala, I lived there with my family,
and it was me, I was the youngest,
and my brother, Carlos, and my sister, Mago.
And the three of us, we lived with our mother.
And, for me, you know, this picture is really special
because that was the last picture
that we took with my mother.
And one day, things changed for the family,
and that's where I start the book.
The day when everything changed for me and my siblings.
So I'm going to read to you the very beginning of
"The Distance Between Us"
just to introduce you to the story
and to the day that changed my life.
My father's mother, Abuela Evila,
liked to scare us with stories of La Llorona,
the weeping woman who roams the canal and steals children away.
She would say that if we didn't behave,
La Llorona would take us far away
where we would never see our parents again.
My other grandmother, Abuelita Chinta,
would tell us not to be afraid of La Llorona.
That if we prayed, God, La Virgen, and the saints
would protect us from her.
Neither of my grandmothers told us
that there's something more powerful than La Llorona,
a power that takes away parents, not children.
It is called the United States.
In 1980, when I was four years old,
I didn't know yet where the United States was
or why everyone in my hometown of Iguala, Guerrero,
referred to it as El Otro Lado, the Other Side.
What I knew back then was that El Otro Lado
had already taken my father away.
What I knew was that prayers didn't work
because if they did,
El Otro Lado wouldn't be taking my mother away, too.
It was January 1980.
The following month, my mother would be turning 30,
but she wouldn't be celebrating her birthday with us.
I clutched on my mother's dress and asked,
"How long will you be gone?"
"Not too long," was her response.
She closed the latch on the small suitcase
she had bought secondhand for her trip to El Otro Lado,
and I knew the hour had come for her to leave.
"It's time to go," Mami said as she picked up her suitcase.
My sister Mago, my brother Carlos, and I
grabbed the plastic bags filled with our clothes.
We stood at the threshold of the little house
we had been renting from a man named Don Ruben
and looked around us one more time.
Mami's brothers were packing our belongings
to be stored at my grandmother's house:
a refrigerator that didn't work,
but that Mami hoped to fix one day,
the bed Mago and I had shared with Mami ever since Papi left,
the wardrobe we decorated with El Chavo del Ocho stickers
to hide the places where the paint had peeled off.
The house was almost empty now.
Later that day,
Mami would be handing the key back to Don Ruben,
and this would no longer be our home, but someone else's.
As we were about to step into the sunlight,
I caught a glimpse of Papi.
My uncle was putting a photo of him into a box.
I ran to take the photo from my uncle.
"Why are you taking that?" Mami said,
as we headed down the dirt road to Papi's mother's house
where we'd be living from then on.
"He's my Papi," I said,
and I clutched the frame tight against my chest.
"I know that," Mami said.
"Your grandmother has pictures of your father at her house.
You don't need to take that photo with you."
"But this is my Papi," I told her again.
She didn't understand that
this paper face behind a wall of glass
was the only father I had ever known.
I was two years old when my father left.
The year before, the peso was devalued 45% to the US dollar.
It was the beginning
of the worst recession Mexico has seen in 50 years.
My father left to pursue a dream: to build us a house.
Although he was a bricklayer and had built many houses,
with Mexico's unstable economy,
he would never earn the money he needed
to make his dream a reality.
Like most immigrants, my father had left his native country
with high expectations
of what life in El Otro Lado would be like.
Once reality set in and he realized that
dollars weren't as easy to make
as the stories people told made it seem,
he had been faced with two choices:
return to Mexico empty-handed and with his head held low,
or send for my mother.
He decided on the latter, hoping that between the two of them,
they could earn the money he needed
to build the house he dreamed of.
Then he would finally be able to return
to the country of his birth with his head held high,
proud of what he had accomplished.
In the meantime, he was leaving us without a mother.
Thank you.
[applause]
So I started the book there
because I really do feel that this is where my journey began.
And after my mother left, it was just now the three of us.
Just me and my brother and my sister.
And so, basically, by the time I was four-and-a-half,
I had no father and I had no mother
and there was a border that stood between me and my parents.
And, to me, you know, as a little girl,
that was really difficult to wrap my head around.
To have them so far away and to not understand, you know,
what had driven them away.
And we don't understand anything about, you know, the economy.
We don't understand anything about
when the peso was being devalued and that there were no jobs
and that, you know,
there were lacks of opportunities.
As a child, what I felt was that my parents had left
because they didn't love me enough to stay with me.
And it really affected me to be separated from them
and to not know if I would ever see them again.
And when my mother left,
we were left behind with my paternal grandmother.
And I refer to her a lot as my evil grandmother
because she was really mean.
But also because her name is-- It was Evila,
which is spelled like the word evil with an 'A'.
[laughter]
And I remember the first-- When I was learning English
and I ran into the word "evil" in a fairy tale,
I said, "Ooh, that looks like my grandmother's name." [laughter]
And I looked up the definition of evil,
and I said, "Ooh, that is my grandmother's name."
[laughter]
So I know those of you who've read the book,
you know that my grandmother made life very difficult for us
while we lived there.
And she wasn't very happy
about being stuck with three grandchildren to raise,
and, you know, especially at her age.
And she really did feel being put upon,
having to take care of me and my siblings.
So as the years went by, you know,
my siblings and I, we just had each other.
And my older sister became my little mother,
and she did her best to provide
and to give me love and nurturing.
And she had to sacrifice her childhood to become a parent,
which, for me, it's also one of the tragedies in my family.
You know?
That something like that had to happen.
But she was the one
who really helped us to deal with the situation,
and she was also a big dreamer.
She would always talk about the dream that
when our parents would return, and that's really, I think,
when I became a dreamer because that's all I had.
And I had this dream that one day, you know,
our family was going to be put back together again.
And that's what I held on to during the eight years
that my father was gone.
I held on to that dream with all my heart.
So, when I was almost 10 years old,
my father finally came back to Iguala.
And by the time he came back, a lot of things had changed.
The economy in Mexico had gone from bad to worse,
and people were not going back home.
They were actually continuing to migrate.
And, you know, my father and me, we were part of
that biggest wave of immigration from Mexico
that lasted for like, how many years?
40 years?
So, my father, he couldn't come back to Mexico
because there were still no jobs
and the peso kept getting devalued.
And also other things that changed in my family
was that my parents separated when they were here,
and my father left my mom for another woman.
So when he came back to Mexico,
he came back with this new woman.
And it was really traumatic for me
to meet my father for the first time
and then to see a complete stranger next to my father.
And it was seeing this woman with my father
that when I really realized that
my family was never going to be put back together again.
So that was a very difficult moment for me,
but again, it was an experience that changed my life,
when my father came back to Iguala,
because he decided to bring us to the US
since he wasn't going to come back anymore.
And one of the biggest ironies in my life was that
it took my father eight years
to build us the house that he dreamed of,
and yet we never lived in it.
Even for one day.
So, when I was nine-and-a-half,
I found myself face to face with the US border.
And, for me, it was, you know,
a very shocking experience to see it with my own eyes because
this border had stood between me and my parents for so long
and for me to finally find myself there.
I wasn't very concerned about that I was going to lose my life
because we were about to embark in this dangerous journey
across the border.
But, for me, the stakes were so much higher than that
because the stakes for me were, you know,
losing my chance to have a father back in my life,
if I didn't succeed.
So I'm going to read to you the second excerpt of the book,
and then I'll finish up my presentation,
and then I'll take answers.
But I'm going to read to you
the version of the young reader's edition.
In the original version,
the border crossing is only one chapter in the story,
but when I did the adaptation for young readers
my editor asked me to expand the border crossing
into three chapters.
I'm not going to read the three of them. [laughter]
I'll just read the beginning.
So this is our first border crossing.
And it was really interesting for me
to go back into the book that I had already written
and reshape it.
And restructure it.
And the difference between the two
is that I cut out about a hundred pages.
Even though they look the same, you know, they're just as thick,
but this one the font is bigger, which I really like now
because now that I'm like 40, I'm blind
and I can hardly read this font anymore. [laughter]
So I love the big font.
So now I actually like reading from this version
because I don't need to put on glasses yet.
All right.
So, here's our first attempt at crossing the border.
Papi checked us into a small hotel.
There was only a full-size bed, a night table, a dresser,
and a television in the room.
Papi said we three could have the bed.
"I'll sleep on the floor," he said.
The floor was tiled
and I knew it would be uncomfortable to sleep on,
but he said a bigger room costs more.
"And with any luck, we will only be here for one night," he said.
He left us there to watch television,
and he went out in search of food and a coyotaje.
The smuggler who would take us across.
We watched reruns of El Chavo del Ocho
while we waited for Papi.
We had never stayed in a hotel before,
and we had never watched TV in bed.
For the first time,
I found myself beginning to enjoy our journey north.
Papi came back with tacos and sodas.
"We head out tomorrow," he said.
"Eat your food and then go straight to bed.
We'll leave early in the morning."
The smuggler picked us up before sunrise at the hotel
and drove us across the city.
I was sleepy, and I found myself struggling to stay awake.
I wasn't used to waking up that early,
and I was groggy and grumpy.
To make matters worse,
that morning I had woken up with a tooth ache,
and Papi didn't have anything to give me.
My tooth had hurt once in a while,
and my grandmother had given me mint leaves to chew on.
This time, there was nothing I could do except doze off,
hoping that when I woke up the pain would be gone.
"Reyna, wake up.
We're here," Mago said.
The sun was just coming out when we came to a stop.
We got out of the car and looked around.
The border turned out to be nothing but dirt and bushes,
rocks and weeds, under a light blue sky.
"This is where we start," the smuggler said.
He looked at me and said, "Try to keep up, okay?
You don't want to be left behind, do you?"
I looked at Papi.
My stomach clenched at
the thought of being abandoned in the middle of nowhere.
The coyotaje must have seen the terrified look on my face
because he laughed and patted my head.
"I'm just teasing."
Papi's face was serious when he looked at us and said,
"Stay alert and do as the coyotaje says.
The coyotaje led us through a hole in a chain link fence
into the vacant land on the other side.
We followed in silence.
I looked at the ants scurrying around, gathering food.
A hawk soared above in the wind.
Birds chirped in trees.
Lizards crawled under rocks.
If I hadn't been so afraid,
I would have been enjoying our adventure.
But then I remembered that even though this place was beautiful,
it was forbidden land.
We were not welcome here.
Once in a while,
the coyotaje shouted orders to us and we obeyed.
"Walk!"
"Hide!"
"Run!"
"Crawl!"
I wasn't used to walking and running so much and so fast.
My tooth began to hurt even more, and around noon,
as we walked through the hills under the heat of the sun,
I began to get a fever.
Mago put her arm around me so that I could lean on her
as we walked, but soon we found ourselves lagging behind.
"Come on, Reyna, you can do it," Mago said.
"Maybe we should turn around and go back,"
the coyotaje said to Papi.
He stopped and waited for us to catch up.
"It's hard making this journey with children."
"No," Papi said.
"We keep going.
She'll be okay."
Papi ended up carrying me on his back.
I held on as tight as I could,
branches grasping at me as if trying to tear me away from him.
I didn't remember ever being given a piggyback ride by Papi,
and I wish we were somewhere else,
like at a park having fun, not at the border.
Not when I was hungry and sick and terrified of being caught.
My throat felt dry,
and I asked for water for the hundredth time that day.
"Not right now," Papi said again as he struggled up the path.
His breaths came in gasps.
I knew Papi was getting tired.
Suddenly, a cloud of dust rose in the distance,
and before we knew it, a white truck was heading our way.
"Run!" the coyotaje yelled.
We rushed into the bushes,
and I clung to Papi with all my might as he ran.
He dove behind a rock.
I gripped him so hard I choked him.
He pulled free from my grip and muffled a cough into his arm.
Had La Migra heard him?
The truck pulled over and men dressed in green,
the men Papi had called La Migra, got out of the truck.
"Come out," they said.
"There's nowhere to hide."
They took us to the border patrol station.
Mago, Carlos, and I waited in the hallway
while the agents took Papi into their office.
We didn't know what they would do to us, to him.
We waited and waited.
Our eyes hurt from too much crying.
Agents passed by without looking at us.
More and more migrants arrived.
Mostly men and a few women, but no children.
Even though they were just as afraid as we were,
they looked at us and they smiled, encouraging us.
With their eyes, they said to me, "Have faith, don't give up."
I didn't know how long Papi had been with the agents.
I didn't know what they were asking him
or what he was saying.
But as the minutes went by,
I began to wonder if they would ever let him go.
What if they arrested him?
Arrested us?
What if we never saw each other again?
I clutched my brother and sister
as fresh tears came out of my eyes.
A border patrol agent with the bluest eyes I had ever seen
stopped in front of us and said something to us in English.
We shook our heads,
feeling stupid because we couldn't understand him
and we didn't know how to tell him that.
He smiled and went to the vending machine.
Then he came back with sodas for us.
He patted our heads and walked away.
I didn't realize until then how hungry and thirsty I was.
I had been too afraid
to think about anything other than my father.
We opened our sodas, and the sweetness of it gave me hope.
It was a gift from a border patrol agent.
From a gringo with kind blue eyes.
Maybe the agents weren't so bad after all.
Maybe they would understand
that all we wanted was to have a family,
and they would soon let us go.
And they would let us keep our dream.
Thank you.
[applause]
All right.
So, you know how the crossing turned out because I'm here now.
[laughter]
So, we did make it.
It took us three times.
And my dream came true in a way.
I had dreamed of having both my parents,
but I ended up with just my dad, which, in many ways,
I think it was a good thing
because my father, more than my mother,
had a really, really big impact
on the the person that I turned out to be.
So there I was with my father.
We came to live with him in Los Angeles.
And when we arrived in LA,
I thought that I had finally put the border between us
and that there would never be another border
that I had to get across.
But, you know, like most immigrants,
when we arrive here, we realize that
the US border is really just our first border to overcome.
And when we come to this country,
there's so many more borders that we need to get across.
And, you know, these are borders like language.
The language barrier.
There's a cultural barrier.
And then, for many of us, there's also the legal barrier
when we come here without proper documentation.
And so these were so many other borders
that I had to cross when I arrived.
And at school, when I first started, you know,
I realized that school was another border
that I needed to overcome.
And I attended a school that didn't really have
resources for immigrant children.
They didn't have bilingual education.
They didn't have ESL.
They just had a sink or swim approach to learning English.
And I was thrown into a classroom
where I didn't speak the language,
and, for me, it was a very difficult experience
because it was at school where I first experienced
marginalization where, you know, I felt discriminated,
where I felt that I didn't have a voice, and I realized that,
you know, I was going to have to fight for my right to remain.
But, you know, as I mentioned earlier,
I was really lucky to come to live with my father
because my father was a very big dreamer.
And maybe it's our last name, Grande,
that he tried to live up to
because he didn't have little dreams,
he had grande dreams.
And my father, when we got here, he told us that.
You know, he brought us here so that we could succeed,
and he told us
that he expected nothing but 'A's from us from school.
And threatened to deport us back to Mexico
if we didn't do well in school. [laughter]
So I wasn't afraid of border patrol.
I was afraid of my father because I knew that he would
deport us if we didn't, you know, get straight 'A's.
So we were really good students, my siblings and I,
and we were straight A students, and my father talked to us
about, you know, going to college one day
and having a career one day and being homeowners one day
and having money for retirement one day.
And, you know, I was 11 years old
and he was telling me about retirement already.
So that was my dad.
And one of the things that I really appreciated the most
about my dad was that, you know,
even though we were undocumented,
he would always say,
"Just because we're undocumented doesn't mean we cannot dream."
And he was the kind of person
that he was always ready for tomorrow.
He would tell us, "You never know
what opportunities might come tomorrow,
and we need to be prepared for those opportunities."
So that's kind of how he taught us to live our lives.
You know?
To always be prepared for what tomorrow might bring.
And, luckily for us,
what tomorrow brought was the 1986 amnesty,
which legalized the status of three million people.
And both of my parents became legal residents
because of the amnesty.
So when I was 15 years old
was when our Green Cards arrived in the mail.
And I remember that day when my father opened the envelope
and he took out the Green Cards
and he gave us each a Green Card.
He said, "I've done my part, the rest is up to you."
And that was a very, you know, powerful moment for me
because having that Green Card,
it really allowed me
to finally embrace the dreams.
To not be afraid anymore.
To not ask my father, you know, "Can we really aspire
to all these things you're talking about?"
And when that Green Card came, you know,
it really--
I took the Green Card my father handed me and I ran with it.
And so, many dreams came true for me
thanks to that opportunity.
That, you know, for me,
one of the reasons why I wrote "The Distance Between Us"
was to really try to emphasize what can happen
when we give that opportunity, right, to people,
and especially to our dreamers.
To our immigrant youth.
You know, what's going to happen
when we allow them to legalize their status?
So when I was given that opportunity as a 15-year-old,
you know, I went on to accomplish all my dreams.
So I dreamt of going to college.
And I, you know, I ended up at the community college
where I did a lot of great things,
and one of them was to participate in the Rose Parade.
And that was a big dream for me to be in the Rose Parade.
And then, from there,
I transferred to a four-year university,
and I ended up at UC-Santa Cruz.
And there, I became the first in my family
to graduate from college. [applause]
Thank you. Thank you so much.
[applause]
And, you know, for me it was a really big accomplishment
because my father only went to the third grade
and my mother went to the sixth grade.
So, for me, like, it meant like once I did it,
I was able to break that cycle, you know,
that my family had been stuck in.
And I knew that by me doing it, that meant that
I could now guide the rest of my family
and the next generation of Grandes through that door.
And it's just really interesting for me, you know,
that experience because it's--
With my husband, who I said is from Wisconsin,
his mother has a master's degree, his father has a PhD,
his sister has a master's degree,
my husband has two master's degrees,
and his aunts and his uncles have PhDs and master's degrees.
I'm like, geez, you know?
And I guess, you know, his family,
his father's side migrated from Finland,
and it was his great grandfather who migrated.
And, for me, it gives me a lot of hope
because I feel like two generations from now
my great grandchildren are going to be saying that
about the Grande family.
So that's what I aspire to now.
That's my dream now.
But that's what it meant to me when I graduated,
that I started something.
And then, also, I, you know, dreamed of being a US citizen,
and 10 years ago, I became a US citizen.
And then my dream of being a published author came true,
and not just being published in the US,
but also being published in other languages abroad.
And then, you know, I have my own role models,
and these are Latino successful artists that are my role models.
So being recognized by them for the things that I'm doing
has meant a lot to me as well.
So, having that opportunity to meet these role models.
And for 20 years, I dreamt of
being on the stage with Sandra Cisneros,
who's my, like, idol. [laughter]
And that dream came true last year.
And it's like, man, I waited 20 years but, you know,
you just got to hold on to those dreams
no matter how long it takes.
So, for me, you know, what's driving me now
after all these dreams that I've been able to accomplish is,
you know, I'm continuing to fight for immigrant rights
because I do feel that, you know,
that's my responsibility as an immigrant.
And I fight against invisibility.
You know?
And that's why I always push myself
to keep going with my writing
because I feel like if I'm not writing my stories,
then who's going to write our stories?
And so I fight against invisibility through my work,
and I contribute my stories to American literature
to remind people that Latinos are part of the American story.
And that we need to be part of our literature.
So, those of us who have made it, you know,
I think all of us here in the room,
or many of us here in the room, have made it in many ways.
We're still working towards our dreams, but, you know,
we have a responsibility to keep the dream alive for others,
right?
And that's something that
I take that responsibility very seriously.
As Michelle Obama once said in a speech,
that we shouldn't close the door, right?
Once we go through the door of opportunity,
we shouldn't close the door.
We should leave it open for those coming after us.
So, that's what I try to do with my work.
And that's what I encourage all of you guys to do.
To keep the door open and to keep helping other people
to go through that door.
And especially, you know, our immigrant families.
And that's something that Centro is doing beautifully.
You know?
Keeping that door open, literally.
Keeping that door open
and helping immigrant families to fight for their dreams.
Continuing to support our immigrant youth.
I think that's very, very important because, as we know,
youth are the future of this country,
whether they're immigrant or not immigrant.
You know, we need to make sure
that we help them reach their full potential
and that we give them those opportunities that they need
so that later on
they can contribute their talents and their skills
to our communities and make this a better place.
Also, you know, right now in terms of immigration, you know,
we're living through the biggest immigration crisis in history
here in the United States.
We're seeing it happening in Europe, as well.
There are more displaced people in the world today
than ever before.
So it's important, you know, to keep talking about immigration
and not just locally, but globally.
You know? Like, what's going on?
And like I said, I am a big dreamer.
So I dream of a world where there is respect
for all human beings regardless of where we come from
regardless of the color of our skin.
But I also think that we need to do some serious soul searching
as a country and also as a world
because I see that powerful countries
have a history of denying or failing to recognize that
their acts and their policies
create instability in other countries.
And what I see is that, you know,
first we create catalysts for immigration,
and then we punish people for immigrating.
So, we need to really start asking ourselves,
"What are we doing?"
and, "How can we change things for the better?"
So, just to conclude, and I'm going to open it up
for questions after this, is that, you know,
I really believe that there has to be a place for immigrants
in our hearts, in our country, in our literature,
and this is, for me, what I'm fighting for the most.
This country, as we mentioned earlier, you know,
it was founded by immigrants, right?
It's fueled by immigrants.
It began as a dream.
It was founded by dreamers.
And it is dreamers, especially our young dreamers,
who will continue to make this country great.
So, let us dream together.
Thank you. [applause]
Thank you so much.