We Are the Seeds of Our Ancestors

I always think of my grandmother, and my parent's journey as immigrants, leaving behind the only home they had ever known. They arrived in the United States seeking a better life for us, their children, and their grandchildren, though they knew the road would not be easy. With nothing but hope, resilience, and a promise of a brighter future, they faced the unknown. My ancestors endure many sacrifices. I know each sacrifice was a seed planted in the soil of opportunity, waiting to bloom for us. The early mornings of hard work, the long hours, and the constant feeling of being outsiders were the costs they paid. But they did it because they believed in a better tomorrow — not just for themselves, but for their family. Their journey was one of quiet strength, full of love, pain, and the unwavering desire to give us more than they had. It’s these sacrifices, and the countless others made by immigrants before and after them, that have allowed us to live a life full of opportunities we might not have known otherwise. During the march, I marched with all of them in my heart. 

When I heard the drums during the march, I felt the echo of my matriarchs’ strength vibrating through me. I saw myself dancing to the song of my heart with my tribe, like when I participated with a koruk tribe located in Mount Shasta. Each beat reminds me that I carry my ancestor's resilience, wisdom, and courage in my blood. The rhythm is more than just sound—it is a call to stand tall, resist, honor the struggles they endured, continue, and never give up. 

Also, I was marching with an  Iranian American friend who was marching for her beliefs and other women of color. She was honoring her friends, her causes, and her ancestors. I adopted her as Mexican. I have so much joy walking for Justice with her. I told her we were on this together. I hugged her and listened to the song of her heart during the protest. I felt honored to have her on my side. 

Another special moment during this March was when I saw a man, a civil rights leader, dressed up as a monarch butterfly flutter by, its wings during the march reminded me of home, of my country’s mountains and fields where the butterflies migrated every season. I thought about how the monarch’s life cycle mirrors the journey of immigrants. Just like the butterfly must endure a metamorphosis, we, too, go through an often painful transformation to survive in a new country. The change isn’t easy; we shed parts of ourselves to adapt, only to emerge stronger, more resilient, and more capable of thriving in this new world. But through this struggle, like the butterfly, we carry with us the essence of where we came from — the richness of our heritage, the strength of our ancestors, and the hope for a future that honors both where we are now and where we come from.

The march wasn’t just a protest for justice; it was a celebration of the seeds sown by our ancestors — the ones who came before us, and those who continue to fight for a future where all immigrants can thrive. It was a testament to the power of transformation, the kind of transformation my grandmother and my parents endured to ensure that we would have the chance to aspire to a better life. We are the seeds of their dreams, and like the butterfly, we too will continue to evolve, taking flight with the courage of those who paved the way. And in the same way as they, we shall rise.

We are the seeds of our ancestors, who arrived here with hopes of forging a better future and paving the way in a foreign land. No fear can overshadow the hope they planted within us, embedded deep in our hearts. Their enduring spirit fuels our own, igniting a fire that propels us forward. We embody their dreams, as my father often reminded me, “As long as we are alive there is HOPE.” Let us persevere with the hope, knowing they walk with us, ever-present in our hearts." Let's keep marching with the song of our hearts.

La Adelita

02/02/2025