By Iris Brambila
One of my earliest memories comes from a day at the park, my mom tugging on my arm in the middle of the crowd as she told me to look away. In front of me, there was a small stage but no performance; instead it was my father fist fighting with another guy. Little did I know, those same fists wouldn’t be used to hit a man, but used to hurt the same woman who gave birth to his children—my mother
I remember my mom wearing glasses to cover up a black eye. I remember having to move away with my mom and sister, leaving my two older brothers behind because my mother couldn’t take it anymore. I would still get to see one of my brothers, Abraham, at school. I would run up to him with excitement while he also would look happy, but deeper in his facial expression he seemed sad.
We ended up moving back in when my dad took us from my babysitter’s house without permission one day. So my mom did not have any option but to hear from him. She gave him another chance after that day, which ended up being the last chance.
It only took a few days for my father to put his hands on my mother again. My sister and I were in the room when it was happening. My brothers were in the living room, raising the TV volume to ignore it, as they also feared him and felt helpless. I felt the same: completely helpless as I just froze with my sister right next to me, crying and yelling, asking him to stop and even got on top off him to try to pull him off.
I remember my mom wearing glasses to cover up a black eye. I remember having to move away with my mom and sister, leaving my two older brothers behind because my mother couldn’t take it anymore. I would still get to see one of my brothers, Abraham, at school. I would run up to him with excitement while he also would look happy, but deeper in his facial expression he seemed sad.
We ended up moving back in when my dad took us from my babysitter’s house without permission one day. So my mom did not have any option but to hear from him. She gave him another chance after that day, which ended up being the last chance.
It only took a few days for my father to put his hands on my mother again. My sister and I were in the room when it was happening. My brothers were in the living room, raising the TV volume to ignore it, as they also feared him and felt helpless. I felt the same: completely helpless as I just froze with my sister right next to me, crying and yelling, asking him to stop and even got on top off him to try to pull him off.
That same night was when my mom took my sister and I to my babysitter’s house, where she called the police. He was deported after that call and no longer was able to hurt my mother physically.
When I first spoke to him after his deportation, he asked for forgiveness. As a child, I didn’t truly know what that meant, but my response was of course a yes. After all, that man was my father.
I would cry after speaking to him, and continue to this day, because I think of all I lost—along with my siblings, growing up with no father figure. He still apologizes and mentions how he just wasn’t happy, mad for some reason, and wasn’t okay mentally, which still isn’t an excuse to hurt a women. He mainly fears that we’ll forget him one day, but what else can we do when he can’t physically be here and wasn’t here to raise us and see us grow up?
My eldest brother, Jorge, ended up getting a job to help out my mom with rent, and soon after dropped out of school to pursue that “Man of the House” role, as it was now his since he was the oldest.
Growing up seeing this, I figured that I, too, had to be more mature. I wouldn’t do the things I normally would’ve before. I wouldn’t ask for more nor whine for toys because I understood where we were money-wise. I would dress up boyish because I didn’t fit in with the other girls and would look up to my brothers. I would do the chores around the house and wouldn’t cause any trouble. In a way this was my job and I gained an early understanding of where my family was. I just had to value what we did have including a roof over my head and food open the table.
This will forever affect my trust issues. This also came along with flinching when someone touches me, especially a guy. My fists close when some gets too close or touches me unexpectedly. I can’t even hear someone scream in anger without twitching.
My brother Abraham ended up dealing with this by hanging around with the wrong people, staying out late, and getting into lots of fights. There were times where the police were involved.
According to US National Library of Medicine, children exposed to violence are at risk of a troubled trajectory and more likely to be violent themselves in order to cope or solve their problems.
While growing up, we learned how to rely on each other, but never really spoke about our problems. We were willing to give up so much just to the bigger picture and seeing everyone else not struggle as much.
It wasn’t until February 3, 2013 that we had another great lost. My mom was out doing laundry while us kids stayed at home eating ice cream cake, celebrating my sister’s birthday, not knowing it was the last we would all celebrate together.
My brother Jorge was out that same day with the wrong people and fell victim of a gang drive by. During the process, Abraham ran out to the scene where my mom caught up to him since it was only two blocks away from home. I stayed home where my sister cried and my baby brother had no idea what was happening.
My neighbor took us in her home where she called my mom, and we heard her crying, only rising my fear and anxiety. Then, we heard her yell “ they killed my son.” At that moment, I no longer had the control of being the tough person looking over my siblings and broke down crying.
Abraham said, “He was always here for me. [He] took care of us when our dad left, he stepped up as a man. Always stood up for me when the gangsters on the block used to talk s***. He was always down for whatever. Everyday he had your head up. You were never sad always had a big a** smile on your face. Even though you left us down here, I can still feel him around. I know he’s up there watching down on us taking care of us.”
It didn’t take too long for someone to tell me to not cry, almost as if I wasn’t allowed to grief the loss of my brother. It was the morning after he passed that my neighbor told me to not cry anymore and stay strong for the best of my mother.
After all I been through, as well as my family, I can still say I’m proud of where I am and the strength I’ve built along the years. This experience and other tough situations have made me who I am; instead of becoming bitter because of it, I have used these experiences to help me grow both physically and mentally.
I might’ve lost a lot of my childhood, family, and my willingness to express myself, but I’ve acknowledged it and have worked on improving it. As the saying goes, there’s light in all of the darkness and if you allow yourself to see it, it will guide you, which I plan to continue doing.
These experiences have shown me to appreciate what I do have and the people in my life. After all, I still have family I can depend on, especially my mother, who can handle all of this and more, and for that I’m eternally grateful for her and her strength.
When I first spoke to him after his deportation, he asked for forgiveness. As a child, I didn’t truly know what that meant, but my response was of course a yes. After all, that man was my father.
I would cry after speaking to him, and continue to this day, because I think of all I lost—along with my siblings, growing up with no father figure. He still apologizes and mentions how he just wasn’t happy, mad for some reason, and wasn’t okay mentally, which still isn’t an excuse to hurt a women. He mainly fears that we’ll forget him one day, but what else can we do when he can’t physically be here and wasn’t here to raise us and see us grow up?
My eldest brother, Jorge, ended up getting a job to help out my mom with rent, and soon after dropped out of school to pursue that “Man of the House” role, as it was now his since he was the oldest.
Growing up seeing this, I figured that I, too, had to be more mature. I wouldn’t do the things I normally would’ve before. I wouldn’t ask for more nor whine for toys because I understood where we were money-wise. I would dress up boyish because I didn’t fit in with the other girls and would look up to my brothers. I would do the chores around the house and wouldn’t cause any trouble. In a way this was my job and I gained an early understanding of where my family was. I just had to value what we did have including a roof over my head and food open the table.
This will forever affect my trust issues. This also came along with flinching when someone touches me, especially a guy. My fists close when some gets too close or touches me unexpectedly. I can’t even hear someone scream in anger without twitching.
My brother Abraham ended up dealing with this by hanging around with the wrong people, staying out late, and getting into lots of fights. There were times where the police were involved.
According to US National Library of Medicine, children exposed to violence are at risk of a troubled trajectory and more likely to be violent themselves in order to cope or solve their problems.
While growing up, we learned how to rely on each other, but never really spoke about our problems. We were willing to give up so much just to the bigger picture and seeing everyone else not struggle as much.
It wasn’t until February 3, 2013 that we had another great lost. My mom was out doing laundry while us kids stayed at home eating ice cream cake, celebrating my sister’s birthday, not knowing it was the last we would all celebrate together.
My brother Jorge was out that same day with the wrong people and fell victim of a gang drive by. During the process, Abraham ran out to the scene where my mom caught up to him since it was only two blocks away from home. I stayed home where my sister cried and my baby brother had no idea what was happening.
My neighbor took us in her home where she called my mom, and we heard her crying, only rising my fear and anxiety. Then, we heard her yell “ they killed my son.” At that moment, I no longer had the control of being the tough person looking over my siblings and broke down crying.
Abraham said, “He was always here for me. [He] took care of us when our dad left, he stepped up as a man. Always stood up for me when the gangsters on the block used to talk s***. He was always down for whatever. Everyday he had your head up. You were never sad always had a big a** smile on your face. Even though you left us down here, I can still feel him around. I know he’s up there watching down on us taking care of us.”
It didn’t take too long for someone to tell me to not cry, almost as if I wasn’t allowed to grief the loss of my brother. It was the morning after he passed that my neighbor told me to not cry anymore and stay strong for the best of my mother.
After all I been through, as well as my family, I can still say I’m proud of where I am and the strength I’ve built along the years. This experience and other tough situations have made me who I am; instead of becoming bitter because of it, I have used these experiences to help me grow both physically and mentally.
I might’ve lost a lot of my childhood, family, and my willingness to express myself, but I’ve acknowledged it and have worked on improving it. As the saying goes, there’s light in all of the darkness and if you allow yourself to see it, it will guide you, which I plan to continue doing.
These experiences have shown me to appreciate what I do have and the people in my life. After all, I still have family I can depend on, especially my mother, who can handle all of this and more, and for that I’m eternally grateful for her and her strength.