I’m only 17

Valentina Larrivey, MS3 Emory University School of Medicine

It’s 1968.

I’m only 17.

Two years in Mexicali,

gathering paperwork,

but I am finally going to do it.

 I’m finally going to the United States.

I won’t have my mom.

My dad is nowhere to be found.

My brothers must stay and work.

My sisters are too young.

I must go alone.

I must make money to help my family.

 I want to be afraid, but I must be strong.

We cross the border in Tijuana.

The car ride is bumpy, mostly desert,

but then I finally see it:

“Welcome to the United States.”

I feel only sadness.

How can I live here?

 I don’t even speak English.

What will they think of me?

How will I find work?

Endless thoughts fill my mind.

There is no time for regret.

I must find strength,

For my mom who raised me by herself,

for my siblings who deserve a better life.

We arrive in Los Angeles, California.

The city of angels

The city where my dreams will come true.

I wonder if I can go to college,

I wonder if I can get my driver’s license.

I wonder if I will find work.

I’m only 17, but for the man in the clothing factory, I pretend to be 18.

He questions me, my age, and my English.

 I tell him I am a hard worker,

that I can work on my English.

The man is kind.

He gives me a chance,

he gives me the job,

he gives me hope.

I do not make much money, but I work hard.

My hands hurt and they bleed.

The hands of my people’s struggle.

The reality that the American dream is not that easy.

But I am thankful to have had it easier than others,

Even if I am alone.

Months later, my sister joins me to work.

We take the bus at four in the morning to arrive to work at five.

Sometimes the police follow us,

 to make sure we are going to work. 

I don’t understand this.

 I am not a criminal.

 I’m just here to work.

I’m just here to be happy.

I am not a criminal.

My dreams of college are gone now. 

I must continue working.

I go to Lincoln Heights High School.

I take night classes.

I try to learn English, but I struggle.

I do not like my accent.

I feel judged and alienated.

I just want to see my mom.

I just want to go to college.

All I feel is frustration.

 I cry every night.

But I must keep going for myself, for my family.

I look around the streets.

I’m only 17, but I feel wiser now.

The people in California, they are so happy, so free.

They call themselves hippies.

They only know love.

They know me as an American, not an immigrant.

I love them too.

They finally make me feel like I belong,

As though the United States is my home too.

And that is what it is—my home.

My new home.

I wish that all people who come to the U.S will feel that this is their home too.

I am only 17.

The struggle is not easy, but I know it will be worth it.

About the Author: My name is Valentina Larrivey and I'm a 3rd year year medical student at Emory University School of Medicine. I was born in California, but spent most of my life in Michigan. I've always been passionate about immigration issues, predominantly because my own parents and grandparents immigrated from Mexico and Argentina, respectively, and it was a large focus of my academic studies outside of my pre-med classes at the University of Michigan. As a medical student, I've had the opportunity to serve as the VP of our LMSA chapter as well as a clinic coordinator for a student-led, Spanish-speaking clinic called Portal de Salud. I hope to continue advocating for all patients, particularly those who are underserved, both as a medical student and in my career as a physician.

About the work: I wrote this poem in honor of my grandmother and her journey to the United States. While she's not specifically identified, I believe this is reflective of the journey that many individuals face when they come to this country in search of the "American Dream".