¡Hola! Me llamo Gerardo Herrera-Cortés y soy un pasante por los poblaciones hispanos y latinos en el Mosaico: centro para la diversidad y cultura en UMBC. Estudio diseño gráfico, pero tengo una pasión para la vida y experiencia de los universitarios.

In translation to the American English language, I just said my name, that I’m the Hispanic and Latino/x intern for the Mosaic, as well as my major and my main interest. Those two sentences took about half an hour to write. If you’re fluent in written Spanish, you can perhaps see the mistakes I made. I search endlessly through search engines and Spanish websites to ensure that my grammar is at least decent. In English, that’s lesser of an issue.

I was born in Puebla, México and immigrated to the United States with my mother at trés meses. I already knew that I was an undocumented immigrant, along with other members of my “nuclear” family (Side note: I found out what nuclear family meant this past weekend and it’s quite a weird concept). It was no biggie – my family had their life and other folks had theirs. We kept a sharper eye at the skin tones of police officers and the immigration Q&As on Univisión Noticias than others. It was normal. Normal.

My hermanos, 19 and 14, are American-born and, as my dad likes to put it, malagredecidos. They’re enjoying the American experience and the benefits of health insurance, an American passport, and citizenship. Aren’t they lucky, huh?

I applied to colleges, the first in my family, and got stuff done. I didn’t know how money worked nor how much it was but I went for it. During my sophomore year in high school, my sister and I applied for and were granted I-765 work permits and deportation deferral through DACA. I worked full-time for slightly above minimum wage – $7.80 at the time – because I had the ability to speak (decent) Spanish. I worked full-time, every week, from October 2013 to August 2015. Then, my mother revived her Permanent Residency application that was filed in 1993, back before the time of any children, with a costly lawyer during my junior year.

El trío was granted residency status in March 2015. We spent more than dos mil dólares por persona. I helped my older sister in funding the federal “forgiveness” fee, biometric fees, application fees, and lawyer costs. I came to UMBC, paid for my first semester with the dos mil that was left in my bank account and whatever leftover money the federal and state government had (and none from UMBC at the time).

Fast forward, I’m working several jobs here at UMBC, living financially unstable, enduring discriminatory and injusto practices and cultures, and still worried about several loved ones. Mi familia transverses the six of us. I acknowledge that the 1993 case was a life (and deportation) savior for most of my family.  I acknowledge the ability to live in lesser fear. I want you to acknowledge that getting benefits and “security” is not always truest to their words. I want you to acknowledge that la experiencia de un inmigrante no ha cambiado y la guerra para igualdad sigue más fuerte que nunca. Yo quiero lo más mejor por mis padres, mis parientes, y esos de la misma o peor experiencia. Tú eres querido, importante, y vital en este mundo. Y en el fin, yo asciendo por la guerra, por la gente, por mi gente, y por vos.

¿Necesita ayuda con la traducción? Need assistance with translation? Visit http://www.spanishdict.com/

I rise for our undocumented people whose voices are silenced. Our voices are silenced as soon as we internalize the belief that living in the shadows is our best chance at assimilating. We know this is oppression, but it keeps us relatively safe from deportation, discrimination, prejudice and their ripple effects that wound our families and spirits of life. Essentially, our shelter in the shadows is living fear in silence.

Like many of the 11 million undocumented immigrants in this country, I was born on the “wrong” side of the border. My home country is Mexico, Mexico City where I recollect 7 years worth of wonderful countryside memories with my mom’s family. I also vividly remember my crises of identity when I realized I was the abandoned child in the family. As a single mother and head of the household, my mom worked vehemently with a desperate heart for our reunion. In 2005, “coyotes” brought me over the border, across grasslands and from underground housing networks to my mother-daughter reunion. While we did bond effortlessly, I was well aware of my suppressed resentment toward my mom’s decision; a decision I felt placed me in a deeper crisis of identity than ever before. After many reflections and questions, I have come to understand and respect her valiant decision.

Shortly after making peace with the decision that flipped my world on its head, the 2016 election happened. I could not stop crying. Feelings of betrayal, anxiety, and confusion pained my mind and body. Then, everything changed when my dear friend asked me to speak out. You see, I am an immigrant with privilege in this country. DACA temporarily protects me from deportation, and it grants me permission to work here. Most importantly, it gives way for the peace of mind many undocumented immigrants are very likely to never experience. I am an immigrant with privilege.

When my dear friend asked me to advocate and organize for change, it dawned on me that I could no longer remain silent. Had I rejected her hand for help, I would have done a great injustice to her, my loved ones, our fighters in the shadows, and myself.

 “I rise for social justice” seems such a simple idea. The fact that one person deserves basic human rights is a very controversial topic, but should it be? In my opinion, everyone should have access to these rights, including life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. These ideals are very vague, yet we see these ideals throughout the left/ progressive movement. Life, or free healthcare for all, liberty, the choice to do with your body as you wish, and the pursuit of happiness, going to college if that’s what you wish for a reduced cost. Unfortunately, there are a few of us are very interested in controlling whatever possible. It’s ironic how they want less government control in their lives, yet seem to enforce their laws wherever they go. 

This is an example of a social injustice, which is something that “SJW’s” (Social Justice Warriors) and feminists fight against. I have been a feminist all my life, even fighting with parents whenever they said something inappropriate. Social Justice is something that everyone deserves, not just the societal elite and white people. These marginalised groups are exactly why I put #BLM or Black Lives Matter in my photo. 

Overall, everyone needs to realise that just because someone is different than you, doesn’t mean you should treat them differently or discriminate/segregate them from yourself. That’s one of the things I love about UMBC, it’s a very diverse and inclusive campus. With the exception of a few of us, that see the world through a different lens, this campus is a bubble of love.

When I was asked to take a picture for something that “I rise” for, I had to think about it for a second. What do I rise for? Who do I rise for? What does it mean to “rise?” After reflecting on my own life experiences, I wrote that I rise for reproductive rights.

Reproductive rights are the rights of an individual to reproduce and have reproductive health. My definition of reproductive rights expands to include sexual education and health. Today, not everyone has access to reproductive rights, or even comprehensive sexual education. Personally, I believe that it is extremely important for people to have access and knowledge about the different options that are available. As I was growing up, my family never taught me anything about reproductive or sexual health. When I got my first period, I told my best friend before I told my mom, because I didn’t know how she would react. Even after I told my mom, we had a brief conversation about how to use a pad, and that was it. The only sex ed that I received was the short unit in 5th grade, and a semester of Health Class in high school. When I got my IUD, I didn’t tell anyone except my closest friends and my partner. Why are we, as a society, treating these topics as taboo? Why isn’t it normalized to have discussions about your periods or your sex life or your birth control?

I am privileged enough to have health insurance, and when I decided it was time for me to be on birth control, I was able to have access to a health care provider who assisted me in the process. Not everyone has this privilege to be able to do so, even within the United States. Not everyone has the opportunities to converse with someone who can provide them knowledge. Not everyone has the access to health care providers due to lack of insurance, or insufficient insurance coverage.

I believe that every person should have the ability to make their own choices about their body. I believe that every person should be able to decide whether or not they would like to have children. I believe that every person should have access to services that can assist them in making an informed choice. If that makes me a disagreeable person, then so be it; I would much rather see people receive basic care.

This Critical Social Justice Week, I will be rising for reproductive rights. I will be rising for those who do not have access to birth control. I will be rising for those who do not know about the basics of sex. I will be rising for those who are shamed for having their period. I will be rising for access to health care. I will rise for myself, and for those who cannot.

I Rise for Reproductive Rights.

I Rise for the Validation of Our Identities...

In my sophomore year of high school, I promised myself I would wait until I was in college to explore my gender identity and expression more, presuming that would be a place where I could do so more freely, back then, at my rural, red-county high school, it just wasn’t worth the stress and alienation.

That promise was followed by a series of panic attacks at a gynecology appointment, an impulsive short haircut and upheaval of my wardrobe, and a denouncing of my birth name. My commitment to staying quiet lasted all of two weeks.

That’s not to say that after “coming out” I followed a solid, steady path to self-realization, self-acceptance, enlightenment—whatever you prefer to call it. It’s hard enough trying to define my feelings toward gender to myself some days, much less anyone else. Sometimes I go through the motions of a day in a daze, untethered to the people around me because of an inability to anchor onto a sense of identity within myself. There are still situations, namely family ones, where I choose to keep silent rather than deal with any form of confrontation, places where I have numbed myself to the sound of my birth name for the sake of self-preservation. My identity and presentation thereof is anything but solid; I suppose that’s why I call myself genderfluid.

Throughout high school, I was “in” and “out” of the closet so much it was like I had left my jacket in there. If I didn’t talk about my gender, it felt like I was lying, but it wasn’t as if anyone acknowledged it even when I did. By the end of my senior year, being proudly genderfluid was more exhausting and frustrating than it was worthwhile.

It wasn’t until the last day of classes my senior year that I felt the real impact of my being “out” in the relatively unwelcoming environment of my high school when I was approached by two non-binary identified freshmen who I had recognized from my weekly LGBT Alliance meetings. I had assumed my presidency of said group was relatively inconsequential, that I had served as an obligatory student leader who sat at the head of a circle of gay teenagers having their own unrelated conversations. The two freshmen, though, asked me for a hug and thanked me for the club and the experience they had had that school year. I was blindsided, but swelling with pride; I had never considered that my own self-acknowledgment would mean something to anyone else, or felt that strong an attachment to my non-binary identity beyond just myself.

This Critical Social Justice Week, and every day, I rise for those two freshmen and their ability to stay confident in who they are. I rise for my fifteen-year-old self, and the part of them that knew their identity wasn’t something to be pushed down. I rise for those who can’t speak up about vital parts of themselves, in hope that one day they will be able to.