por Margarita Vargas Patrón
My mamá immigrated here when she was 20 years old, leaving her home, dreams, and loved ones behind on a questionable promise that she would return. Roughly 40 years later, she is in her home in San Diego talking to me on the phone. We call each other at least three times a week to talk about everything. It almost always ends with my questions about her childhood, my abuelitos, her hometown, and her life before us, her kids. On this particular call, I ask why she thinks I love the outdoors; was there a history of camping in our family?
From her perspective, this question was like most of my probing ones- random and filled with curiosity. This time, there was a purpose because I had never shared my love of the outdoors with her. Now I did, to make up for lost time. I’ve told her about my small hikes, the parks around my neighborhood, and the beaches we’ll explore when she comes to visit me. Before getting to this point, she helped me heal first.
“Allí, tu abuelita hacía de cenar y nos contaba historias bajo las estrellas.”
I considered a biology camping trip my first real encounter with nature. It required all the supplies I thought made it official: a tent (I rented), a sleeping bag (I borrowed), and no indoor plumbing for miles. I loved everything: the fresh air, the campfire, and sleeping under the stars. After that experience, I didn’t question my love for the outdoors. Except for the fact that amongst my friends it was considered a white people thing; it was something that required money- something my family and I didn’t have. Growing up, the common phrase was “no tenemos dinero.” Whenever I overheard a classmate share their upcoming family camping trip or their annual skiing trip, to me there was an unspoken barrier of access and a common thread that only white people had access. That classist and racial distinction made it easier to shrug those experiences as white people things. Internalizing whiteness prevented me from connecting with my mom on something that I didn’t know we both loved- the outdoors.
Because my idea of the outdoors was remarkably limited, I chose not to share my experiences with my mamá. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings; I didn’t want her to say that she wished she could do more. So, I buried this experience and thought I was doing both of us a favor. What I really did was give whiteness all the power to erase my experiences and define the outdoors. Returning to that phone call, her answer was a dose of healing:
“Claro. Íbamos a una casita más allá de la milpa. Allí, tu abuelita hacía de cenar y nos contaba historias bajo las estrellas. Íbamos para ayudarle con las cosechas de frijoles. No mas no le decíamos ‘camping’. Y aunque nosotros no tengamos mucho aquí, sí los llevaba al parque, a la playa, y caminar para tomar aire fresco. Eres libre y la naturaleza está a tu alrededor. Nada más abre tus ojitos, mijita.”
Thanks, mamá.
Margarita is a first-generation immigrant and the first in her family to graduate college. She enjoys reading, cycling, and learning new things. She honors the folks who came before her, who paved the way for any success that has come her way.