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Category: Mapping Migraciones

Meandering Ways: Leaning Into My Leadership

por Ruby J. Rodríguez

In my twenties, I often committed to gatherings only to back out when I remembered that I actually prefer to chill at home, usually alone. Now, in my thirties, building community and getting out of my comfort zone is a practice that I value. So, I was fully aware when I signed up for a National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS) Executive Leadership course that I would be pushing my boundaries on many levels. Structured as a kayaking expedition on Mexico’s el Mar Bermejo (the Red Sea, otherwise known as the Sea of Cortez), I welcomed the investment in my personal and professional development. That did not stop subtle, brief moments of hesitation (even regret) from creeping up on me as the date approached. This will be good for me, I told myself.

After signing up for the executive leadership course, I participated in Latino Outdoors’ Mapping Migraciones initiative. This year-long collaboration with Audubon explores how birds and people are connected through geography and culture. I learned about my family’s migration story and realized that my great-great-grandmother Guadalupe migrated through the Red Sea, which is the same water I would be on. My relationship with nature, how I move through this world, and some of my leadership challenges, are all intertwined with my desire to heal and evolve from cultural assimilation and intergenerational trauma. That I would return to the same water that she journeyed on was an endeavor I never considered. 

The days went by until my travel date arrived. I triple-checked my gear list and ventured outside of the U.S. for the first time in my life. Upon landing at Loreto Airport, I cried a little when I saw the preciousness of the plants and landscape. A few minutes later, I met my expedition pod of mostly White men. I knew in advance that I was the only woman participant and one of two people of color, and had felt okay with that. I believed that I had a lot to offer the group. But, in my state of vulnerability, I became overwhelmed and felt myself close off.

Following an awkward and sleepy 90-minute drive to the NOLS Mexico campus, I decided to embrace the challenge and remain open to connecting with my pod. We sat and enjoyed a meal together, washed dishes, and moved through a facilitated conversation about our goals and personal contributions towards a successful expedition. I began to really see my pod members. I took a risk and offered my openness and trust, and requested their support of my presence on the expedition in exchange for my support of them. 

Sometimes I am comfortable with using my voice and can do so eloquently. My struggle is with being front and center as a designated leader and knowing that people are waiting to hear my voice. Designated leadership is a key component of NOLS’ training framework, and I was transparent about my desire to work on this during our time together. Well, my day as a designated leader came, and I promptly fumbled. Bleh. 

I had another chance to practice the following day. This time I showed up more prepared and practiced speaking from my diaphragm. I received props for that. We learned that rather than ask someone to adopt an inauthentic leadership style, we can come closer and practice listening intently to soft-spoken leaders like me. For me, it is a two-way street. Finding my signature leadership style is not about becoming a loud, talkative extrovert. It’s about building my confidence and communication skills and leaning into my own strengths. I offered resilience and community building to our expedition: two invaluable skills to have while working together towards a common goal. I also modeled the art of meandering through the subtleties of nature, which I believe supported wellness and introspection during a week of uncertainty. Making space for diverse leadership to develop and thrive will serve our teams, communities, and society in ways that empower us all.

On our last day in the field, I spent some time wondering what my great-great Grandma would think of my time snorkeling and practicing my leadership skills in the Red Sea. Connecting with her through the land and water has encouraged a kind of healing and growth that simply cannot be achieved from the comfort zone of my living room. 

Imaginary Borders

por Maritza Oropeza

Like many, my family migrated from Michoacán and Nuevo León, Mexico. My great grandparents, Teodolo and Sanjuanita Pérez met at the migrant camps in Texas while eventually settling in Oceano, CA. My Apa and Ama lived the life of migrant workers following the harvest season and living where the work took them. Like many immigrants before them and after. After many years of hard work and struggle, they finally decided to plant roots in Oceano, California.

Growing up as a third-generation Chicana, my family’s story of migration from Mexico through the states has shown me that borders are imaginary lines that we created for unnecessary struggle.

One thing I take away from their struggle is that my Apa and Ama were the same people they were in Michoacán, Nuevo León, Texas, and Oceano, CA. Borders may exist to divide but family ties are indivisible.

My family migrated in search of better opportunities for their descendants. Just like birds that migrate and follow their natural instincts. Whenever I’m out in the natural world, I always take a moment to appreciate the land my ancestors left for us. Of all the birds, the eagle is the greatest sacred bird among most Native Americans. The meaning of the eagle symbol signifies courage, wisdom, and strength, which is very similar to what my family envisioned when they crossed the border into the United States.

Mapping Migraciones: From the Tropics to the Tundra | Sandhill Crane

por Leslie Gonzalez Everett

The migration of many Puerto Ricans to the US mainland, particularly to the Northeast and to Florida, follows well-established patterns. My Father, like many Puerto Ricans, came to New York City in search of work and opportunity in the post-WWII era. He migrated and settled in the Bronx alongside his brothers and sisters and their families. He began to build his life like many Puerto Ricans, working in a factory and becoming a part of the growing community in the barrios of New York. They would travel back and forth, indeed like migratory birds, to visit the island and spend time with family and come back to the lives and community they were building in the city.

It was during one of these migratory trips to Puerto Rico that my father met my mother, and soon they began migrating together. All throughout my childhood, yearly like clockwork when summer rolled around, we would pack our bags and take flight from New Jersey to San Juan to spend time with family. We would land at my Abuelita’s house and spend two- weeks going house to house, or house to beach visiting with all my Tios, Tias, Primos, y Primas. We ate and played our way across the island and made the most wonderful memories year after year.

When I was twelve years old, my parents decided to move to Florida. We settled in Central Florida, again following a tried-and-true migratory pattern, landing near family in an area that had a very robust Puerto Rican community. The migration pattern to and from Puerto Rico on an almost yearly basis would continue into my high school years.

It was not until I met my husband, James (a Floridian since birth), married, and began a family of my own that the near yearly migrations to Puerto Rico stopped. We created our nest in Central Florida, close to my parents and raised our son in the same town where my husband was born and grew up. Like many young families, the funds for yearly trips were scarce, and the focus of our efforts became raising our son, working and the everyday routine of life. It was not until our son, Jimmy, had graduated from college that we would abandon our now-empty Central Florida nest, in search of something new.

With our nest empty, as our son joined the Peace Corps and began his service in Colombia, James and I decided that it was time for us to go on an adventure of our own. So, in a move that is still heralded by friends and family in Florida as being Loco/Crazy, we left our career jobs, packed up our camper and decided to head west to Yellowstone country. The mountains were calling, and so we went. We traveled across the country to come live and work in Yellowstone National Park. It was (and continues to be) the adventure of a lifetime, a new migration west.

We lived inside the park for two summers working seasonally, and then relocated to Montana as Yellowstone and Big Sky Country worked its magic on us. I have never experienced a landscape so wild and majestic, and so vasty different from the flatlands of Florida or the tropics of Puerto Rico. How can it be that I find myself in a place where my soul feels at home, and yet I am so clearly a foreigner? To put it in context, the estimated Puerto Rican population in Montana and Wyoming COMBINED is less than 3200! I can’t find gandules, platanos and bacalao without driving for miles and miles (if then!) and forget about pasteles.

Yet here I am living my best post empty-nest life, enjoying a natural world like no other in the lower forty-eight with flora and fauna that I never thought of coexisting with. Grizzly bears, mountain lions, bison, elk, mule deer frequent the area where I now live. Nature surrounds me; It challenges me with new experiences and comforts me with its familiar patterns.

Every year I look forward to springtime. Spring brings many familiar “faces” to the landscape, robins, white pelicans, and others each following their own migratory pattern that brings them here. But my favorite is the Sandhill Crane. Their presence is comforting and familiar. I will always remember the first time I saw a Sandhill Crane in Yellowstone NP, they arrived shortly after we did to the park’s interior. A small group landed in Hayden Valley and I was mesmerized, thinking “I wonder if they made the trip from Florida, like us”?

In Central Florida Sandhill Cranes are everywhere and when I see them arrive in Montana, they always make me smile. I feel that (like me) they look somewhat out of place and yet perfectly at home. Their gangly tropical appearance that is akin to a flamingo always looks mismatched to me against the rugged snow-capped Rocky Mountains, particularly in early spring. Yet, crown held high and wings out, they strut across the landscape slowly and deliberately making their nests, making their home.

Leslie Gonzalez Everett lives in Paradise Valley (Emigrant), Montana with her husband James and rescue dog, Buddy. She enjoys wildlife watching, hiking, kayaking, and trying to make arroz con gandules like her Mami and Abuela (which is still a work in progress). Leslie is the former Chief Administrator of the official non-profit partner for Yellowstone National Park.