Why I Love America

My grandmother Romana, a Yaqui Indian from Mexico, came to America as a widow with three young children to work the melon fields at a farm in Mesa, Arizona in 1920. She wanted a better life for her children. She worked in the fields during the day and ironed clothes for the owners of the farm in the evenings for extra money.

During this time, she met my grandfather, Cliofas, a Mayan Indian from Durango, Mexico who worked nearby laying railroad tracks. In 1925 their son, my father Dionicio Villaverde, was born in Mesa, Arizona. 

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When my father turned six, my grandparents moved the family back to Mexico. The move did not turn out well. My father attended only three years of school and by the age of nine, with a makeshift drum and his beautiful voice, he took to the streets entertaining for money. At the age of twelve two men hired him as a singer and musician, and they formed a trio. Together they acquired a nightly gig at a tavern where women were paid for sexual favors. For almost ten years he worked in the tavern as a musician until he was twenty-one.

My mother’s family left Spain in the mid 1800’s for America and settled in San Juan Capistrano, California. After homesteading and farming for several years, constantly fighting the Indians in the region, they left their farm and moved to Mexico. The family expected to someday return to their farm, but never did. 
 
When my mother was three years old, her mother died giving birth to a baby boy, who also passed away. Raised by her father and a six-year-old brother, my mother Maria quickly learned to take care of herself and her family. By the age of five, she cleaned and cooked and managed the family’s two room adobe home. She attended school for only three years, as she was needed at home. Her father worked long hours as a blacksmith. 

At age twenty-one, my father left Mexico and moved to Ajo, Arizona and found work at an open pit copper mine as a laborer. His mother Romana, my grandmother, insisted he marry the twenty-year-old next-door single neighbor and bring her to Arizona to establish an American family. 

My parents married and within the first six years, my mother gave birth to their four children, I was the third. Although my father worked tirelessly in the copper mine to put a roof over our heads, provide food and clothing and a high school education, life was difficult. Our family suffered. Our father was a violent alcoholic, and our mother was fearful of being sent back to Mexico if she complained.
Through the grace of God, and my mother’s strong will to live in America, we survived as a family. 

My father was already an American Citizen by birth. Mom studied and learned to read and write English and became an American Citizen as well. They both worked hard, paid taxes, refused government handouts and were Americans who contributed to the public good. As my father constantly quoted from John F. Kennedy; “Ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country,” 
Both my parents have passed, and my youngest sister has passed as well. Three of us are left to reminisce about our childhood. We agree completely that our love and respect for this country came from our parents. 

My father failed in many ways as a parent, but he taught us to be grateful for this country. When the National Anthem was played and the American Flag raised, he stood proudly with his hand over his heart and insisted we stand with him. Tears of gratitude streamed down his face every single time. He cried wholeheartedly and unashamed by his expression and feelings for this country. And he did so until his passing at age seventy-nine in 2004. 
My mother gave her soul and withstood a painful marriage to keep us in America. My parents were divorced after thirty-two years of marriage. They each married once again and both second spouses passed away. 

When my father was dying, mom was at his bedside for his final words. He asked her for forgiveness for what he had been and done to the family. She answered, “I have nothing to forgive. You gave me what I wanted. I had my children in America, and I stayed in America. This is the life I wanted.” Moments later, he died. 

As the daughter of these parents, I have always loved America. I also know that only in America could I realize the dreams of my grandmother and mother that eventually became my own dreams;to live a remarkable life in America. This is indeed the home of the brave and where miracles are still possible. 

Love,
Hilda