Editor’s note: The author, who is undocumented and currently unhoused in Richmond, is using only a first name to protect their identity. We’re presenting her story as-told-to Cole Haddock of Street Spirit, an independent East Bay newspaper dedicated to covering homelessness and poverty from the perspective of those most impacted. The story was translated from Spanish and lightly edited. A previous version was first published by Street Spirit.
I’m from Mexico, from the state of Puebla. I am a Mexican woman, one hundred percent guerrera. It cost me a lot to come to the United States. I came with the hope of the American dream. I’ve been here for six years now. It’s not as easy as they say it is. One thing is what they say, and another is to actually live it.
Back in Puebla, I worked selling food. I made all kinds of cakes and tamales, and I helped my mother sell clothes at the market. We sold things to survive.
I left Puebla to have a better life. I wanted to improve myself, to learn more, and to be with my daughter and grandchildren. I left to give my mother a better life, even though she’s no longer with us. And I left because there is a lot of aggression in my country, a lot of violence.
Here you are nothing. We have no titles here. Here we are recyclers, cooks, gardeners, construction workers — whatever falls to us. The place I came to first was Bakersfield. I was a roof cleaner, and I also had the opportunity to work at Amazon and Target warehouses. Later, I became a vendor, working in several different counties. I sold flowers and fruit in Oakland. I sold hot dogs out in Concord. Sometimes things don’t go your way, but you go from one place to another. You meet people, and that’s how you get by in life. Now I’m 60 years old, and I’ve worked my entire life. I’ve always been a fighter, strong.
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I’m going on seven years now in the U.S. The date I arrived was Sept. 9. I’ll never forget it, because we had to spend a month and a half in the place we were waiting to cross over, by the water, near Tijuana. It was a very difficult experience because if you stay there in that place, you die, and no one cares.
I came with a desire to be with my family, to pursue that American dream that all my countrymen have. But once you’re here, reality is different and it hurts. I’ve had intense experiences. I’ve had my things taken, and been left with nothing. But I’m here, with God’s blessing, carrying on.
I’ve been in unstable housing for over two years, and homeless for about seven or eight months. I always paid my rent, but right now I live on the street. I’m not ashamed because I’m not the only one. Sometimes people mock you, but there’s no way around it, we have to put up with it. People discriminate against us, sometimes because of our language, sometimes because of our poverty, sometimes because of our dirtiness, our smell. People are always going to judge us one way or another.
“I always paid my rent, but right now I live on the street. I’m not ashamed because I’m not the only one.”
We suffer discrimination from the police because they don’t want people like us walking in the street, walking homeless. They shove people, they arrest people. I’d like to help others on the street, but I can’t even handle my own situation. I am like everyone else. I have to look where I can — under a bridge, in a sewer, in an abandoned building, in parks — anywhere I can live, where I can spend the night safely.
Women are in greater danger. With so much discrimination, so many problems on the streets, so much drug addiction, so much alcoholism. I can’t judge anyone — maybe I’ve been there, too. I’ve gone through it all, trying to endure hunger, thirst, and cold for a night.
But there are also good people who help us. There are many people on the streets in Richmond who don’t have documents, just like me, and I am grateful to the organizations who give us support. One of the shelters has really supported me with food, and that made me feel good.
There are other places that don’t help. At a different place, I felt humiliated because when I went to ask for assistance they ignored me, knowing that I don’t speak English, which is why I was looking for help. They told me to come back in 15 days with someone who could translate for me. That really made me angry.
I like to learn something new every day, walking the streets in Richmond. I love getting to know the alleys. There are people who just need a hug, a kind word, a small gesture to make them happy. Yesterday I found a girl and I gave her a little camping tent. I said, “Look, they gave me this, but I can’t take it where I am because they’re going to throw it away, and you’ll be able to use it better. It’s a gift.”
I’m always hugging everyone, I’m very affectionate. I’m always asking people, “How are you doing?” and “Are you cold?” I’ll take the shirt off my back and give it to you. My mom used to tell me I had a big heart, that I was a real fighter, that I didn’t let myself be pushed around, and was noble, and that’s why she loved me so much.
Right now, I’m feeling the loss of my mother more than ever, not hearing her voice. I was her only daughter. I need to remind myself that she’s in a better place, that she’s an angel now watching over me. But this was the first Christmas that hurt. Sometimes, to feel better, I’ll leave and go to the beach where I can cry. Happiness is having my family and my friends around me. But here in the United States, you are more alone than there.
The whole American dream is a lie. That’s it. It’s devastating. It’s a lie. Don’t do it. The only thing I tell friends: Don’t come here. We don’t see our families anymore. Here we’re alone, we have no one.
But here I am, and I am going to continue forward. I’ve suffered here, but I’m going to achieve what I want. Because I want that dream. Because I’ve never turned back. I’m a guerrera, and I am going to continue, as I was taught by my land, by Mexico. We are eagles and we are people of strength. We are guerreros. We never bend the knee. We move forward. And when we offer a hand, we offer it from the heart, without asking for anything in return.
And I pray to God for everyone. I pray there’s no more discrimination against people on the street. Pray that nothing happens to my homeless people.
I will always be noble, and I will continue writing my story, because it’s real. I came from a place where I was in very bad shape, very beaten, very hurt. And here I am, still living el sueño gabacho with my community. And I will succeed. I will succeed.
After sharing her story with Street Spirit and Richmondside, Maria was able to secure permanent housing, with a move-in date of Feb. 6. In the meantime, she is fundraising to cover the cost of a motel, $525 a week, until her move-in date. Learn more on her GoFundMe page.
