¡Viva Mexico!

Somewhere in Chihuahua, Mexico, on a ranch in the desert, my seven siblings and I grew up picking cotton in the morning before school. I remember living in a house that didn't have a roof, & when it would rain, the house and all our belongings would often flood.

Above: This neighborhood is similar to one we lived in, from what I can remember. Once, I remember riding in the back of a wagon being pulled down the unpaved street by a donkey with my siblings. I loved the burros. Getty Images.

My siblings, my pregnant mother, abusive step father and I lived in abandoned homes, friends' rooms and all sorts of different places. I don't recall ever having a stable home. My home was the love I shared with my siblings. My siblings were my entire heart and soul.

Above: Abandoned Home in Juarez, Mexico. This was similar to the ones we stayed in. There were entire neighborhoods where every other house down the block was abandoned. Image by Merissa Lyttle.

The sounds of roosters crowing at the break of dawn would wake my siblings and I up as the pick-up truck engine revved, and the smell of gasoline made its way into our little kitchen. Our first job was going to the fields just outside our ranch to pick cotton.

I was about six years old. The fluffy white fields would glisten in orange hues as the sun rose. We would work until it was time to go to school.

Above: This image depicts my memory of cotton picking as a young child. Getty images.

I loved school in Mexico. We learned a lot about la cultura mexicana and nuestros raizes (mexican culture and our roots).

Every week, the whole school would gather in the courtyard for five minutes and sing El Himno Nacional Mexicano, then we would receive the weeks' announcements from the year five students. Everyone stood in lines looking at the flag while chanting the Mexican national anthem. Sometimes, parents would stick around just to hear and sing it with their kids.

Above: This is a great representation of what it was like cantando a la bandera (singing to the flag).

Singing the Mexican national anthem was the most unifying experience I had ever had. I felt a of part something bigger than myself. I was a member of this beautiful, powerful nation. ¡VIVA MEXICO!

I was accepted by my peers, even though I was visibly different from everyone. I was La Negrita de America, (The black girl from America). I soon began to make friends. The other students would include me in their games of canicas (marbles), and would braid my hair during recess. At school, I was safe. I felt comfortable in class, and I could just be a kid.

Although I found comfort day dreaming at school, my life outside was a nightmare.

What had brought us to Mexico was the same reason we ended up fleeing.

The most vile and disgusting human being, a pedophile and predator who raped us of our innocence and would threaten our lives, was the father of my siblings and our own personal demon.

The father of my siblings was deported from New York back to Mexico. All because of me. He slammed my face on a plate onto a table, which then broke and sliced open my face.  I screamed as blood gushed down my forehead into my mouth. My mom called the cops. They fought. The police found his criminal background & immediately deported him back to Mexico. I was five years old.

For some reason my mother decided to chase this monster, with all her kids, from New York to Mexico. I had always felt guilty for it. I felt like I messed up everyones life. I thought if I didn't spill crumbs on his jacket, then he wouldn't have smashed my face on a plate, which wouldn't have gotten him deported and my siblings and I wouldn't've ended up with a whole childhood of severe trauma and depression. But, life is life and everything happens as an expirience. I eventually had to learn to forgive myself. It was extremely hard, but for my peace of mind, I had to.

After chasing him down, it was there, in Chihuahua, Mexico, where we settled and lived with his family. His family, unlike him, were kind and nurturing people. I always thought because of the things he did to us, he must've been severely mentally disturbed and really f*cked up. His family was not like him at all, they were warm, loving and vibrant. He was cold, dark & evil.

There aren't enough words to describe the monstrosity this man was.

I am still working on finding forgiveness in my heart, but only for my sake and sanity.

The word hate is an evil, awful word that can only be used toward the most vile, heartless creatures that have ever entered this universe to destroy the souls of those who are completely innocent and helpless. That was him. I shutter at the fact that he is considered a man, because what he did was far from anything manly. I would call him Satan, but even that is too generous. This creature was a demon on earth who tried to destroy many innocent lives, including mine.

From beating my mom and her children until we screeched and begged for forgiveness while the belt buckle left bruises, welts, cuts and scratches, to taking advantage of our childhood innocence, raping & sexually exploiting us, he covered pretty much every form of abuse one could think of.

Every single day, a nightmare. I would often think about how alone I felt, and if this was the life I was given, I wanted to end it.

I was 8 years old and I wanted to die. I did't want to see my brothers and sisters suffer anymore. This life was not a "gift" or "miracle" as a lot of people like to say it is. It was a burden. I began to shut down. Nothing mattered to me anymore. I was just there. I had no will to be. My spark and fire was killed. I felt like nothing. I felt nothing.

What I didn't realize was that simultaneously, as my young life played out, I was experiencing something completely and utterly beautiful that would save me and my heart.

A couple decades past, I moved and grew up, and still to this day, I express my deepest love for Mexico. People often ask how I am able to absolutely adore a place where I expirienced such pain and sorrow. Most people struggle returning or associating themselves with places that have caused them life-long trauma.

Honestly, if I had lived anywhere else in the world, I would have not survived.

Mexico is a place were people love and nurture one another, and teach you to speak and act as if everyday is your last. Celebrations, culture and the vivid life that I was surrounded in saved my young soul. My memories of trauma were coated with chocolate and the kisses and hugs from the sweet old ladies in our neighborhood. People constantly played music and danced despite the weight of poverty and gang violence. The rebelious act of participating in vibrant and positive activities, despite everything around, made you feel alive. The late night elote carts surrounded by laughter and music lifted any sadness one carried.

The love I felt was more than enough to keep me going. As happy as I was to leave the nightmare behind, I was deeply saddened to have abandoned the culture and people at the Juarez/El Paso border. Those people were the ones who taught me love. They taught me that only with love, one can heal. They taught me that love in its purest form is the eldest medicine that cures the incurable.

Above: El Paso Juarez Border

The healing process is not a journey with an end. It is a never-ending experience that one has each day, and is based off of the choices one makes. Despite my trials and tribulations, I am still healing and chose love. I have come so far because of the people and culture that made their way into my life. My love for Mexico is infinite.

'¡VIVA MEXICO! ' does not only mean 'Long Live Mexico!'. It is an exclamation of camaraderie, culture, life, connection and most of all, the ultimate healing power of true love, and love for all that is Mexico.

I hope that everyone gets to experience a culture to the depths that I did, because truly, it saved my life and changed the trajectory of my story.

I return the love I recieved in Mexico proudly. Today, tomorrow and forever ¡VIVA MEXICO!