My name is Ana Martinez. I am 8 years old, and I was born in Fort Smith, Arkansas, in a small apartment with my mother, Griselda Martinez-Lopez. She was all I had.
My father, Francisco, was deported back to Mexico a few months after I was born. He died a few years after that, and I never knew him.
But I saw him in the way my mother smiled—while looking at old photos—reminiscing about the time when they were young and in love, in their hometown, Santa Catarina, Mexico. And in the way that she worked so hard to raise me right.
Momma was everything to me—a single mother, reserved, with wisdom in her eyes, a heart of gold, and a head full of stories. She only spoke Spanish fluently, and only limited English.
She expected me to learn English as well as Spanish. She had this rule: she’d only speak to me in Spanish when we were in our home—and although she spoke limited English, we would only speak English when we were out in public.
By practicing this technique, she learned how to communicate in a language foreign to her. If I asked her a question in Spanish while we were in public, she wouldn’t respond. I used to think that was a cruel thing to do. I used to be so angry and in my feelings.
Now, I understand. Mama said that the world was a bigger place than our little world—bigger than Fort Smith, bigger than our struggle. She wanted me to be prepared for the world.
She wanted me to rise above what she called “the arrogance of life and survival.” She worked so hard, cleaning homes.
Being undocumented, there were really no jobs that she could get easily. Many days, I could see the worry in her eyes, even if she tried to hide it.
She didn’t want me to live the same life—just getting by. She wanted better for me. And that’s why my school was my everything.
I studied constantly; I worked hard because I didn’t want to disappoint her.
Then came the day that changed everything—April 24, 2024, at 6 p.m. I remember the sky was cloudy, and you could smell the wet leaves, rich soil, and moss from the air.
We had gone to the Mexican market to get some groceries—our normal weekly routine—which took about an hour. But this time, she stopped to chat with an old lady who sold Mexican street tacos.
She would always greet us with a smile and a few tasty tacos to eat for free.
Then, suddenly, the immigration (INS) trucks appeared. Momma dropped our groceries and started running.
But more came, and they surrounded us. I had never seen my momma so scared. I really didn’t know what was going on—not really.
All I knew was that my mother was scared and crying. I started crying because I wanted us to go home—or what used to be our home.
My mother was terrified, and she gripped my hand so tightly that it broke as one of the officers came near us.
Then, a car screeched in front of her—killing her before my eyes.
I screamed her name until my voice broke. I only have the vision of her face turned to me, with tears falling from her eyes.
My calls to her were in vain, and they were not answered. I was lonely, and my heart could not stop crying from the hurt that no one would ever understand.
The world was moving and breaking—but inside me, everything had stopped. Time of this day for me had stopped, and the world stood still.
When I came to my senses, I saw the lady who gave me and my mother free tacos. She was trying to speak to one of the officers, but he didn’t know Spanish very well, and she didn’t speak English.
She was upset that the officers struck my mother. But I—I spoke English. All my life, I have spoken it, thanks to my mother.
I translated. I told the officer what she said. I told her what he said. Her eyes filled with tears, and he nodded with a grateful but shameful smile.
The old lady who gave us free tacos—her name was Leidy—and she was my father’s sister.
She was a naturalized citizen, and she provided the documents that verified it.
I told the officer that I was a citizen, born here in Arkansas, and that Leidy was my aunt—my father’s sister.
I turned my attention back to my mother, as the officers placed her in a black bag and put up yellow crime scene tape. I was torn. I no longer had my mother. All I have is her smell and her memories.
I went to the house of my aunt, and she raised me into the woman that I am today.
But every time I spoke English outside the house, I heard my mother’s voice in my head—in my heart. Her rules. Her love. Her belief and wisdom in me.
Momma… Griselda Martinez-Lopez… I am your daughter. The world will remember you through me. Your strength. Your wisdom. Your resilience. Your gift. Your legacy lives in me—forever and ever.
Esto es dedicado a mi Hermano Mexicano, Ismael Noel Trenado. Te quiero, mi Hermano.