More than 200 years ago, when our country wasn’t even 50 years old and Missouri wasn’t yet a state, my ancestors came west and made Missouri their home. A few decades later, just after the civil war, my great great grandpa, Henry Ernest Warren, a captain in the union army, settled in Missouri, married one of their descendants, and opened Missouri’s longest running family store in Richland. My family has deep roots in Missouri, going back 8 generations. My wife, Marilyn, on the other hand, moved to the US from Mexico as a young adult, and then settled with me in Missouri. Yet her family might have even deeper Missouri roots than mine. Because hundreds or thousands of years before my ancestors settled Missouri, her ancestors roamed the Great Plains and trod this ground before migrating south. How many generations of them lived and died in our state or our country we’ll never know. But we are here together now, and this is how she made it happen, against the odds. Dear Neighbors and Friends, My maiden name is Marilyn Martinez Rivera, and I’m writing to share my story as an immigrant. To help you better understand where I come from, I want to start with my early life. My dad was a farmer just outside a little town called Guadalupe Victoria in northern Mexico. Alongside my mom, an elementary school teacher, my two siblings, and our pig—funny enough named “Dollar”—we all lived on the farm my dad bought with his life savings. We were a typical middle- class family. I remember our farm was filled with bunnies, cows, chickens, nut trees, crops, and fruit trees like oranges, apples, and peaches. Baby bunnies, with their tiny ears and soft fur, will forever be my favorite animal (though I must admit, I didn’t love them quite as much when they grew big and fat).
One of my favorite memories is of the three pools my dad built on the farm. They weren’t fancy or professionally made, but they brought us so much joy. We spent countless hot summer days swimming in the cold water. I wish I could say I ever became a fast swimmer who could beat my siblings in a race, but I didn’t spend enough years on that little piece of paradise to get there. When I was six years old, we had to leave the farm. My dad sold it for little profit—just enough to buy a house closer to town. The farm couldn’t grow crops anymore because of the changing climate. Just like here in America, my dad and the other farmers in town face either too much rain at once or long stretches of drought, with intense heat that made it impossible for anything to thrive. Our house was also often struck by lightning, leaving us without power for days. It was a tough decision, but my dad did what he had to do. On top of that, the country was in an economic recession, and our family was struggling to make ends meet. My dad opened a butcher shop, and on weekends, we ran a small food truck selling hamburgers. My sister got a part-time job at a shoe store, my brother worked at a mechanic shop, and I started singing at festivals and events at age seven to contribute a little money. This dynamic lasted a few years, but when my brother became old enough for college, our financial situation became even harder. My parents took on debt to send him to school in the nearest city. Both my brother and I were good students and earned scholarships, but these were small—just $20 every two weeks—which we immediately gave to our parents to help with household expenses. I took a part-time job at a boutique, and my mom worked tirelessly to help cover my brother’s tuition. Around that time, my sister was diagnosed with diabetes at age 14. She spent 11 days in the hospital, nearly slipping into a diabetic coma before doctors stabilized her. Our family was truly in financial trouble, but we all contributed, and our friends in the community helped us stay afloat. You might wonder why my parents prioritized sending my brother to college instead of having him work. The answer is simple: my dad never had the chance to go to school, growing up on the streets since the age of seven, and my mom only had a teaching certificate. From the beginning, they made a pact: if they had kids, those kids would go to college. I am proud to say that my brother not only graduated but went on to earn a Ph.D. in biotechnology, a master’s in environmental sciences, and a bachelor’s in biochemistry. My last year of high school was challenging—there were 11 girls in my class, and only three of us weren’t pregnant. The other two became mothers the year after graduation, but one still managed to complete her degree and become a lawyer. I’m so proud of her for not giving up on her dreams, especially with a child in her arms. I took a gap year to save money and afford college myself. I started elementary school ahead of schedule, enrolling in first grade at age four. So, taking a gap year later wasn’t a big deal in comparison, but that year served as a huge reminder of my goals and my determination to do more. I had a dream of being part of the change needed in our society to provide opportunities to improve the “calidad de vida” (quality of life) for people. I worked all through college to pay for it. I held three jobs and never asked my parents for a penny while they were working hard to pay off the debt they had taken on for my brother’s education. I don’t remember sleeping more than five hours a night during those 4.5 years, but I graduated with honors at the top of my accounting class. I worked as an accountant for a few years, earning just enough to cover basic needs. Life offered two choices: settle for surviving or find a second job to escape the paycheck-to- paycheck lifestyle. I created a third choice. I signed up for a program to come to America legally to work. My plan was to eventually pursue a master’s degree and find an international job that paid a little more. Given the financial struggles my family endured growing up, I was determined to create a life where I had more than just enough to get by. I also wanted to give something back to my family and community one day. So, I took the leap, got myself into debt to get into the program—which was the only way to afford it—and came to the United States to work temporarily and help the kids I was watching learn Spanish. When I arrived, I had only one $20 bill to my name—just enough to cover the metro card I needed to drop the kids off at school that first week. What I didn’t know was that I wouldn’t be paid until the end of the week, and it was February, with snow on the ground. I had one light jacket with me and no money for food. That week, I survived on two mandarins a day, thanks to a bag of cuties I found in the fridge of my basement apartment. I’ll never forget how grateful I was for those little fruits. In that moment, I made a promise to myself: I would work tirelessly to ensure I’d never find myself in such a situation again. During that time, I met another immigrant worker. She was from Costa Rica and she could tell what was going on matter how I tried to hide it. That weekend, when I caught the worst cold of my life—likely from being underdressed for the weather—she quietly left a sandwich, a $20 bill, and one of her old jackets at my door. Her kindness was a lifeline, and Marilu and her husband Luis remain blessings in my life to this day. During this temporary work period, I applied for permanent jobs in the US. I was a professional accountant in Mexico, but I wanted to pursue the American dream. Which, of course, is how so many immigrants get taken advantage of, whether it’s in the tech industry, agriculture, or construction. I must have submitted over 100 résumés, got called for five interviews, and was in the process of landing one offer. However, before I could start, my visa ran out, and I returned to Mexico. Going back home was bittersweet. It didn’t feel like the same home I had left two years earlier, and I wasn’t the same person who had left. I had grown, changed, and come closer than ever to achieving my dreams. But just as I was settling back, I received devastating news—I had a tumor in my middle ear and urgently needed open-head surgery. I spent every penny I had saved and took out another loan to pay for the procedure. The risks were terrifying: I could die during the surgery, lose hearing in that ear, develop irreversible facial paralysis, or need to relearn basic motor skills. But without the surgery, the tumor would reach my brain in what doctors said would be less than a year, and I’d suffer a stroke. Thankfully, none of the worst outcomes came to pass, and I recovered completely. A couple of months later, I got a job offer as a program assistant at a US non-profit. They needed someone fluent in English and Spanish with a background in Latin America and accounting for an international program reducing the use of mercury in small-scale gold mining. I was so lucky. It was meaningful work, protecting workers and our worldwide water-supply from the largest source of the global mercury pollution that has contaminated our food supply. I accepted the offer, and after months of navigating the process to obtain a professional worker visa, I moved back to America. I worked tirelessly to pay off my medical debt and grew in my role. Today, I work as the coordinator of our Latin American Projects, and by the end of spring, I will finish my master’s degree in Public Affairs at the University of Missouri. I have a wonderful husband who shares my dream of improving the quality of life for others. Together, we work every day, in small but meaningful ways, to make the world a better place for our children and our communities. At its core, my journey has been about resilience and determination. While I was fortunate enough to pursue my education and secure a work visa, I know many others aren’t as lucky. Their stories are often even more challenging—seeking safety, opportunity, and a place to belong. These are values that unite us all, no matter where we come from. Unfortunately, stories like mine are often overshadowed by harmful stereotypes that misrepresent who we are. Stereotypes created by those who want to take advantage of immigrants and non-immigrants alike. These narratives divide us, and immigrants—particularly Hispanic and Latin people—receive the brunt of it. Even as a legal permanent resident, I sometimes fear for myself or my kids, with whom I intend to share my heritage with. Lately, even that feels unsafe because anyone who looks or sounds like me can become a target.
I can only imagine the uncertainty faced by Dreamers—those who were brought here as children, who have no connection to their countries of origin, and who now live in limbo, with some even being asked to leave the only home they’ve ever known. We can do better. I invite you to reach out, ask questions, and learn more about the many different journeys that shape our community. Together, we can create a space where everyone feels safe, seen, valued, and respected. Thank you for taking the time to read my story. It’s through understanding and compassion that we can build a stronger, more unified community. Marilyn Kunce You're currently a free subscriber to Lucas’s Substack. For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.
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Thursday, January 30, 2025
The American Dream
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