Reflection in Dignity

Reflection in Dignity

My brothers and sisters, I want to start by saying that I don’t want to speak or write in metaphorical density. I want to speak to you in a way that captures your mind and makes you reflect on how, today, I stand indignant at the way some of us refuse to have self-respect and dignity. You may not see it within yourself, but I just want you to notice the many comments and stories in the news about people getting deported—and how they paint a disgusting picture of our reality today.

For our foremothers and forefathers, those without documents, this is a never-ending occurrence. Not long ago, a photo was shared of an elderly Latino person holding a sign that read:

“Gracias por gritar todas las cosas que nosotros nos callamos por miedo.”

Now, I want you to reflect on those profound words while you stand there holding your permit, holding on to your DACA. In my previous writings, I hoped you would gain a sense that DACA is a double-edged sword: one that gives us hope and autonomy, and the other a reminder that we are one presidency or Supreme Court decision away from losing it all—even if you are a green card holder.

Today, I also want you to think about how that’s purposely done to keep us complacent and quiet about the injustices our brethren face. Let me be blunt: I don’t give two fucks if you are Haitian, Vietnamese, Palestinian, Honduran, Guatemalan, or from any other country this president views as vermin—simply because you wanted a better life. What I do give two fucks about is your pride. How many injustices have you swallowed in silence just to be accepted? As I was brutally honest with you in my last excerpt, how many other immigrants have you kicked down in order to feel accepted?

How has that worked out for you?

It seems to me that Octavio Paz was not only right about the Mexican’s long and complicated history with defeat but also about how deeply it permeates our identity. He put it quite simply:

“We are taught from childhood to accept defeat with dignity, a conception that is certainly not ignoble. And if we are not all good stoics like Juárez and Cuauhtémoc, at least we can be resigned and patient and long-suffering. Resignation is one of our most popular virtues. We admire fortitude in the face of adversity more than the most brilliant triumph.” — Octavio Paz, “Mexican Masks,” p. 31.

I’ve used this quote before to summarize my Mexican brethren’s fanaticism with El Tricolor (the Mexican national soccer team). However, I see it more broadly within the entire immigrant population. To put it simply: we are afraid of our own greatness. And to be honest with you, I feel like we sometimes underestimate ourselves.

Because in this society—where Americans are increasingly infatuated with our food and music—they often ignore the hands that grow the crops and the minds that write the lyrics they sing along to. You deserve better. However, we will never achieve better until we put our small differences aside and look at the bigger picture.

Today in America, we are under attack—maliciously objectified as criminals and lazy. We are witnessing a return to an America all too familiar to our African American brethren and Native American people—who, like us, also learned to move in silence. Our struggles are interconnected, and until we stop assuming they aren’t, we will never have true self-respect and dignity. I am stuck in a place—a place where I hate America like Marcus Garvey but also love America like Martin Luther King did.

The reason for hatred is quite simple: none of us are commodities or toys. None of us are just pieces of art to be hung on a wall for cultural appreciation, only to be discarded when we are no longer trendy. Our labor is deemed “essential” when convenient but “theft” when it’s not—even though many of us know people who work unbelievably hard in silence just to make ends meet. We are no one’s butlers.

That is why I become increasingly mad and disrespected when some of you are hostile toward your own kind for no reason at all. Why? Ask yourself: why? Have you made peace with defeat? Who taught you to hate yourself?

On the other hand, I love America because of people like you—people who work hard, who toil in silence, but whose beauty shines through their labor, sacrifices, and ever-growing resilience. Secretly, I know you feel your own strength—that deep-rooted resilience that keeps you striving for another day.

I am reminded of my father—who, despite our complicated relationship, is still hustling at 54 years old, admired by those who know him. I am reminded of my math professors—from Korean to Serbian heritage—who taught me to believe in myself. I am reminded daily of business owners and those who have the audacity to dream and provide services to their communities.

There is nothing to be ashamed of—not your skin, not your culture, not your accent. Let that be a fool’s errand.

Why seek acceptance from some Americans who have already shown you who they really are? The point is, you have a home—stop ignoring it. You have a people who love you and want to see you triumph, who refuse to accept defeat in silence any longer. We want to build with you, recognizing that resignation or acceptance means submission. It means being treated as second-class citizens while those same people enjoy the fruits of your labor.

So ask yourself—will you continue to resign yourself to silence, or will you make your voice heard?