Allow me to introduce myself…

My name is Karina Ivette Vielma, pronounced in Spanish. I was born in Eagle Pass, Texas, a small town bordering Mexico. Spanish was my first language, the language of my grandparents, and love was abounding in my family.

To begin to understand my present, you must understand my past. My parents, Francisco and Irene, married in Mexico and came to the U.S. during a time when Mexican workers were encouraged to come to the U.S. for employment. Mom and Dad followed opportunities and dreamed of one day returning to Mexico to live and raise their family. However, life led them to establish their home in Eagle Pass, close to my father’s family and where Dad had work opportunities.

Employment opportunities were better in Texas than they were in Mexico for my father, but we still lived in poverty. My childhood home was built without a foundation, as many homes were in Mexico. Mom would sprinkle a bit of water and sweep the dirt floor. We had an outhouse, and Dad built the four walls and a roof with his own hands to keep us safe. We spent many winter nights under multiple colchas (blankets) to keep us warm. Many summer nights were spent sweating under thin bedsheets to keep the mosquitos from eating me alive. When Dad left for work on cold days, I still remember him tucking us in tightly under the blankets to keep us warm.

I was their firstborn and my brother came to our family when I was two years old. Our family of four slept in one room for a while before my middle sister was born. Then Mom and Dad built another room and a restroom. No more outhouse. We, instead, got to share one bathroom and shower. Sometimes, if we needed to pee REALLY badly, we went outside the house where no one could see. Shortly after my middle sister was born, my little brother came along. We were a family of six by the time I was seven years old. My youngest sister didn’t join the clan until I was 13. She completed our family of seven.

As toddlers, Mom bathed my brother and me in a tub with a mixture of tap and boiled water, which was heated in a gas stove. I played outdoors as a child, looking at the patterns in the sun, the birds, the insects, flowers, leaves, the seasons…I often got nosebleeds climbing trees. I laid on the grass looking at the clouds, sometimes getting bit by ants. I collected wildflowers and interesting rocks, and chased butterflies and light bugs. I even caught some flying insects with my hands and put them in jars with holes. I learned quickly that nature was not to be kept in a jar for my enjoyment. The insects, butterflies, even the flowers lived longer in their nature homes–free.

I still remember going to visit my family in Mexico as a kid and taking thirdhand clothes and food, leche y mantequilla. Even though we didn’t have much, I felt like we were rich, sharing our resources mostly with family and also with other people in Mexico. In school, however, I received free lunch, recycled my clothes often during the week, and even received a free jacket and clothes from a government assistance program. Most of my clothes were secondhand from a “shop” at a lady’s house. The lady lived in our neighborhood and was a short walk, about four blocks from where we lived. She bought used clothes in bulk and sold it from her house. You would catch us often sitting on top of the mounds of clothes looking for pieces that would fit us for school or a special occasion. Sometimes, we would find name brand clothes, of which I knew very little, but which later was noticed by teachers or friends.

Since I can remember, I wanted to go to school. Before going to school, Mom says that I would take a book under my arm and tell her that I was going to school. I would say, “Bye! I’m going to school” in Spanish. Because Spanish was my first language, I learned English in the classroom. I still remember crying for my dad to stay with me as I studied my English words assigned by my mean Kindergarten teacher. I was learning the meanings, spellings, and pronunciation of words and phrases like, “inside” and “outside”, “on top” and “on the bottom”. Dad took a cassette recorder and recorded the words for me to repeat. In his broken English, he left me a piece of him as he went to a technical school in Piedras Negras, the Mexican town across the border from Eagle Pass. Crying, I studied.

Because of some negative early experiences in my education, I could have easily hated school, but Dad told me he didn’t want me or any of my siblings to be working as hard as he was working. He would show me his dirty hands and clothes, sunburned face, and tired demeanor. He told me from a young age that I was the leader of my siblings, that I needed to set a good example for them to follow, and that education would get us out of poverty. I believed him.