In the Atlas Mountains that run along the northern tip of Africa nearest Europe, the native people of North Africa still live.  To the world this native ethnic group is called the Berbers.  Among the Berbers themselves, they are called Amazigh or “free and noble people.”  Mo is Amazigh.  He was born in the mountains of Morocco to a native Amazigh family.

Though I’ve known Mo for several years and learned bits of his story over that time, I didn’t know the entire story.  From what I did know, I knew that he’d overcome incredible obstacles and dealt with harsh situations in life.  I asked him to trust me to tell his story and we decided to meet after work at a local Starbucks.  This place was busy but as with most coffee shops, everyone was engrossed in their own work.  We sat across from each other at a thick wooden table with a large window next to us.  I can see the rush hour traffic picking up as Mo begins to tell me his story.

Mo’s parents were introduced to each other because their fathers were best friends.  It was not quite an arranged marriage but was certainly highly encouraged by his grandfathers.  Shortly after they married, Mo’s grandfather built the young couple a mud house within their tribal village.  The home was made with straw and mud and consisted of one large room.  About the size of an average American master bedroom, their home was small but they took great pride in it.  His mom swept the mud floor until it shined like tile.  The middle of the home was the common space while each corner was designated a specific purpose – sleeping, storage, or kitchen.  Like most Amazigh families, they would live in the valley in the winter and move up the mountain in the summertime.  They lived off the land for almost everything.  The only items of the “civilized” world – as Mo called it – they would purchase were candles, matches, sugar, and tea.  Everything else came from the land.  For the little money they did need, Mo’s father helped harvest fields while his mother made the famous Berber carpets in their home.  The carpets were made from sheep’s hair that she sometimes dyed red, green, or white.  Each carpet took 1-2 years to make but brought enough money to help supplement their needs.  It was a humble life but one they were very proud to have.

Mo was the first-born in his family in 1972.  He was born in his family’s mud hut in the spring after a full moon.  His parents aren’t sure of the exact date.  As Amazigh, they didn’t have much use for calendars, time, or other modern conventions.  In fact, his parents did not trust most modern conventions, especially government.  The region had been the subject of multiple conquests dating back hundreds of years.  Whether religious missions aimed at conversion or European civilization aimed at resource acquisition, the Moroccan region had seen numerous rulers.  Despite all of that, most Amazigh had maintained their basic way of life.  In the late 1950s, Morocco had earned independence from France but the government still had a significant amount of political unrest.

Mo’s dad had a friend who had been to the city often.  He would visit their home and spend time playing with Mo.  Mo remembers once that the friend brought him a plastic car, which he loved.  The friend saw how intelligent Mo was and encouraged Mo’s parents to consider enrolling him in school.  Having zero education themselves, they were afraid that school was an instrument of the corrupt government.  Attendance in school also meant they would have to move from their tribe as there were no local schools.  The friend continued to encourage them, explaining the value of an education in the civilized world, and eventually Mo’s parents agreed.  They decided to move to a nearby village with a primary school.  This was a huge decision for his parents.  They were leaving everything they’d known behind.  This move didn’t just mean trading their mud hut for a different kind of home.  They were leaving behind hundreds of years of tradition; they were leaving much of their friends and family; they were leaving almost everything they had ever known.  Such a move must’ve taken enormous courage and strong faith.

Upon moving to the village, Mo was enrolled in school.  At 6 years old, he had to learn a new language, Arabic.  That was the new official language of country.  He was almost instantly made fun of for his lack of knowledge in the language and for his accent – something that would stay with him his entire life.  His dad got a job in construction.  With no education and unable to speak the language, this was the only job he could find.  He had no traditional construction skills but would do what was needed in hopes of creating a better future for his son.  Mo’s mom continued to make carpets.  Mo was very disciplined and focused in school and quickly succeeded.  He remembers when his parents were able to purchase a dark yellow radio with a turntable.  He was especially happy on the special days when they would listen to a vinyl record.  As a young child, he loved music.

Soon Mo finished primary school and passed the test to move to the next school.  In Morocco, teachers did not pass or fail students, the students passed or failed based on a final test.  If you failed, you left school to work or help the family.  If you passed, you were part of the small percentage that was able to go to the next school.  Passing was a great accomplishment for Mo.  However, because his family had only moved to a small village, the next level of schooling was not available.  They had to move again for him to attend the next school.  Knowing they needed a more stable source of income, Mo’s dad reached out to his sister for assistance.  She had left the tribal life much earlier, married a lawyer in a big city, and had connections with the Moroccan army.    With her help, Mo’s dad joined the army and secured some financial stability for his family.  So, while Mo, his mom, and siblings moved to a larger town and Mo entered a new school, his father deployed to the Western Sahara region for a conflict in the desert.  This was a very trying time for his entire family.  Without access to telephones, there was zero communication with Mo’s dad for the approximate three years he was deployed.  Occasionally, high level officers would visit the family to give them money (presumably his father’s salary) and tell them his father was fine.  Outside of those visits, Mo’s mother had to make sure everything was taken care of.  She had to be mother and father, provider and caregiver.  But the hardships Mo and his mother faced were not comparable to what his dad faced.  Mo’s dad experienced horrific war.  The war disputed rightful possession of a strip of land that is believed to be rich with minerals, including oil.  The dispute lasted decades and is still on-going to some extent.  However, what Mo’s father experienced was not a simple dispute.  Mo remembers when his dad came home.  His dad desperately wanted to avoid returning to Western Sahara.  He told stories of finding bodies in the sand and hyenas digging out bodies to eat the rotting flesh.  I assume his father suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder or some other anxiety disorder after leaving the war.  Less than a decade earlier, he’d been living off the land in the mountains, harvesting vegetables and shearing sheep.  Now, he’d just come back from the middle of the desert, wielding a weapon, and asked to kill the enemy.  It was against his values, against his humanity, and surely traumatic.  Luckily, Mo’s father was able to transfer to auxiliary forces (similar to our reserved armed forces).

The Amazigh lifestyle had not left his family.  Mo’s dad was able to get a new job in a city where there was what we would call a junior high school.  Against the odds, Mo had once again passed the test to the next level of schooling.  His new school required he learn a third language, French.  Since France had ruled Morocco for so long, most business and upper education was still conducted in French.  His father’s new job offered barracks-style housing with long rows of homes similar to apartments.  Mo’s family was able to secure a unit on the corner with a small patch of land.  Immediately, his parents began raising bees, rabbits, and other small animals.  He smiled as he talked about this time in his life.  His family was together again.  He had many friends.  He would play outside and swim often in between his studies.  They also had electricity.  It wasn’t a permanent power supply.  It ran using several large generators and only worked for about 3 hours each day.  But they had lights at dinner.

Mo’s best friend lived in the unit next door but Mo had never been inside his friend’s home.  Culturally, it wasn’t acceptable for a child to be in another person’s home without a formal invitation from the parents.  But his friend had told him many times before about his television.  Mo had never heard of such a thing.  His friend described it as a machine where the cartoons would move and talk.  Mo just didn’t think it was possible for such a machine to exist.  It was the 1980s by now.  More than 50 years after it had been invented and 25 years after it had become a common household item in the United States, Mo had never even heard of television.  In 1981, MTV made its debut in the United States and millions of teenagers were singing “Video Killed the Radio Star” but Mo, a preteen himself, had just gotten electricity in his home and television seemed a fantasy.  One day, his friend’s parents finally formally invited him to dinner.  Mo saw the machine.  And after dinner, he watched Pinocchio with his friend.  For the first time he can remember, Mo began to feel curious about the world beyond his fingertips.  He was curious about what possibilities existed.  Immediately, Mo went home and begged his father for a TV.  Unfortunately, they couldn’t afford it.  As happy as they were in the new town, times were hard financially.  Most days they lived on bread and tea.  They could not afford to eat meat unless it was raised in their yard.  However, being the industrious student he was, Mo was determined to find a way to watch TV.  He made a plan with his friend to dig a hole through the wall in Mo’s room where he would study.  They dug out a hole all the way through the wall and if Mo sat just right he could see the TV.  So, when he was done studying he would pretend to read while he actually watched TV through the hole.  His time was limited since the electricity only worked for a couple hours each day so he had to make the timing just right.  This worked for about two months before his dad caught him.  Mo expected to be punished by his father.  After all, being a religious man who’d spent several years in the military, he was a very disciplined man and had high expectations for his children.  Instead, his father spoke to him about right and wrong.  He spoke to him about the morals of the situation.  And he bought a very small black & white TV.  Mo’s dad hooked it up to a car battery and they would watch TV on the weekends.  I think Mo’s dad knew he had a gifted son and (though he didn’t say it) was probably proud to have a son that was determined and creative.  He could have disciplined him for ruining the wall and pretending to be studying.  Instead, he chose to focus on teaching him the proper morals.

Soon, Mo once again passed the test. He was able to enter Morocco’s version of high school.  However, his town didn’t have a high school in it.  This time, however, his parents had to stay in their town for their jobs and their other children.  So they sent Mo to live with his aunt.  Living with his aunt was very difficult.  She was wealthy and had a big house.  But she had no time or money to give her nephew.  Mo slept on a thin foam mattress in the corner of the garage.  The school was 6 miles from his aunt’s house and he walked it every day.  Rain or shine, Mo would wake early to trek the 6 miles to school.  He would get home late after an exhausting day at school.  In the middle of the school day, there was a two hour break but Mo didn’t have time to make the walk home and back.  So he would sit outside the school, studying, and waiting for the doors to re-open.  That year, Mo felt alone and sad.  His family was hours away, his aunt cared little for him, and he had few friends.  When Mo’s parents learned of his situation, they vowed to move there to be with him and make sure he was well.  They rented an unfinished house for two years while Mo finished high school.  Life was looking up.  When Mo finished this step of schooling, he was able to begin the last school before university.  Completing this school meant earning a baccalaureate, the equivalent to an associate’s degree in the U.S.  Even now, less than 50% of students in Morocco who enter this level of education will graduate.  When Mo attended, he believed the percent to be closer to 10%.  In Morocco in 2014, it was reported that less than 15% of first graders would graduate with a baccalaureate.  In the late 1980s, this number was even more staggeringly low.  Entering this level of schooling put Mo with some of the smartest children in the country, some of the most determined children in the country, and could change the destiny of the rest of his life.

This school was in a moderate-sized city and again he had to make new friends.  One day as he was waiting outside the school, he was very thirsty.  He asked a boy for water and instantly a friendship was born.  The boy was religious and had the same morals as Mo.  He was kind and generous.  His friend also happened to be very wealthy, as were many of Mo’s peers at school.  His friend knew of Mo’s financial situation and soon ended up buying two’s of everything.  If he bought something for himself, he’d buy a second for his friend Mo.  His friend often went on trips and would be sure to always bring something back.  One day, his friend took him to explore the city of Casablanca.  Casablanca is the largest and wealthiest city in Morocco.  Mo marveled at the tall buildings and the beautiful ocean views.  He was mesmerized by the incredible architecture and the bustling streets.  Then and there, he knew his life would be very different from his parents’.  His curiosity that started when he discovered the TV was transformed into desire for a better life.

Back at school, he nurtured his love for the arts.  He took up painting, listened to lots of music, and even taught himself calligraphy.  He was the first in his school to do so.  At the request of his school, he wrote all of the department name signs.  But his focus remained on studying – actually, memorizing – history, geography, and mathematic principles so he could pass his final test.  There wasn’t multiple choice in the final test, only open answer or essay.  He had to be fully prepared.  The test came and went and Mo passed!  His graduating class was 40 students – probably about 10% of the kids he went to school with.  This was a huge accomplishment for Mo and paved the way for his siblings behind him. This put him in the company of the highest educated individuals in his country.  Even greater, he was one of the few from such humble beginnings.  A child of uneducated mountain dwellers, he’d reached an elite level of education.  But that wasn’t the end of his education.  He received a scholarship from the government to attend university.

One day, Mo found a cassette tape in the ground while he was waiting for a taxi.  He took it home, cleaned the tape, and played it.  The tape was “The Gambler” album from Kenny Rogers, an American musician.  Despite not knowing the language, Mo fell in love with Kenny’s music and his love for the music became an unquenchable thirst for more of America.  He started by taking English classes at the university.  He loved the language.  He bought a blue Oxford dictionary and set out to master 3 new words every day.  Decades later, Mo still has that blue Oxford dictionary.  It’s dusty, falling apart, but a wonderful reminder of his passion.  After two years, he graduated from the university earning his bachelor’s degree.  His original dream had been to earn his doctorate in literature and return to the impoverished Amazigh tribes to teach.  But as he learned more about the career path, he found that the government would dictate where he could teach and live.  Meanwhile, he’d become absorbed in American culture, dressing like a cowboy and buying as much American music as he could.

Eventually, he traded his teaching dream for the dream of coming to the United States.  He was working as a project manager for a city sewage project but he was not satisfied.  He researched options and found that it was extremely difficult to come to the United States.  Through his best friend, Mo got the idea to move to the United States to attend college.  He could obtain a student visa.  First, he enrolled in an American college.  The application process was difficult.  He had to complete a large amount of paperwork, about 4 inches thick.   After an interview and almost being rejected due to financial status, Mo received his student visa.  He would room with his best friend’s brother and the brother’s friend once he arrived.  Mo was ecstatic!  He boarded a plane and his first stop was JFK International Airport.

It was like stepping onto Mars.  He was in awe of everything around him.  It was completely different than anything he’d ever seen before.  The sights, the sounds, the people, it was all very different than his home country.  To this day, he doesn’t know how he made it all the way to his college town in the southwest.  He had multiple layovers and had never even been in an airport before.  But he made it and it was exhilarating.

Since Mo was an international student and did not have a scholarship, he had saved cash to pay for his first semester of school.  He’d planned on a getting a job to save money for the remaining semesters.  However, shortly after arriving, his roommates asked to borrow the majority of the money that he’d brought with him.  They’d promised to repay him before tuition was due.  Knowing that this was his best friend’s brother, the family had good morals, and they were wealthy, he loaned them the money without hesitation.  But when it came time to be repaid, his roommates did not produce.  They told him they had no money.  Unable to pay his tuition, he was kicked out of school.  He explained his situation to the registrar but they could not help him and told him they would need to report his education status to immigration.  This meant that within just a few months of arriving in the United States, Mo was now considered an illegal immigrant.  He had no money to return home, no one in the United States to help him, no one to send him money, and no documentation to work, live, or drive.

Mo moved in with some other people he’d met that were from Morocco.  They allowed him a place to stay but didn’t offer any support beyond that.  For a while, he would walk to campus and sneak into the cafeteria to eat.  He looked for jobs but couldn’t find any.  He looked for food but had little.  The country he’d been enamored with for years had turned into the place he’d experience the most heartache and hunger.  He’d been told several times by his new friends to leave the country.  But he couldn’t.  And even if he could, he didn’t want to.  He loved America.  He wanted to be American more than anything.  Eventually, he moved to another state to live with some other Moroccans.  He thought it might be easier to find work.  But once there, he quickly found that the situation was not better.  When he couldn’t find work, his newest roommates eventually asked him to leave as well.  A nice woman, who was a devout Christian, let him stay with her for a week but he was homeless after that.

Homeless and hungry, Mo also became very afraid.  Several people knew he was here illegally.  He was constantly in fear of being reported or being caught.  He had nightmares every night.  He tells me how that kind of stress seeps into every moment of your day, conscious or unconscious.  The fear never leaves your body.  Skinny and starving, he would go out every day looking for a job.  Maybe it was his ethnicity, though he is African, Mo looks Middle Eastern.  Maybe it was his accent.  Or maybe it was his immigration status.  Regardless, no one would hire him.  One day, he finally decided to try a Mexican restaurant he’d walked past several times.  He didn’t know anything about Mexican food or restaurants but something was telling him to try this place.  He walked into the restaurant and asked to speak with the manager.  The hostess asked him to sit at a table to wait for him.  He’d been sitting there for a few minutes when the hostess brought him a big plate of food.  The enchiladas were steaming hot, the rice and beans looked delicious.  Mo looked up at her and told her he had no money.  He could not pay.  She left but came back again with the plate.  She told Mo that the manager said he would not interview until Mo ate.  So he devoured every bite and it was delicious.  When the manager finally came out, he told Mo that he had seen him walk past the restaurant several times.  He told Mo that something was telling him that he needed to help him.  I believe God intervened that day.  Mo tells me how much he admires that manager to this day.  He tells me how that gentleman changed his life.

He worked as a busboy in the restaurant, eventually working his way to be a waiter.  And he met his wife there.  They dated for a year before marrying.  Once married, she filed sponsorship for Mo to get his citizenship.  They were married for three years but infertility and struggling finances became problems in their marriage.  One day, Mo found out that his wife was having an affair.  He intercepted communication where she told another man she was in love with him.  It was the ultimate betrayal – even worse than a physical affair.  His wife and best friend had fallen in love with another man.  Just a few months before Mo was expected to get his citizenship, he filed for divorce.  The divorce got ugly, as most do, and she cancelled her sponsorship of Mo.  He decided to move in with some friends and start over.  He left everything to his ex-wife.

And then 9/11 happened.  Up until this point it hasn’t been important to note, but Mo is Muslim.  He was raised Muslim.  I knew Mo for a year before I found out his religion.  He was celebrating Ramadan and thus not eating during the daytime.  I’d invited him to lunch and he politely declined.  When I persisted, he disclosed how he was fasting and could not eat while the sun was up.  Since then, we’ve had numerous conversations about religion and the history of each of our religions.  He is a dedicated follower of Islam but he doesn’t condemn others.  He believes in peace, love, and tolerance.  But after 9/11, being Muslim, looking middle-eastern, and not having a documented status did not feel safe in the United States.  He was afraid for his life.  As Mo tells me this part, his voice is lower as he looks around the coffee shop.  Even though we are all far from that place now, you can tell he still feels fearful to discuss it openly.

Because he wasn’t documented, he couldn’t drive or own a car.  He was working but was in constant fear of being found out.  For the second time, he was considered undocumented and illegal.  He’d been legal twice, had the taste of freedom, and both times freedom was taken from him.  He decided to contact an immigration lawyer.  She took his case and told Mo his was the most complicated she’d seen.  She worked hard for him and after a few months, Mo was able to secure legal status.  Finally!

Fast forward a few years and Mo has a good job in supply chain.  He enjoys the work he does and the contributions he makes.  He’s able to use his intelligence and education in his work.  He is in love with a caring and smart woman.  She lives about 90 minutes away and he goes to see her every weekend.  He recently took her to coastal France to meet his family.  Mo tells me how greatly he wishes to be closer to her every day but more than that, he wants her to be happy.  Mo volunteers regularly in the community and has worked on various fundraising efforts.  He has big ideas on how to help the community in the future.  And he sends money to his parents with every paycheck as a small repayment for all of the sacrifices they made for him.

Mo is a first-generation immigrant, a Muslim, and a good American.  His message is simple.  When something is meant for you, God will make the way as long as you put in the hard work and effort necessary.  Be patient.  It may not be easy and the path may bring heartache, but what’s meant to be will be.  Remember that your deeds are what define your goodness.  It does not matter if you worship in a church, synagogue, or mosque, you should treat all people equally and with kindness.  Just as the Nazis did not define Christianity, terrorists do not define Islam.  If we can seek to love each other despite our differences, we can become even closer to fulfilling God’s will.  These were values his family taught him and that he believes greatly.

So here I am, finishing up this story on New Year’s Eve, the day before Mo’s legal birth date.  His birthdate was assigned as January 1^st almost forty years ago when he entered school.  But he still doesn’t celebrate his birthday.  Even after forty years away from his tribe, Mo will always be Amazigh.  He will always be a descendant of free and noble people.  His American story was not perfect.  It does not fit the mold of an average American’s experience.  But he persevered until he made it.  Mo once gave me a piece of artwork that said, “In the confrontation between the stream and the rock, the stream always wins – not through strength, but through persistence.”  That quote from Buddha seems to sum up Mo’s thread.  Persistence, kindness, and faith will always win in the end.

It was a chilly December Saturday morning when I met with Isabel to learn her story.  We met at a Barnes & Noble in the children’s section so her kids could read and play while we spoke.  I grabbed a seasonal latte from the in-store Starbucks and waited for her to arrive.  Isabel is a busy mom of two adorable children.  She works as a manager at a Fortune 500 company where her days are long but she likes her company and appreciates the opportunity she has there.  As a working mom and wife, her days are quite busy.  Typically filled with meetings, school events, dance classes, doctor’s appointments, and more, her time is sacred.  Saturday mornings are usually dedicated to her family but today, she was giving a little bit of it to me.

I met Isabel a few years ago.  She’s thin with a cute bob haircut that just brushes her shoulders.  Her straight black hair twinkles with highlights.  She is small in stature but big in enthusiasm.  In the time I’ve known her, she’s not been afraid to give constructive feedback on a project or process and she openly shares her ideas.  She works hard every day and she gives out appreciation like candy at a Christmas parade.  It didn’t take long for me to realize that, though she is in her twenties, Isabel has wisdom beyond her years.  She has resilience that can only be obtained through trials and tribulations I could hardly imagine.

Isabel is an American, but not by birth.  She was born in Mexico and grew up in a small, rural town.  Her hometown was too small to have professional medical care so she was born in a town nearby.  She described her hometown with a warm smile.  She told how everyone knew each other – and knew everything about each other.  She described it as a place where she was rich with family.  They were together often, usually at her grandparents’ house.  And her town was full of hardworking people who worked most every day to provide for their families.  They were mostly farmers, growing various crops and raising livestock.  Many people had fruit trees in their yard.  I imagined long sunny days and warm clear nights, long dirt roads and children playing care-free.

Once she entered kindergarten, Isabel would walk to school every day on a path beaten through the corn fields.  Most everyone traveled on foot or by horse so it wasn’t uncommon to see young children take the 15 minute trek to school by themselves.  She has an older brother and sister that walked with her when they attended the same school.  At school, her aunt was a teacher.  She recalled that her aunt taught the youngest students dances for special occasions and they performed for their parents.  She remembers liking school, even if it wasn’t always easy or the teachers weren’t always kind.

Despite the beauty and love in her hometown, it was also wrought with poverty, hunger, and painful memories.  The public elementary school was tuition-free but secondary schools were not, so most people lacked an education beyond sixth grade.  But if their family was particularly poor, children would stop attending elementary school to help the family.  Isabel’s dad had a third grade education and had spent most of his life doing the back-breaking work of a farmhand.  In her town, the next meal was rarely guaranteed and many people spent their day searching for sources of money or food, usually both.  Education was a luxury for the rich.  So the children would leave school to help the family earn money and food.  They would sell what they could.  Someone who had a lemon tree on their land, for example, would pick the fruit to sell.  If they didn’t sell the fruit that day, the lemon would likely become their meal for the day.  Nothing edible was forsaken.  In a town where food was scarce, fear of death by starvation or robbery was high.

Isabel’s lip began to quiver and her eyes teared up.  She didn’t think she would get this emotional.  It was a long time ago.  I told her to take her time as I glanced away just long enough to notice both of her children had stopped in their tracks and were watching us.  They obviously don’t see their mother cry often and they were worried.  She pretended not to notice them as she wiped her eye and joked that she should have worn waterproof mascara.  She quickly gathered herself and told me how she often didn’t have enough food to eat.  No one in her family had enough food to eat.  She never asked for more at home because everyone was hungry.  She also knew there wasn’t anything more.  I imagine that her mother gave the children the largest portion of food and likely went hungry more often than not.  I imagine the emotional pain of watching your own children starve without the ability to comfort their aching stomachs and I began to hold back tears myself.  There was little relief from their hunger.  At school, lunch was not provided like it is in the United States.  Isabel often got her lunch by asking the street vendors next to her school for food.  She would reach her hand through the fence and the nice women would give her a little food to eat.  She never paid but she was always fed.

Long before Isabel was born, her dad received a U.S. work permit for farming.  With his third grade education and almost no possessions, he came to the United States in the early eighties.  He had a job as a migrant farm worker.  His high hopes were that it would provide enough money to take care of his wife and child in Mexico.  He hoped that hours bent over at the waist or crawling on his knees picking vegetables could dig them out of poverty.  His wages were beyond low and the cost of living was high but he sent every extra dollar back to his family.  Soon one child became three and more than a decade had passed with little improvement on their situation.

Isabel is the youngest child but like her siblings she didn’t see her father often.  Since he worked in the U.S., she would only see him for a few weeks out of every year.  And since his situation was not much better than theirs, they could only afford to speak over the phone once per month at a pre-arranged time.  On those days, Isabel would walk with her mother and siblings to a woman’s house who had a phone.  They would pay the woman to use her phone and would sit to wait for her dad’s call.  Meanwhile in the U.S., her dad would walk about 30 minutes to the phone he’d arranged to use.  She recalls how she didn’t know her father then.  He felt like a visitor or a distant relative.  Isabel’s father made many sacrifices for his family on the journey to a better life – a life they prayed didn’t include constant hunger.  Certainly, his greatest sacrifice was a close relationship with his children during their formative years.

Through persistence and hard work, Isabel’s dad eventually earned his permanent residency in America and left migrant farming for the more highly paid construction industry.  For more than 15 years, he had been working in America, sending his meager earnings back to his family and dreaming of bringing them all to the U.S.  After all that time and effort, after all of the sacrifice and pain, they hadn’t made much progress.  They were still hungry and poor.  They were still barely making it.  Isabel isn’t sure what sparked the next series of events.  Maybe her parents were tired of waiting, maybe their situation in Mexico had gotten worse, or maybe years of trying had turned into desperation.  Isabel was too young to know or understand completely.

In 1998, when most 10-year-olds in America were laughing at Eddie Murphy in Dr. Doolittle or marveling at the bravery of Mulan, Isabel was asked to brave the world without her parents.  Her father had saved just enough money to bring her mother and brother to the United States, illegally.  Her mother and 14-year-old brother made the journey across Mexico, met a “coyote” paid to bring them passage, and risked their lives crossing the river into the U.S.  Isabel tells me how she once asked her mom if she was scared.  She had crossed into the U.S. in one of the most dangerous ways possible.  Her mom told her she was not afraid for herself during this time.  Once they made their way safely into America, they both began full-time work.  I can only imagine the desperation that led Isabel’s parents to choose to leave her and her 16-year-old sister in Mexico by themselves.  I can only imagine that mom and brother left so they could make money faster because staying in Mexico much longer was not a viable option.  I can only imagine the trauma and fear that captivated Isabel at the time.

Isabel and her sister became closer than ever.  At 16 year’s old, her sister was hardly ready to take on the role of parent, but she wouldn’t let Isabel down.  Isabel still walked to school every day.  Her sister boarded the bus to the high school.  After school, they would meet up at their grandparents’ house.  Isabel’s grandparents were kind and giving.  They didn’t have much but they shared everything they had.  Isabel recalled how her grandparents already had several people living with them.  There simply wasn’t room for her and her sister, especially when they had a home of their own.  So, every day after school, she and her sister would meet at her grandparents’, share the meager dinner with the household, and head home after dark.  Since vehicle transportation was scarce and much of their way was on beaten paths, the town was void of street lights.  Isabel was afraid every night when they walked home.  Walking in the dark through the corn fields with only the moon to light their way was scary enough.  Some nights, they’d hear strange noises, footsteps, or the clank of horse shoes on the ground.  It could have been their imagination.  Or it could have been someone following them.  They never saw anyone.  But the entire town knew they were alone.  Everyone knew they walked by themselves, they slept by themselves, and they woke by themselves.  Everyone knew they were vulnerable.  One night after they’d made it home safely, Isabel and her sister heard the metal clank of the fence that encompassed their yard.  They had a few sheep in the yard with hay to feed them.  The noise didn’t sound like sheep at the fence at all.  It sounded like someone attempting to open the gate.  Terrified, her sister grabbed dad’s rifle.  He used to hunt rabbits for dinner when he was home.  That had been the only use for the rifle prior to then.  But that night, Isabel’s sister took the rifle and her sister and locked themselves in one of the bedrooms.  They crouched low and huddled together.  Her sister told her that if someone opened the door, she would shoot.  She wouldn’t wait.  So they sat there, huddled together, gun pointed at the door for the better part of an hour while they listened to the noises outside.  The next morning they couldn’t tell if anything was missing.  Maybe a sheep had been taken.  Maybe some hay, another limited commodity in their small town.  But they never stayed alone again.  Isabel’s uncle would come every night and stay with the girls until morning.

After that incident, it seemed even more urgent that the family be united in the United States.  As her parents looked for a way, Isabel and her sister worked for ways to get more food and money.  Working in America, her parents could send more money but they still lacked basic needs.  So, on Saturdays, they would spend all day helping her grandmother make masa.  They would spend the entire day shucking corn, boiling the cobs, cutting kernels off, and grinding them into powder to make the corn flour used to make tortillas.  Then on Sundays, they would travel to a large town about 40 minutes away.  This town was larger with more money.  They had a bus station and a hospital.  It was the place where people went to spend money – or to make money.  So Isabel, her sister, and her grandmother would travel to the town, set up a street booth, and make fresh tortillas to sell at what we would call a farmer’s market.  At the end of the day, her grandmother would buy them a gallon of milk or other small luxury food to take home with them.  The rest of the weekend’s earnings would go toward feeding the family for the week.  Even then, Isabel was in awe of how her grandparents made sure everyone was taken care of.  They may have had little, but they made sure everyone had a share.

Soon, her dad had a solution – at least for one of them.  He’d made friends with an American who had a daughter Isabel’s age.  The man offered to pretend that Isabel was his own daughter to get her across the border.  So her dad paid his friend several hundred dollars to travel to Mexico with his wife and son and return with Isabel posing as his daughter, Mary.  For months, Isabel memorized Mary’s life.  She learned her place of birth, friend’s names, family’s names, teacher’s names.  Isabel memorized the girl’s address, phone number, and school name.  When the fateful day came, Isabel would have almost 24 hours to become a part of this new family.  She had to become Mary.  She couldn’t seem like a stranger.  She had to play, joke, and fight with the boy like he was her brother.  She had to engage with the parents like they were her mom and dad.  And she had to pretend she knew more than 11 English words.  She was told to follow her “mom” wherever she went…to nod when she heard the name Mary and never to speak.  When they finally got to the border, they were subjected to a random search.  The “family” was pulled out of the car while the vehicle was searched.  Isabel was terrified but unlike much of the last year, she wasn’t afraid for her life.  She was afraid of being caught.  For Isabel, being in America meant bright lights, a comfortable home, a full stomach, and most of all – her parents.  She imagined how her life would be perfect when she reached America.  Her images of the U.S. were the ones you might see in a Better Homes and Garden magazine.  Isabel was anxious to come to America.  Any fear she had was overcome by her courage.  Her bravery had already been forged by her daily walks to school, her daily search for food, and the year she’d just spent without her parents.  Becoming someone else and crossing the border to a better life took far less bravery than everything else she’d already endured.

Sometime after crossing the border safely, Isabel met up with her dad somewhere she can’t remember.  It was a long drive to her new home.  She doesn’t remember much.  She can’t remember what her and her dad talked about.  She can’t remember if they spoke at all.  She only remembers being anxious to see her new home.  When her father told her they’d made it, they were pulling into an apartment building.  She was confused.  Her new home was supposed to be better than Mexico.  They were supposed to be making more money.  When he opened the door to the apartment, she immediately hugged her mother and brother.  And then it hit her.  As she glanced around the apartment, they had no furniture.  There was no couch, no table, no beds.  They were sleeping on a mattress made of a few layers of blankets.  They were still in poverty.  A great sadness overcame her, though she would never say anything to her family of it.  They had sacrificed so much to get her here.  Surely, they had to know more than she did.  Surely, her dreams couldn’t be out of reach.

The next day, she boarded the school bus for the first time.  She stepped into a middle school for the first time (enrolled as herself, though it would take years to forget Mary).  She ate a free school lunch for the first time.  And though she spoke no English, she could excel in one class where the language is universal – math.

A few years later, her dad turned his legal permanent residency into a citizenship and was able secure Isabel’s citizenship as well.  Eventually her sister made it to the U.S. to join them.  And everyone earned their citizenship, though some had a more difficult road than others.  Isabel married her high school sweetheart.  He, however, didn’t have his citizenship.  Like Isabel, he’d been brought to the U.S. illegally when he was a child.  Though Isabel was a citizen, for years they feared that if they sought his citizenship, he would be deported.  Soon, the newlyweds turned into parents of two.  They had a small home they owned and a car they shared.  Isabel had a good job but her husband was the breadwinner as a manager at a fast food restaurant.  When Isabel’s youngest child was just a toddler, her husband’s employer found out that he wasn’t working legally and he was fired.  They sought the advice of an immigration lawyer and her husband had to return to Mexico.  Even though he hadn’t lived in Mexico since he was a young child, had no place to work or live, he had to move back to the country his family had escaped from years earlier.  They didn’t know how long it would be.

Soon, Isabel found herself behind on her mortgage, behind on her electricity, standing in line at the food bank each week.  She had a good job, worked in a corporate office, but her situation left her again in fear.  Her family helped her with childcare but couldn’t help beyond that.  She applied for need-based grants to help get through this short time but was denied since her husband had been an undocumented immigrant.  But just when she felt her American dream might be lost, her prayers were answered.  Someone aware of her situation, but who remained anonymous, began leaving her money every so often with letters of encouragement.  She felt hope.  When a careless driver rear-ended her one evening totaling her car, she received enough money to buy a cheap car and get caught up on some of her bills.  For nine months, Isabel managed to keep it together just well enough that they didn’t lose everything they’d worked so hard for.  And then they received word that her husband had been approved to come back to the United States.  She wants to make clear that this was not easy.  It required an inordinate amount of money and time.  It required multiple reference letters and pleas on his behalf.  And it required many prayers.

Up until this point, I’ve been so enthralled with Isabel’s story I haven’t noticed much else around us.  But the store is getting busier and an employee comes to tell us that they’ll be doing story time soon on the other side of the children’s section.  Isabel tells her children to join them for the reading of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.  As we return to our conversation, I notice the great song “Hallelujah” playing over the speakers.  It seemed the perfect time to ask Isabel what her dreams are now.  Isabel feels like she’s achieved her American dream.  Her dreams don’t include a bigger paycheck, a bigger house, or a nicer car (though all of those things would be nice, I’m sure).  Isabel’s dreams are much deeper than that.  She dreams of a way to repay all those people that helped her through the hard times on her journey.  She dreams of teaching her children good values and the love of God.  And she dreams of becoming a foster parent in the future.  She wants to show foster children that they are worthy of love, that they are important, and that they are not alone.  She tells me that God has guided every step of her path, that her journey was paved for a purpose, and that her future is in his will.  She shared her story with me so that she could inspire others.  She wants you to know that if you are struggling, there is always an opportunity to have a better life.  She wants you to remain hopeful and to put your faith in God to light your way.  And once you have found a good place, help others.  If you are not currently struggling on your journey, know that others are.  Their pain goes deeper than the surface.  After all, most people that know Isabel know nothing of the obstacles she’s overcome.  Find a way to help those around you.

You see, Isabel is a great American.  Her life may not have started in America, but her epic story was always the American story.  She went from reaching her tiny hand through the fence at school for food to sitting in a Barnes & Noble sipping on Starbucks coffee.  She went from sleeping on layers of blankets in a practically empty apartment to owning her own home and working for one of the largest companies in America.  She went from cowering in a bedroom with a rifle to dreaming of being a foster parent.  She went from standing in line at the food bank to finding ways to give back to her local community.  She takes nothing for granted and she loves her country.  Isabel’s story may be different than yours.  Like the path through the corn fields, her journey has been filled with twists and turns.  Sometimes the corn was too high to see what was just around the corner.  But her courage, her bravery, and certainly her resilience are qualities we should all admire.  This is Isabel’s thread.