For some Americans, the image that materializes is the “hood” as depicted in movies—a deteriorating, working?class neighborhood run, supposedly, by young men who don’t attend school or work. Absent parents. Gang graffiti. Streets one avoids at night and during the day. A place where a politician or developer sees dollar signs and imagines a “revitalization project”—the first step toward gentrifying a community whose cultural history no one has bothered to learn.

But to others, el barrio is nuestra comunidad—familia, amigos, and the unlikely neighbors who become part of our lives simply because we live close enough to talk. Neighbors we would never meet if we stayed closed off, practicing a kind of internal isolationism within our own family walls. Neighbors who might seem out of place to an outsider, but not to us. They were there when we moved in, and they were there long after we moved out. We shared bilingual conversations about family, ailments and remedios, and the state of our worlds. An exchange of language and culture that cannot be seen from simply driving through, day or night.

Two distinctive images, one intricate word.

De niña, viví unos años con mi abuela al cruzar la frontera entre México y Estados Unidos. And when I think of el barrio, I think of my Abuela’s neighbor, Mrs. Williams—one of her dearest friends. She lived alone next door and became close to ‘buelita Tere despite their language barrier. Every day, they checked in on each other using the few words they knew in each other’s languages, plus body language, hand signs, Español, English, and everything in between. Even when the message got lost, the intention never did. Their friendship flourished across a six-foot-high chain-link fence.

‘Buelita often sent me to Mrs. Williams’ white house with the green trim—to ask a question, deliver sopita con frijoles fritos y tortillas de maíz, or borrow her telephone. I was fascinated by her warm, welcoming home: photos covering the walls, modern furniture with candy dishes, and the cutest kitchen—straight out of a 70’s TV show or the toy kitchens in holiday catalogs. Her house felt perfect: a green front lawn, a welcoming door, and a kitchen with all the modern appliances one could wish for. To me, Mrs. Williams’ home was enchanting.

Looking back, I realize she may have been the only Black woman living in a largely Chicano and immigrant barrio. As a child, it never occurred to me that she might have felt alone or outside the community. Mi abuela, with her broken English and open heart, may have been the only vecina who spoke with her—sometimes through me, interpreting their fence-line conversations. I got to know her well; I even met her daughter once when she came to visit. I felt like I was part of their little friend group.

After mi abuelita moved out to live with us, I don’t remember what became of Mrs. Williams. But I treasure the friendship she shared with my grandmother and with me. She is one of the many images that come to mind when someone—often a student—misuses the word barrio to imply a rundown, sketchy, dangerous neighborhood.

That is not, and will never be, el barrio to me, and never was to mi abuelita or Mrs. Williams. For me, el barrio is abuela, Mrs. Williams, and the quiet, everyday acts of comunidad that no drive-by stereotype could ever capture.

Some of my sweetest childhood memories are of being a little “fly on the wall,” tucked into a corner at family gatherings, invisible but completely enthralled. I loved listening to the women—mis abuelas, tías, comadres, and vecinas—who formed the protective web of my upbringing. They were the community’s disciplinarians, the ones whose raised eyebrow or tight-lipped smirk could stop you mid-mischief and remind you that being a malcreada—or a metiche—was never an option.

These mujeres, nearly all of them madres, carried our family’s stories the way others carry heirlooms. They swapped memories, complained about aches and pains, and somehow always had un remedio ready, whether it came from a pharmacy or from the front yard garden. Most of all, they had the tea on everyone and everything. I learned early how to hold my breath, stay still, and let their wave of feminine energy wash over me. If I were lucky, I could soak it all in before someone noticed me and shooed me out of the room.

That is exactly the experience awaiting the reader of Las Madres, the feeling of being that wide-eyed granddaughter, niece, or godchild listening in from the doorway. You carry the chisme back to your primos, or you tuck these moments away for adulthood, for the day when a familiar pain arrives, and you instantly know what your curandera abuela would do. The novel invites you back into that sacred circle of women, where memory, wisdom, and love are always brewing just beneath the tea leaves.

LAS MADRES by Esmeralda Santiago

From the award-winning, best-selling author of When I Was Puerto Rican, this compelling novel explores themes of family, race, faith, sex, and disaster, shifting between Puerto Rico and the Bronx. It uncovers the lives and loves of five women and a secret that connects them.

They call themselves “las Madres,” a tight-knit group of women who, along with their daughters, have formed a family rooted in friendship and blood ties. Their story starts in Puerto Rico in 1975, when fifteen-year-old Luz—the tallest girl at her dance academy and the only Black student among petite, light-skinned, delicate dancers—is seriously injured in a car accident. Tragically, her brilliant, multilingual scientist parents died in the crash. Now orphaned, Luz faces the challenges of adolescence and copes with the aftereffects of a brain injury. When two new friends enter her life, Ada and Shirley, her days are filled with aches and pains, her memory of the accident erased, yet she experiences episodes that transport her to times and places she cannot share.

Fast-forward to 2017 in the Bronx, where Luz’s adult daughter, Marysol, wishes she had understood her better. But how can she when her mother barely remembers her own life? To help bridge the gap, Ada and Shirley’s daughter, Graciela, suggests a vacation in Puerto Rico for the extended group. It’s meant to be an opportunity for Luz to unearth long-buried memories and for Marysol to learn more about her mother’s early years. Despite thorough planning, two hurricanes strike back-to-back, disrupting their plans and revealing a secret that changes everything. With warmth, humor, friendship, and pride, celebrated author Esmeralda Santiago weaves a story of women’s sexuality, shame, disability, and love set against a community shaken by disaster.

Share Teresa Carbajal Grado, M.A.

Sententia Vera Bookshop is a multicultural, multilingual, and independent virtual bookstore. While we carry most published books, we promote the voices and stories of writers who are often underrepresented or unknown to the broader audience. Our recommendations highlight works by authors of color, women, and women-identifying writers, as well as ethnic, foreign, and non-conforming voices, offered in the original languages, translations, and bilingual editions.

Beyond books, audiobooks, music, and film, we encourage connection through language and cultural exploration.

If you enjoy my stories and value the art of writing, you can support my craft by sharing this story and/or buying me a cup of café con leche.

During my undergraduate and graduate studies, I learned that something as small as a missing hyphen could create outsized consequences.

In college, my surname reflected both my father’s and my mother’s last names—unhyphenated, as is customary in my native Mexico. My university’s system could not reconcile what it did not recognize. Instead of one student record, there were two. I received duplicate notices and duplicate invoices for the same tuition, the same student ID, the same degree plan—me. The registrar’s solution was not to fix the error but to duplicate everything, just in case one file failed to reach me.

Eventually, I walked into the office to clarify my legal name and merge the records. It was a simple fix, once someone took the time to see me as a whole person rather than a formatting anomaly.

Around that same time, mi abuela, whose name I carry, passed away. I returned from our border town after her funeral to find her mail arriving at my address, alongside the duplicate mail from my university. Two identities. Two records. One human being navigating systems that could not quite comprehend her.

In graduate school, I married. Rather than follow Mexican custom and add my husband’s surname to my two maiden names, I tried to simplify my life. I dropped my mother’s surname and adopted my husband’s last name. What I thought would reduce confusion only created more. Once again, two student files appeared. Once again, administrators struggled, not with my identity, but with its documentation. The absence of a tiny hyphen became an institutional and software stumbling block.

Why share this story?

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Because when systems are rigid, people pay the price.

I believe the proposed SAVE America Act of 2026 risks creating barriers where no meaningful problem exists. The Act would require documentary proof of U.S. citizenship, such as a passport, birth certificate, and/or naturalization certificate, when registering to vote, and it would impose stricter voter identification requirements.

On its surface, that may sound reasonable. But policy should respond to real, measurable problems. Evidence consistently shows that instances of noncitizens registering or voting are exceedingly rare and are already addressed through existing safeguards. We should be wary of sweeping solutions in search of a crisis.

The voter turnout rate, the percentage of eligible voters who actually cast a ballot, offers a clearer picture of our democratic health. It is calculated by dividing the total number of ballots cast by the total number of eligible voters in a given jurisdiction. In recent national elections from 2020 to 2024, average turnout has hovered around 58.6 percent. That means only a little over half of eligible U.S. citizens are participating in our democracy.

Our challenge is not rampant fraud. It is participation.

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The SAVE America Act would likely further reduce participation. Requiring documentary proof of citizenship places a disproportionate burden on eligible voters who may not have ready access to these documents. Millions of citizens lack valid passports. Birth certificates can be costly or complicated to replace. Naturalization certificates are expensive to reissue.

For individuals who have changed their names through marriage, divorce, or court order, the burden multiplies. A voter whose current legal name does not exactly match the name on their birth certificate would need additional documentation to bridge that gap. As my own experience shows, even well-resourced institutions struggle with name variations. Imagine navigating those complexities under strict legal deadlines, with your vote at stake.

Communities most affected would likely include younger voters, communities of color, and married or divorced women, particularly those whose documentation reflects life transitions that systems often fail to anticipate. When acceptable forms of government-issued photo ID are narrowly defined, eligible citizens without those IDs may simply stay home.

That is not election security. That is voter suppression by administrative design.

If lawmakers are genuinely committed to strengthening voter verification, there are better, more efficient, and more cost-effective approaches, methods that modernize databases, improve interagency coordination, and maintain safeguards without erecting new barriers for eligible citizens. Election integrity and voter access are not mutually exclusive goals. We can protect both.

A democracy should not hinge on a hyphen.

When bureaucratic rigidity collides with human complexity, people get lost in the paperwork. My experience with duplicate student files was inconvenient. Inconvenience in voting, however, becomes disenfranchisement.

At a time when only slightly more than half of eligible citizens participate in elections, our focus should be on expanding access, increasing trust, and strengthening civic engagement, not adding layers of documentation that risk silencing lawful voters.

Democracy works best when it welcomes its citizens as they are, fully, accurately, and without unnecessary obstacles.

U.S. Senators gave up on the original SAVE Act of 2025 when their constituents loudly opposed it. We can stop it again. Call your senators and tell them to do whatever it takes to block the SAVE America Act.

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Sources:

1. Bipartisanpolicy.org. https://bipartisanpolicy.org/article/five-things-to-know-about-the-save-act/.

2. Ballotpedia.org. https://ballotpedia.org/Voter_turnout_in_United_States_elections.

3. Brennancenter.org. https://secure.brennancenter.org/content/call-your-senators-reject-save-act-0%20?utm_medium=EML&utm_source=advocacy&utm_content=SAVE-Act-2&cid=701Vy00001KFBFMIA5&ms=EML_advocacy_SAVE-Act-2

“No sabes la suerte que tienes por ser güera,” mi abuela would exclaim when I was young, usually after I complained about the nickname mi familia had given me, “la güera”. She was right. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the “luck”—what I now recognize as the privilege of being light-skinned, with curly reddish-brown hair.

Dark Dude is a heartfelt coming-of-age story that speaks directly to white-passing Latinos, Chicanos, and Hispanos navigating the often-unspoken complexities of identity. It beautifully captures the challenge of finding a public self that allows mixed-race, bicultural, and bilingual identities to coexist, without judgment, discrimination, or hate.

The story explores how dual identity and unearned privilege shape a young person’s search for belonging, purpose, and self-understanding. These layers add depth and honesty to a journey many of us recognize, even if we didn’t have the language for it at the time.

Simply put, Dark Dude is the book many of us needed when we were teens, and one that still resonates deeply today.

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A Pulitzer Prize-winning author makes his teen fiction debut with a gritty coming-of-age novel that is full of details and icons of teenage life in the 1960s: the lure of the hippie culture, the fight to fit in, and the desperate need to break away.

Rico didn’t say good-bye. He didn’t leave a phone number. And he didn’t plan on coming back—ever. In the Midwest, Rico could blend in, his light hair and lighter skin disguising his background. He would no longer be the “dark dude,” the punching bag for the whole neighborhood. Trading Harlem for Wisconsin, though, means giving up on a big part of his identity. And when Rico no longer has to prove that he’s Latino, he almost stops being one. Except that he can never have an ordinary white kid’s life, because there are some things that can’t be left behind, things that will follow you a thousand miles away. When Rico discovers that picket-fenced apple-pie people can be just as violent and judgmental as the neighbors he left behind, he is forced to swallow an uncomfortable truth: no longer an outsider by his appearance, Rico is still an outsider.

Share Teresa Carbajal Grado, M.A.

Sententia Vera Bookshop is a multicultural, multilingual, and independent virtual bookstore. While we carry most published books, we promote the voices and stories of writers who are often underrepresented or unknown to the broader audience. Our recommendations highlight works by authors of color, women, and women-identifying writers, as well as ethnic, foreign, and non-conforming voices, offered in the original languages, translations, and bilingual editions.

Beyond books, audiobooks, music, and film, we encourage connection through language and cultural exploration.

If you enjoy my stories and value the art of writing, you can support my craft by sharing this story and/or buying me a cup of café con leche.

Next to writing, reading has always been one of my greatest joys. The first book I remember loving as a young reader was a graphic novel adaptation of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. It was a Spanish edition, and Tom and Huck became mis amigos—from where else but la tierra mágica de México. Years later, when The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn appeared on my high school English syllabus, mis amigos de la infancia were suddenly transported to the Mississippi River, speaking English instead of Spanish. I was devastated and enchanted. It was my first conscious encounter with the magic of literary translation, and I’ve been captivated ever since.

In that spirit, I’m delighted to share a selection of literature in translation—books I’ve read in Spanish, English, or both—that honor culture, history, and the feminine experience. These stories reflect the values and perspectives that shaped me growing up in a bicultural, bilingual, and deeply feminine familia.

For avid readers and for those who don’t quite see themselves as readers yet, these recommendations are available in both print and audiobook formats. If you haven’t tried audiobooks, I encourage you to begin. Nearly all of us love listening to a good story—and these are meant to be saboreados.

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The Book of Emma Reyes

My first literary recommendation of 2026 is The Book of Emma Reyes by Emma Reyes. This remarkable memoir unfolds through 23 letters recounting the author’s harsh childhood as an orphan alongside her sister, Elena. Emma Reyes, a celebrated Colombian realist painter, was also what translator Daniel Alarcón calls “a magnetic storyteller.” At the urging of her friend, historian Germán Arciniegas, she began writing about her early life. What emerges is a vivid, unflinching account of deprivation, cruelty, and survival, told with the clarity, innocence, and resilience of a child’s voice.

The Invisible Mountain

My following recommendation is The Invisible Mountain by Carolina De Robertis. Set in 20th-century Uruguay, this brilliant work of historical and magical fiction traces three generations of women as they navigate love, loss, and the search for their authentic selves within a patriarchal society. The novel beautifully explores female resilience, identity, and the profound and mystical bond between madres e hijas.

Finally, as an independent bookseller, it would be my pleasure to ship you a copy of either or both titles in print and as audiobooks. Please visit my website to place your dulce book order at https://sententiavera.com/bookshop/.

However, whether you borrow them from the library—and if not there, request it— or welcome a personal copy into your home, I invite you to prepare your favorite beverage, settle into your reading chair, or press play on a long drive, and lose yourself in these extraordinary works of literature.

If you enjoy my stories and value the art of writing, you can support my craft by sharing this story and/or buying me a cup of café con leche.

The U.S. Constitution neither prohibits nor actively encourages dual citizenship. On the contrary, constitutional interpretation and federal law have long protected it. The Fourteenth Amendment guarantees U.S. citizenship to those born in the United States, and the Supreme Court has made unequivocally clear that citizenship cannot be revoked without the individual’s voluntary and intentional consent. In Afroyim v. Rusk (1967), the Court held that Congress lacks the authority to strip a person of U.S. citizenship involuntarily. Vance v. Terrazas (1980) reaffirmed this principle, clarifying that the loss of citizenship requires specific intent to relinquish it, not merely the performance of an act such as acquiring another nationality or participating in civic life abroad.

S.3283 ignores these binding precedents. Congress cannot override the Constitution by statute, and any attempt to coerce citizens into renouncing their nationality would collapse under judicial review. This bill is not a serious policy proposal; it is a zero-sum measure born of fear and misunderstanding rather than law, history, or facts, por decir lo menos.

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Millions of Americans hold or are eligible for dual citizenship. These individuals contribute to U.S. national security, economic strength, diplomatic reach, and cultural leadership. Dual citizens serve in the military, lead corporations, teach in classrooms, innovate in science and technology, y representan a los Estados Unidos en el extranjero con credibilidad y fluidez cultural. Far from eroding loyalty, dual citizenship enhances America’s global acumen and soft power.

The strength of the United States as a world leader has never come from enforced uniformity. It has come from diversity, pluralism, and constitutional protections that recognize allegiance as a matter of commitment and action rather than suspicion or exclusion. Those of us who hold dual nationality entendemos plenamente el honor, la responsabilidad y la lealtad que aportamos a los Estados Unidos.

Although S.3283 has been referred to the Senate Committee on the Judiciary, it should go no further. Congress must reject this bill decisively and unanimously, not only because it is unconstitutional, but because it undermines the very democratic values and global leadership it may claim to defend.

If you enjoy my stories & insights, and value the art of writing, you can support my craft by sharing this post and/or buying me a cup of café con leche.

The Texas Attorney General’s attempt to dissolve Jolt Initiative is a misuse of state power—an escalation designed to shut down a vital civic organization and silence the rising young Latino electorate. This action is not only unlawful intimidation but also sets a dangerous precedent for all advocacy and voter engagement organizations operating in Texas.

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Sententia Vera LLC’s civic mission is to foster communication and engagement across languages and cultures, nurturing genuine community relationships and equitable access for everyone. We proudly partner with organizations that uplift underrepresented voters, including the Volunteer Deputy Registrars who work tirelessly to register tens of thousands of young Texans each year. Their privacy and the rights of those they serve must be protected from the baseless intimidation and harassment that Attorney General Paxton seeks to impose.

Let us send a clear message: Texans reject any attempt to suppress the vote, especially efforts targeting Latino communities. Attorney General Paxton’s actions undermine the Voting Rights Act, violate First Amendment protections, and represent a blatant political abuse of power.

¡Juntas en la lucha!

If you enjoy my stories and value the art of writing, you can support my craft by sharing this story and/or buying me a cup of café con leche.

Four years ago, I shared this story as a reminder of the invaluable contributions of immigrants and the urgent need for immigration reform. Today, it remains just as relevant.

I often hear anti-immigrant voices insisting, “It’s not that I don’t like immigrants; it’s just that they should come here the legal way!” While I choose not to engage with the hostility, a question lingers in my mind: Why is it easier for some to support mass deportations, detentions, and family separations than to demand that our leaders fix a broken immigration system?

The United States, a self-proclaimed global superpower, negotiates peace treaties, intervenes in conflicts, and claims leadership on the world stage. Yet, we remain incapable of passing meaningful immigration reform—even when our economy desperately relies on immigrant labor. Why?

With that in mind, I offer this story as a testament to the immigrant spirit, a spirit that embodies resilience, ingenuity, and determination. Perhaps this story will also serve as a nudge—an invitation to advocate for reform rather than accept the continued cycle of fear and uncertainty for immigrant communities.

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Forbes describes the entrepreneurial spirit as a mindset that actively seeks out change rather than merely reacting to it. Harvard Business Review recommends adopting an immigrant mindset to advance one’s career. Why? Because the immigrant spirit mirrors the entrepreneurial drive—it thrives on an open mind, a willingness to adapt, and the resolve to succeed despite obstacles. It is a courageous spirit stepping beyond its comfort zone into the unknown. It is humble, yet unwavering, knowing that turning back is not an option.

If you had asked me years ago whether I saw myself this way, I would have laughed and said, “No way!” But looking back, I now recognize that while I may not have been born with this spirit, it was instilled in me by mi Mamá y abuela. Out of necessity, I learned that embracing change wasn’t just an advantage—it was survival. It was the key to progress, not just for myself but for those around me.

Practice is key. One morning, while chatting with a community member at my business, the SV Cultural Hub, I was reminded of a childhood experience that may have been one of my earliest displays of the immigrant entrepreneurial spirit.

Remember las canicas, a marble game called Ringer? As a child, I spent two years resisting assimilation into U.S. culture, but eventually, I found another way—integrating through a match of canicas. I didn’t know that Ringer was what canicas were called at the time; I only knew that it looked fun, and winning meant keeping the marbles you knocked out!

Ringer was the king of schoolyard games, but I had no canicas of my own. My mother, a single parent, couldn’t afford extras, and I knew better than to ask. So, I made a plan: I negotiated a deal with a classmate to borrow a shooter and some mibs, the fancy names for canicas. The agreement was simple—whatever marbles I won, we’d split evenly. I played for keepsies.

With my loaner set, I played—and I won. Soon, I had a decent collection of mibs and my own shooter. I paid back my loan, but my success didn’t sit well with my classmates. The Mexican girl who never brought her own marbles was suddenly a force to be reckoned with. I was on a roll—until complaints reached the parents, and my marble enterprise was shut down. As they say, “You win some, you lose some.”

This is who I am. This is what my immigrant entrepreneurial espíritu is—a mission, my mission to create social change through language, culture, and community. It’s about building genuine relationships, fostering professional growth, sharing experiences, and organizing cultural events that unite diverse people. The SV Cultural Hub is a humble, unique, and imperfect space full of the immigrant entrepreneurial spirit.

I invite you to be part of this third space. Make the SV Cultural Hub your third place—your workspace away from home, your go-to study spot para café, conversación y conexión— for coffee, conversation, and connection. More importantly, make it a space where you share and experience new cultures, develop new skills, and expand your network. If you are not in my community, find a third space to connect with people different from you. Make getting uncomfortable your mission—turning back is not an option.

Because at the heart of it all, the immigrant spirit isn’t just about survival—it’s about thriving, innovating, and building a future for all of us.

If you enjoy my stories and value the art of writing, you can support my craft by sharing this story and/or buying me a cup of café con leche.

Al haber crecido en la frontera, con mamá trabajando incansablemente como madre soltera para brindarnos a mis hermanas y a mí un futuro mejor, el día de San Valentín no tenía historia en nuestro hogar. Parecía frívolo, un lujo que no podíamos permitirnos. Intercambiar tarjetas y dulces comprados en la tienda con más de 30 compañeros de clase parecía poco sincero y forzado. El amor no se encontraba en los dulces empaquetados ni en las notitas dobladas, sino en los sacrificios cotidianos, en la calidez de las comidas compartidas y en las manos que trabajaban para que pudiéramos soñar.

Sintiendo curiosidad por los orígenes del día de San Valentín, me sumergí en la siempre tentadora madriguera de Google. Como católica, me preguntaba: ¿quién era San Valentín? ¿Era un santo patrón? ¿Qué protegía? Resultó que su historia era nebulosa y desconcertante. Hubo múltiples mártires llamados Valentín, dos de los cuales compartieron el 14 de febrero como fecha de muerte. Uno fue decapitado por oficiar matrimonios en secreto. Otro, asociado con la curación de la ceguera, tenía reliquias esparcidas por toda Europa. Incluso existió una santa, Santa Valentina. El papa Gelasio I admitió una vez que San Valentín era un santo “cuyos nombres son venerados por los hombres, pero cuyos actos solo Dios conoce”.

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A pesar de sus orígenes poco conocidos, el Día de San Valentín nunca significó mucho para mí en Estados Unidos, pero en México tengo los mejores recuerdos de un Valentín: mi tío, Tío Tin, de Hidalgo de Parral, Chihuahua. Cada verano, mamá nos enviaba a mi hermana mayor y a mí a México, nuestra versión de campamento de verano. Mi hermana se quedaba en la ciudad con la familia, pero yo ansiaba la aventura y me uní a Tío Tin en su rancho lechero en Villa Matamoros, 22 kilómetros al sur. Con su único camino de tierra, el pueblo era un mundo aparte de lo que yo conocía. El transporte consistía en caballos, carruajes tirados por mulas y, ocasionalmente, alguna que otra camioneta.

Tío Tin era dueño de un antiguo terreno que, según se rumoreaba, alguna vez perteneció a una iglesia española. Lo único que quedaba era su estructura de piedra esquelética, abandonada y desgastada. Se encontraba junto a un arroyo seco, un lecho de arroyo seco con una leyenda escalofriante. La tradición local hablaba de una noche tormentosa, una vigilia comunitaria, una inundación repentina y la trágica pérdida de vidas. Los campesinos habían buscado refugio dentro de esos muros, rezando por seguridad, pero el arroyo los había reclamado. Decían que, si te quedabas después del anochecer, podías escuchar a sus espíritus rezando en el viento. Mi mente joven inmediatamente pensó en La Llorona, una historia que había escuchado a menudo pero que nunca había relacionado con un lugar. Nunca me atreví a quedarme después de la hora del almuerzo.

Cuando Tío Tin trabajaba hasta tarde, tenía dos opciones: tomar prestado un caballo y volver a casa o intentar alcanzar la mula, el taxi tirado por mulas del pueblo. Esto último era una forma de arte. Para subir, uno tenía que correr, alcanzarlo, saltar, girar en el aire y aterrizar en la plataforma del carruaje. Yo, que carecía de atletismo, a menudo fallaba miserablemente. Con frecuencia, fallaba, caía boca abajo o tropezaba en el camino de tierra. Al final, me quedé montando a caballo de regreso a casa, saboreando el ritmo tranquilo de los cascos en la tierra.

El rancho fue donde aprendí a ser resiliente. Ayudaba a ordeñar vacas a mano, asistía en el parto e incluso presenciaba la castración de terneros machos. Me sentía en mi elemento, con los pies firmemente plantados en la tierra, las manos calentadas por la energía de los animales. El trabajo era duro, pero se sentía real, significativo.

De vuelta en casa, Tía Vicki mandaba en la cocina. Ella fue mi primera clienta de entrega de leche, aunque rápidamente dejé de lado la ruta de entrega restante, prefiriendo quedarme y cocinar con ella. Ella me enseñó a encender un fuego de leña, la única fuente de calor para el calentador de agua exterior y la estufa. Muchos días de la semana, me quedaba sin ducharme, mi yo joven, sopesando la miseria de desafiar el frío para encender un fuego frente a congelarme bajo una ducha de agua helada. A menudo, no elegía ninguna de las dos cosas.

Ella me enseñó a sacrificar pollos, preparar café de olla y apreciar la riqueza de la leche fresca. El desayuno era lo mejor: café con crema espesa y tostadas con mantequilla hechas con la nata, la leche que habíamos pasteurizado esa mañana. Mi capricho favorito era un viaje a la bodega de la esquina, donde Tía Vicki siempre me daba unos pesos extra para comprar salchicha con queso asadero. Incluso ahora, se me hace la boca agua al recordarlo.

Esos veranos con Tío Tin y Tía Vicki fueron mi verdadero Día de San Valentín. El amor no estaba en los corazones de caramelo ni en las tarjetas compradas en las tiendas. Estaba en la forma en que Tío Tin me enseñó a montar a caballo, en la fuerza silenciosa de la tierra, en la forma en que las manos de Tía Vicki obraban magia sobre un fuego de leña. Fue en el calor de un desayuno preparado con cariño, y las risas compartidas por un intento fallido de alcanzar la mula.

El día de San Valentín todavía no significa mucho para mí en la forma en que se celebra en los EE. UU. Pero cada febrero, cuando el frío llega, recuerdo esos veranos. Recuerdo el aroma del café recién hecho, el ritmo del paso de un caballo y las historias susurradas por el viento a través de las paredes esqueléticas de una iglesia vieja y olvidada. Eso, para mí, es el amor.

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Growing up on the border, with Mamá working tirelessly as a single parent to provide my sisters and me a better future, Valentine’s Day held no history in our home. It seemed frivolous, a luxury we could not afford. Exchanging store-bought cards and candy with 30+ classmates felt insincere and forced. Love wasn’t found in pre-packaged sweets or folded notes—it was in the everyday sacrifices, the warmth of shared meals, and the hands that worked so we could dream.

Curious about the origins of Valentine’s Day, I dove into the ever-enticing Google rabbit hole. As a Catholic, I wondered—who was San Valentín? Was he a patron saint? What did he protect? His history, it turned out, was nebulous and mystifying. There were multiple martyrs named Valentine, two of whom shared 14th February as their date of death. One was beheaded for officiating marriages in secret. Another, associated with healing blindness, had relics scattered across Europe. Even a female saint, Santa Valentina, existed. Pope Gelasius I once admitted that San Valentín was a saint “cuyos nombres son venerados por los hombres, pero cuyos actos solo Dios conoce”—whose name was venerated by men, but whose deeds only God knew.

Despite its obscure origins, Valentine’s Day never meant much to me in the U.S. But in Mexico, I have the fondest memories of a Valentín—my uncle, Tío Tin, from Hidalgo de Parral, Chihuahua. Each summer, Mamá sent my older sister and me to Mexico, our version of sleepaway camp. My sister stayed in the city with family, but I craved adventure and joined Tío Tin on his dairy ranch in Villa Matamoros, 22 kilometers south. With its single dirt road, the village was a world apart from what I knew. Transportation consisted of horses, mule carriages, and the occasional pickup truck.

Tío Tin owned an old piece of land rumored to have once belonged to a Spanish church. The only thing left was its skeletal stone structure, abandoned and weathered. It stood beside an arroyo seco, a dry creek bed with a chilling legend. Local lore spoke of a stormy night, a community vigil, a flash flood, and the tragic loss of lives. Campesinos had sought shelter within those walls, praying for safety, only for the arroyo to claim them. They said if you stayed past dark, you could hear their spirits praying in the wind. My young mind immediately thought of La Llorona, a story I had often heard but never tied to a place. I never dared stay past lunchtime.

When Tío Tin worked late, I had two choices: borrow a horse and ride back home or attempt to catch la mula—the town’s mule-drawn taxi. The latter was an art form. To board, one had to sprint, catch up, jump, twist mid-air, and land on the carriage bed. I, lacking athleticism, often failed miserably. Frequently, I missed, landed flat on my stomach, or tripped on the dirt road. Eventually, I stuck to riding horseback home, relishing the quiet rhythm of hooves on earth.

The ranch was where I learned resilience. I helped milk cows by hand, assisted in calving, and even witnessed the castration of bull calves. I felt entirely in my element—feet planted firmly in the dirt, hands warmed by the energy of animals. The work was hard, but it felt real, meaningful.

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Back at home, Tía Vicki ruled the kitchen. She was my first milk delivery customer, though I quickly opted out from the remaining delivery route, preferring to stay behind and cook with her. She taught me to start a wood fire, the only heat source for the outdoor water heater and the stove. Many weekdays, I went without a shower—my young self, weighing the misery of braving the cold to start a fire versus freezing under an icy water shower. Often, I chose neither.

She taught me to butcher chickens, prepare café de olla, and appreciate the richness of fresh milk. Breakfast was the best—coffee with thick cream and buttered toast made from la nata, the milk we had pasteurized that morning. My favorite treat was a trip to the corner bodega, where Tía Vicki always gave me a few extra pesos for salchicha con queso asadero—Mexican salami and cheese. Even now, my mouth waters at the memory.

Those summers with Tío Tin y Tía Vicki were my real Día de San Valentín. Love wasn’t in candy hearts or store-bought cards. It was in the way Tío Tin taught me to ride, in the quiet strength of the land, in the way Tía Vicki’s hands worked magic over a wood fire. It was in the warmth of a breakfast made with care, and the laughter shared over a failed attempt to catch la mula.

Valentine’s Day still doesn’t mean much to me in how it’s celebrated in the U.S. But every February, when the cold creeps in, I remember those summers. I remember the scent of fresh coffee, the rhythm of a horse’s gait, and the stories whispered by the wind through the skeletal walls of an old, forgotten church. That, to me, is love.

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A Failure to Clearly Communicate Company Policy

Company leadership and store management that hire a majority of Spanish-speaking immigrant employees must clearly communicate company policy, particularly when employees seek clarification about the consequences of absences to observe a community protest. In this incident, the assistant manager, serving as the intermediary, was told over the phone that the consequence would be a written warning in the employee’s file. The store manager, requesting a list of employees planning to participate in the community protest, should have followed up with each employee with, at minimum, a telephone conversation. However, the store manager chose to communicate via text message the next day, and the messages were inconsistent. Some employees received messages in English, others in Spanish, announcing that the protest day would also be designated Employee Appreciation Day. The official messages did not clearly define the company’s attendance policy, only reiterating that an unexcused absence would result in a report. Without precise policy wording or additional clarification, employees accepted the consequence as initially stated and remained united in their decision to participate in the protest.

“Me contestó por mensaje que tendría que firmar una advertencia por faltar. Nunca me dijo [que] ‘ya no tienes trabajo.’” ~ Gudelia, immigrant employee

This breakdown in communication underscores the importance of equity in workplace policies. Employees who do not speak English fluently must have access to information in a language they fully comprehend, significantly when policies directly impact their employment. Employers cannot assume that vague and abbreviated statements about policy will be understood the same way by all employees. In a diverse workplace, policies must be communicated in culturally and linguistically appropriate ways to ensure clarity and fairness.

“Sin embargo a mí me dejaron trabajar el febrero 4, me despidió el district manager [h]asta el febrero 5 por mensaje.” ~ Gudelia, immigrant employee

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Inappropriate Use of Text Messaging for Critical Workplace Communication

A second issue that is equally concerning is a company’s choice of platform for communicating policy and terminations. Text messaging should never be an appropriate medium for delivering critical employment decisions. In this case, employees were not given an opportunity for an in-person conversation or even a formal written notice before receiving a text message from a district manager stating they had been fired. The assistant manager, the intermediary, who did not participate in the community protest, was also terminated via text and was given no chance to explain his involvement and perspective of the incident.

In an era where misinformation and miscommunication are national concerns, it is no surprise that company leaders and team members were not on the same page. The lack of professional and transparent communication methods contributes to misunderstandings, fear, and mistrust. This incident highlights why strong DEI policies are essential—not just for employee relations but for the overall success of a business. When communication practices fail to consider linguistic diversity and appropriate professional standards, companies suffer from unnecessary turnover, financial loss, and damaged reputations.

“My apologies for the late text. We have removed you from the schedule moving forward. Contact …HR tomorrow for more details on your notice of separation from the company.” ~ Brandon, District Manager

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The Business Case for DEI in Workplace Communication

The need for DEI in workplace communication is undeniable, particularly in industries reliant on immigrant workers. In Central Texas, where the labor market is already strained, companies cannot afford to lose valuable employees due to ineffective communication. High employee turnover due to miscommunication is an avoidable and costly mistake. Yet, some companies are choosing to dismantle DEI programs despite the clear business advantages they provide.

Leaders must recognize that today’s workforce does not look the same as in the past. Companies must adapt to the realities of a diverse labor force by implementing clear, equitable, and inclusive communication strategies. This means ensuring all employees fully understand policies, providing information in appropriate languages, and using professional, transparent platforms for critical workplace discussions. Businesses that fail to embrace these DEI principles will continue to face high turnover, reduced employee morale, and reputational damage.

The terminations at this fast-food chain serve as a powerful reminder: without diversity, equity, and inclusion in workplace communication, companies risk alienating and losing the very workforce that keeps their businesses running.

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A Conversation About Consequences

The situation unfolded on Sunday, February 2, when the assistant manager, acting as the on-duty supervisor, spoke by phone with the general manager to relay questions from seven employees regarding the consequences of missing work to support the national protest. The general manager stated that while their absences would be noted, the consequence would be a written reprimand in their employment file. Additionally, the general manager requested a list of employees who planned to participate.

Later that afternoon, employees received a text message from the general manager announcing that Monday would be Employee Appreciation Day, offering free meals and a $25 gift card to those in attendance. Employees were asked to confirm whether they would be present to receive this gesture. Two employees responded, expressing gratitude but affirming their decision to support the protest. The general manager replied with a reminder of the company’s attendance policy and reiterated that an unexcused absence would result in a written warning—something employees understood as the agreed-upon consequence.

From Warning to Termination: A Troubling Shift

By Wednesday, February 5, employees who participated in the protest received an unexpected text message from the district manager notifying them of their termination. No prior discussions took place, and the message mentioned the company’s attendance policy as the reason for dismissal, instructing employees to await further communication from the company’s Human Resources Department.

The assistant manager—who did not participate in the protest—was also terminated. According to the district manager, the assistant manager had been found responsible for encouraging employees to take part in the demonstration. However, the assistant manager stated there was no investigation, interview, or opportunity to provide an account of the events. “If there was truly an investigation, I was never part of it,” the assistant manager said. “I was never given a chance to speak.”

Are Workplace Protections for Immigrant Workers at Risk?

For the eight terminated employees, this abrupt action raises urgent concerns about workplace protections, particularly for immigrant workers who may face more significant risks when advocating for their rights. While employees accepted the original consequence of a written warning, the sudden decision to escalate to terminations without communication or due process suggests possible retaliation.

The terminated employees now demand compensation for the time lost while searching for new jobs and payment for their accrued vacation time. They also want answers: Was their termination a coordinated effort to discourage future worker participation in advocacy movements? Did the company overstep by requesting a list of employees who planned to protest?

The company has yet to issue a public statement on the matter.

As immigrant workers continue to play a critical role in the food service industry and beyond, this case serves as a stark reminder of the vulnerabilities many face in the workplace. Labor rights advocates warn that without explicit protections, incidents like this may discourage immigrant workers from exercising their rights out of fear of retaliation.

For now, the fired employees await further communication from HR—but their case has already sparked a larger conversation about fairness, due process, and the future of workplace protections for immigrant workers in Central Texas and beyond.

If you enjoy my stories and value the art of writing, you can support my craft by sharing this story and/or buying me a cup of café con leche.

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When I disclose that I am an immigrant from Mexico, I am often met with remarks about the perceived corruption of Mexico’s leadership, both past and present, accompanied by questions about how Mexican citizens tolerate such malfeasance.

First, it is essential to correct a common misconception: Mexico is not a “third-world” nation.

Second, the United States, long regarded as a global superpower and a beacon of first-world governance, is not immune to similar criticisms. Since the Trump administration, with its cadre of loyalists in Congress, the Supreme Court, and a significant voter base—many of whom continue to provide unwavering financial and ideological support—it has become evident that the United States is grappling with its own version of the very issues it critiques abroad. This parallel invites reflection: perhaps U.S. citizens can now better comprehend the dynamics of systemic corruption often attributed to other nations.

Historically, U.S. leadership has enjoyed a reputation for ethical superiority, often positioning itself as a model for global governance. Yet, the aphorism “power corrupts” knows no borders. As I usually respond to such inquiries, the difference between Mexico’s leadership and that of the United States lies not in the absence of corruption but in the latter’s historical ability to sweep its failings beneath the guise of propriety—perhaps even beneath hand-woven, indigenous rugs from Oaxaca.

The distinction today? Trump does not sweep.

Having a December birthday might seem magical to some, but for me, it’s always felt like drawing the short straw in life’s grand lottery. Sharing my big day with Christmas—and, oh yeah, the birth of baby Jesus—was more than a little unfair. My birthday was often hurried through or skipped entirely, a pit stop on the highway to holiday cheer. And the gifts? Don’t get me started. One-for-two presents were the norm: hastily wrapped in a mix of Christmas and birthday paper, they screamed, “We tried, but not really.”

It’s no surprise I developed a chip on my shoulder about this lopsided arrangement, though one year, in particular, taught me that holiday woes aren’t always mine alone.

That December, mi familia and I were heading out for Christmas Mass, arms full of festive obligations. There were food dishes, wrapped presents, and the pièce de résistance—a sheet cake half decorated in Christmas cheer and half in birthday misery. It wasn’t ideal, but it was mine.

Abuelita led the charge, cradling the cake with the delicate precision of an award-winning pastry chef. Behind her, my sister juggled gifts, and I trudged along, carrying a bag of food and my growing sense of injustice. As we stepped outside, everything went downhill—literally.

Abuelita misstepped, letting out a shriek as the cake launched skyward in a graceful, tragic arc. Time slowed as the cake splattered onto the ground, frosting smearing across the pavement like a mural of my dashed birthday dreams. Meanwhile, Abuelita landed hard beside it, and everyone rushed to her side.

At first, I couldn’t move. My heart was stuck on the cake. ¡Mi pastel! But as guilt crept in, I joined the others, ashamed of my selfishness. Abuelita was banged up but okay, and the cake was unsalvageable. No one had dessert that night, and for once, the disappointment was shared.

As the years passed, I took matters into my own hands—no more “one gift for two occasions” nonsense. I demanded separate presents or one truly spectacular one that screamed effort. Cakes? Not necessary. As a foodie without much of a sweet tooth, I’d rather have a perfectly cooked dinner—bonus points if it’s at a fancy restaurant.

If there’s one silver lining to sharing a birthday month with the holidays, it’s that age becomes blurry, lost in the whirlwind of Christmas festivities. It’s a small consolation, but I’ll take it. After all, who’s counting? Certainly not me—or anyone else.

©️Sententia Vera, LLC

A Turning Point in College

The realization of language’s central role in my life became clear in my sophomore year at Texas A&M. I had been pursuing an engineering degree, supported by a scholarship in combination with grants, loans, and part-time jobs. But something wasn’t sitting right. While I dutifully checked off prerequisites, my elective courses in Spanish literature and Latin American history provided me with a purpose that engineering never could.

When the time came to commit fully to my core engineering courses, I faced a choice: stick to the practical path or pivot to a Liberal Arts degree in Spanish linguistics and literature, a decision that would cost me my scholarship and add an extra year to my studies. I chose the latter, knowing the dual weight language held on my professional career and the increasing student debt.

Learning English as a Second Grader

My journey with English began at age eight, as a Mexican immigrant who spoke no English—unless my hesitant attempt to say "American" at the border crossing counted. My family lived in a diverse community, but access to bilingual education was limited. The lone bilingual second-grade teacher’s classroom was already bursting at the seams. Left with no other option, I was placed in Mrs. Malone’s all-English class.

I was overwhelmed. For weeks, I sat mesmerized by the sound of Mrs. Malone’s deep voice and the sight of chalk dust swirling in the air as she wrote on the blackboard. I tried to mimic my classmates, doodling or scribbling aimlessly in my Big Chief notebook because I didn’t understand a single word. My strategy to blend in fell apart after the first grading period when my blank papers revealed the truth: I wasn’t learning.

An Ultimatum at Home

The school called an emergency meeting with my mother, Mrs. Malone, and the principal. I didn’t understand much of what was said, but the ultimatum was clear: either we stopped speaking Spanish at home, or I would have to return to the first grade. My mother made the painful decision to enforce an English-only rule at home to give me a chance at succeeding in school. It was a lonely adjustment, softened only by visits with mi abuela and summer trips back home to Mexico, where I could reconnect with my native tongue.

The Power of a Friend

In class, Mrs. Malone paired me with Yolanda, a bilingual student who became my lifeline. Yolanda was smart, kind, and effortlessly elegant. She helped me learn English in a way that felt safe and encouraging. She gave me hope and confidence, even when I faced teasing from other classmates for my accent and immigrant status.

Why ESL Matters

Reflecting on these experiences, I see the immense barriers faced by adults trying to learn English in a new country. The stakes are even higher for them: supporting families, navigating systems, and finding community—all while battling isolation and insecurity. Accessible ESL programs can make the difference between opportunity and stagnation, just as Yolanda and my mother’s sacrifices did for me.

Supporting ESL adult learning isn’t just about teaching a language; it’s about building bridges. It’s about empowering individuals to participate fully in their communities and to create a better future for themselves and their families. My story is proof of how transformative these opportunities can be, and why we must ensure they are available to all who need them.

©️Sententia Vera, LLC

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