I was born in California, and at four years old, I couldn't understand what was happening. I wondered: Is there something wrong here? Is something wrong with me? What do we have to run away from? Why are they persecuting us? Am I a bad person?

Since I never had answers as a child, I want to give them to my students today. I don't want them to think they're bad for being Mexican-American. As a teacher, I create safe spaces to talk about what's happening, a space where they can cry and process what's happening to them and their families. We hold circles to write, talk, reflect, and normalize crying, because just like laughing, crying is also an emotion that should be expressed. -

I help them feel their emotions and accept what they're experiencing, so they can process it and not sweep it under the rug. So they can continue enjoying their childhood.

I create spaces where my students know their history, a safe place where they can speak in Spanish, in their mother tongue, where they can share their culture, their heritage, and what they're passionate about.

In these dark times, I like to pass on the hope my parents gave me. My work in the classroom is a legacy from them, especially from my mother, who passed away three years ago. They instilled in me a faith that I now share with my students, along with the spirit of struggle to achieve an education.

My parents were farmers, strawberry pickers in California. I grew up among those fields. Every time I breathe the aroma of a strawberry, it transports me back to my childhood and those days spent under the sun, picking strawberries. My parents worked very hard, and even though they were tired, they divided the household chores to have time with us: reading us books, taking us to the library. Although we were poor, their greatest gift was their time. I never felt poor or alone; they always gave us love. My father, although he didn't study, always read and told me:

"Your hands weren't born to pick strawberries, they were born to type on the computer."

Education is a privilege. Many of my Latino and immigrant classmates in Perry, Iowa, worked in meatpacking at night and arrived at school early. Graduating from high school is a great achievement; for me, it was. My parents gave me my education with their hard work, their faith, and their fighting spirit, and that brought me forward.

Now my daughter is about to graduate. The faith and struggle of my mother, my grandmothers, and generations of women who couldn't go to school are now germinating. We are seeds that sprout with the warmth of our faith, the faith of generations.

We have to break stereotypes through our actions. We have to be present in spaces where we aren't expected, in places where you don't see many Latinos. The advantage of being bicultural is having access to information from different perspectives, which allows us to learn in many ways. We must break the ice by sharing our perspectives, offering our services in spaces where there are no Latinos, to have the opportunity to create connections, share our experiences, and build bridges through community service.

Because together, we are weaving a blanket to shelter us from the intense cold of the ice.