My First Northern Immigrants

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I was 10 years old when my parents finally allowed me to help cultivate the corn crops on the plantation we owned. Even though the hot Mexico sun was beating down and the air was so humid you could feel it on your fingertips, I loved every second of it. Year after year, I remember salvaging a few ears of corn and running back into the house, hoping that I don’t hear my parents coming after me. “Andrea!” they would shout, and I would giggle and put my hands behind my back. Then, I would stuff the stolen crops in the small crevice between the cupboard and the wall. My younger brother would always spot me, and I had to convince him to keep my secret from our parents. I was 12 years old when the first northern immigrants came. At first, we were
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