She called me objective. My friend is a bit older and has seen a bit of life. When she said that to me, I took it as a compliment. The more I thought about it, I accepted that it’s true. The problem with being objective? I don’t get to have a side. Sometimes it’s lonely where God has put me, out in left field. Then again, sometimes I am not alone.
It started with a friend of my hubby’s. She is actually an ex-volleyball player that he has kept in contact with. He told me that she needed prayer. I didn’t really need to know why, but he told me anyway. She was going to Mexico, because she had to enter the U.S. correctly as part of the process to become documented. Stupid me, I was surprised! I mean, what does someone who is undocumented look like? If you have read any of my writing, you will know that I don’t typically “not” think about things. So when this came across my path, I was hooked. Pondering…. Who really are the people they are talking about on the news?
It doesn’t matter which side is talking, they tend to lump people into a big group. And while these “dreamers” may have similar stories, I know that they are also more than that. So since I have been working on some other “getting to know you” type of writing projects, I thought about doing one of these. The problem…I just wasn’t sure? That was until, I knew I wasn’t out in left field by myself.
Mike (my hubby) came to me one day and proposed another project. “How about finding out who these people really are?” Not what the news, political parties or other people say they are, but straight from them. It’s good not to be alone. We had a moment when I told him that I had been thinking the same thing. (Thirty years of marriage must count for something.) So I hope you will join us. We hope to take the “issue” and present it for what it really is, the lives of everyday people. Taking this from what was once a dream of their parents, to “A Dream of their Own”………
My name is Wendoline. In 2002, just a few months after my seventh birthday, my brother, sister and I were brought to the U.S. from Michoacán, Mexico. My brother was eight and a half, and my younger sister just five. My father had already been in the United States a few times, but he would miss us too much and would come home. Things were financially rough when we were in Mexico. My memory of Mexico is sort of blurry, as it’s been over fifteen years since I was last in my hometown. The things I do remember though, is that it’s nothing like it is here. We lived in a small village, everyone was poor, but everyone loved each other. I remember when my dad was here and we were in Mexico, he would call us every day. He would tell us how he couldn’t wait for us to see how wonderful this country is, and he couldn’t wait to buy us all the toys that he couldn’t afford for us in Mexico.