Hispanic roots take hold, a generation moves ahead

Sifting through memories of the night his wife died, Demetrio Moreno wrung his calloused hands. His son fought back tears. His daughter, Daisy, left the room. He could not recall how many people came to his house the night Rosa died in a workplace accident. Too many to count.

Moreno searched for specifics from those hours months before, when six children learned of their mother’s death.

Sitting opposite in the living room, son Miguel, 14, struggled to describe the fallout of his mother’s passing.

“To tell you the truth, I never stop thinking about it,” he said.

Rosa’s absence haunts her husband’s dream of a better life for his loved ones. It’s the dream he imagined almost 30 years before, on a journey north from Guanajuato, Mexico.

Like many immigrants, Moreno’s arrival in America opened a previously unknown constellation of possibilities for the next generation. For Waynesboro’s young Hispanic families, with roots here that date back about 25 years, they find their children on the cusp of college and careers for the first time.

Tasked with completing the journeys their parents started, many of the city’s first-generation Hispanics must forge places in their own futures while taking on significant responsibilities in their assimilating families.

“My dad wants us to study hard right now,” Miguel said. “He doesn’t want to see us in the work that he’s in.”

It won’t be easy for Miguel and his seventh grade sister, said bilingual classmate Helen Gardea, 16.

“[Bilingual students] have the opportunity, but you still gotta have that [family] support,” she said.

Helen’s mother Clemencia, who worked with Rosa, went to the family’s side the night of the death. She said the burden on Miguel, still so young, would be tough.

To support the teen, Waynesboro’s tight knit and durable Hispanic community would likely be there to assist, said Pastor Don Gibson, who ministers to the Spanish-speaking community from Basic City United Methodist Church.

“If there’s a death in the family, or an emergency, or someone’s in jail, they can scrape together thousands and thousands of dollars in a matter of hours,” Gibson said. “If there’s a need, they are community. If there’s a celebration, they are community.”

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Across town from the Moreno family, the 15-year-old son of two illegal immigrants watched over two younger siblings.

Dark-haired and gangly, Alex often finds himself playing an authority role typically reserved for parents.

From paying bills to scheduling doctor appointments, his understanding of English and Spanish puts him at the center of his family. He said he occasionally tires of the pressures of his role, but he continues to help. It’s a familiar place for many of his peers.

Alex is the first of his family to go through American schooling.

His Spanish-speaking parents, who are trying to adapt, remain focused on their dreams for their children.

“My mom, I think she thinks that I could make something good of my life,” Alex said.

“‘You know, you could get a better job,’ ” he said, repeating his mother. “‘You can make an impression here in the United States.’ ”

Helen Gardea’s role at home echoes Alex’s.

“House bills, phones, everything,” she said of translating. “I’ve even gone to translate at the border.”

Professional interpreter Mildred Schoenfeld-Hoy, of Waynesboro, said translating can thrust children into situations that demand maturity.

Asked whether parents feel frustrated when children take the lead, she shook her head.

“It’s not the parent that feels frustrated,” she said. “It’s the children. It’s too much pressure.”

The traditional family mold changes shape when adolescents assume adult responsibilities, said José Szapocznik, professor of family therapy at the University of Miami in Coral Gables, Fla.

“It places the child in the more powerful role as expert in the family,” he said. “That’s an enormous responsibility on a kid who might not have the maturity to carry that burden.”

Szapocznik said families living in small cities, like Waynesboro, are hyper-sensitive to the changing dynamics. Learning English is less necessary in large cities where burgeoning Hispanic populations develop self-sufficient communities, he said.

Gibson said he’s noticed eldest siblings lead their families.

An example, he said, is Arianna Ortega, 16, of Waynesboro, who lives with her grandmother and newborn son, Fernando. Ortega said her parents’ difficult border crossing represents only part of their journey. They still must learn English, she said.

“That’s the beginning of the second half,” she said. “You still have to learn.”

Ortega left Waynesboro High School in September to get her GED.

She said she hopes to legalize her family and teach math or work as an immigration attorney.

She said her infant son inspires her to chase those dreams.

“He’s basically my encour-agement to become what I want to become,” Ortega said.

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Despite her lack of formal education, Arianna’s grandmother, Iduvina, desires to learn English and attends classes at Basic City United Methodist.

It’s one hour long and open to everyone.

When she came to America, Iduvina couldn’t write her own name, Ortega said. But in her ESL class, she is exposed to reading and writing in English.

The instructor, Jennifer Strother, of Waynesboro, doesn’t speak fluent Spanish – none of her students speak fluent English. Together, they attempt to bridge the gap.

“I speak broken Spanish to them like they speak broken English to me,” Strother said. “If nothing else, they know that somebody cares about them.”

The language barrier forces school children to consult strangers when shopping for school supplies. It makes grown women pray that cab drivers will speak English slowly on the other end of the line.

“For most of them, we’re just trying to get them to hear it and speak it and understand it,” Strother said of ESL classes.

At a table filled with adults, two children help translate instructions.

Tongue tussles often halt the lessons.

“Can you say ‘heard’ ” Strother asked Jesús Soto.

“Hord,” Jesús said, his tongue rolling the syllable.

“Can you say ‘her,’ ” Strother asked, breaking the word apart.

“Hor-deh,” Jesús said.

“Heard,” Strother said, and moved on.

Longtime attendees, such as the three Soto brothers, have progressed. Newcomers, such as Jenny and Tina, flip through their homework with quizzical expressions. When Strother calls on them for answers, they look shocked.

But even Strother stumbles over questions.

“How do you say this sentence?” she asked. “Is it: ‘John makes more money than he,’ – or is it, ‘John makes more money than him?’ ”

She looked across a row of confused faces.

“You know what, most Americans wouldn’t get this right,” she conceded. “If you’re out on the street and you say ‘him’ instead of ‘he,’ nobody’s going to flinch.”

They moved on.

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Ezekiel Zamudio, 50, of Waynesboro, said he picked up English words one at a time over three decades.

His vocabulary began with the basics.

“When I first come into this county, the first words I learned were bad words,” he said. “I didn’t know what they mean but they went straight to my head.”

These days, with a comfortable grasp on English, he’s more interested in learning to write.

His son Isai, 7, already knows more English than his father. And Zamudio anticipates his 3-year-old daughter Lluvia (her name means rain) will speak English almost exclusively.

He traveled to the United States in the early 1980s after moving from the rural state of Michoacán in the south of Mexico. In 1989 he settled in Waynesboro.

“Y no tenía miedo,” Zamudio said. He had no fear.

At the time, Zamudio encountered few of his fellow countrymen.

Mexican grocers along North Poplar Avenue were decades from opening. No Spanish echoed from the soccer fields at Ridgeview Park.

Working as a planter at Waynesboro Nurseries, Zamudio watched the city change. In 1992, Waynesboro’s first Mexican restaurant opened. In about 2001, the first Hispanic store opened.

As the population flourished, Zamudio climbed the ranks to nursery foreman.

Of the country left behind, his son “knows nothing,” he said, without disdain.

Organized crime grips cities, even small ones in Mexico, he said.

“I don’t know how people stay there,” he said.

The father never had a shot at college, but he started sav-ing money years ago hoping his children would.

Many immigrant children grow up watching parents toil at numerous, difficult and often thankless jobs.

Zamudio gained status at the nursery. But his children will have careers, he said.

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For Helen Gardea, the goal is college. She used to think about an interpreter job but now wants something more tangible, like social work or medicine, she said.

Still, thinking of the opportunity, she fidgeted while describing the cost hurdles and future for her family.

Her father has worked 15 years in landscaping, and her mother at various jobs.

“They say they don’t want me to have the back-breaking jobs that they have,” Gardea said.

Alex said he wants to get work at a restaurant when he turns 16, but his long-term plans are undetermined. Sometimes he thinks of joining his cousin in the Navy. His parents granted him free will to search widely for a career.

Miguel Moreno said his goal is too unrealistic to even mention. When he thought back to a questionnaire completed at school that matched his strengths with careers, he couldn’t contain a smile. The shy freshman, with plenty of time to decide, wouldn’t share.

Whatever Miguel decides to do, his community will see him through, said Venito Teran, a family friend among those who supported the boy, his siblings and his father Demetrio in their time of need.

“The same as usual,” Venito said.

Demetrio said he was never able to thank the community, but felt assured his dream did not perish with his wife, Rosa.

“Un día vive mejor,” he said.

One day, life will be better.