Reyna Grande Quotes

And I didn't stop hating my name until many years later, when I realized that it wasn't a name to be ashamed of, but one to live up to.

We were already living in some kind of Hell in this strange place of broken beauty.

Just because they aren't with us doesn't mean we don't have parents anymore.

I’m grateful to the following writers, whose work you should read if you want to learn more about Mexico and the realities of compulsory migration: Luis Alberto Urrea, Óscar Martínez, Sonia Nazario, Jennifer Clement, Aída Silva Hernández, Rafael Alarcón, Valeria Luiselli, and Reyna Grande.

She saw a roach pass by her foot, and she instantly lifted it up and brought it down on the roach. She didn’t want anyone to see her shame. Not even roaches.

immigrants are artists because they create a life, a future, from nothing but a dream.

Juana ran her hand over her mother’s face. “One day

I made a choice and I must live with it.

Some things can't be undone.

Luis Alberto Urrea, Óscar Martínez, Sonia Nazario, Jennifer Clement, Aída Silva Hernández, Rafael Alarcón, Valeria Luiselli, and Reyna Grande.

Some spit fire out of their mouths and others juggled balls or pins, their faces painted to look like clowns. Juana wondered if they did that to hide their real faces and not feel ashamed.

What's the border, Papi?' 'Hills,' Her father whispered. 'Hills and bushes, that's all it is. But we must walk across it.' 'Papi, if it's just land, why can't we take the bus all the way there. Why must we walk across?' 'Because we don't have papers, Carmen. And even though it is just land, it represents a wall. We must go like thieves.' Juana wished she could ask what the father meant by that. Hills and bushes, that's what the border was. How strange.

But then Mago touched my belly button and added something to the story my mother had never told me. She said that my umbilical cord was like a ribbon that connected me to Mami. She said, "It doesn't matter that there's a distance between us now. That cord is there forever.

That maybe I’m the answer,’ I blurted. ‘To healing your heart. I could … you know, be your boyfriend. As Lester. If you wanted. You and me. You know, like … yeah.’ I was absolutely certain that up on Mount Olympus, the other Olympians all had their phones out and were filming me to post on Euterpe-Tube. Reyna stared at me long enough for the marching band in my circulatory system to play a complete stanza of ‘You’re a Grand Old Flag’. Her eyes were dark and dangerous. Her expression was unreadable, like the outer surface of an explosive device. She was going to murder me. No. She would order her dogs to murder me. By the time Meg rushed to my aid, it would be too late. Or worse – Meg would help Reyna bury my remains, and no one would be the wiser. When they returned to camp, the Romans would ask, What happened to Apollo? Who? Reyna would say. Oh, that guy? Dunno, we lost him. Oh, well! the Romans would reply, and that would be that. Reyna’s mouth tightened into a grimace. She bent over, gripping her knees. Her body began to shake. Oh, gods, what had I done? Perhaps I should comfort her, hold her in my arms. Perhaps I should run for my life. Why was I so bad at romance? Reyna made a squeaking sound, then a sort of sustained whimper. I really had hurt her! Then she straightened, tears streaming down her face, and burst into laughter. The sound reminded me of water rushing over a riverbed that had been dry for ages. Once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop. She doubled over, stood upright again, leaned against a tree and looked at her dogs as if to share the joke. ‘Oh … my … gods,’ she wheezed. She managed to restrain her mirth long enough to blink at me through the tears, as if to make sure I was really there and she’d heard me correctly. ‘You. Me? HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA.

went home thinking about the duality of being an immigrant, our split identities, the cleaving of our hearts and bodies—half of our heart remained in our homeland, the other was here with us. One foot remained rooted in our native soil while with our other foot we dug into American soil to anchor ourselves and weather the storm.

Lester.” Reyna sighed. “What in Tartarus are you saying? I’m not in the mood for riddles.” “That maybe I’m the answer,” I blurted. “To healing your heart. I could…you know, be your boyfriend. As Lester. If you wanted. You and me. You know, like…yeah.” I was absolutely certain that up on Mount Olympus, the other Olympians all had their phones out and were filming me to post on Euterpe-Tube. Reyna stared at me long enough for the marching band in my circulatory system to play a complete stanza of “You’re a Grand Old Flag.” Her eyes were dark and dangerous. Her expression was unreadable, like the outer surface of an explosive device. She was going to murder me. No. She would order her dogs to murder me. By the time Meg rushed to my aid, it would be too late. Or worse—Meg would help Reyna bury my remains, and no one would be the wiser. When they returned to camp, the Romans would ask What happened to Apollo? Who? Reyna would say. Oh, that guy? Dunno, we lost him. Oh, well! the Romans would reply, and that would be that. Reyna’s mouth tightened into a grimace. She bent over, gripping her knees. Her body began to shake. Oh, gods, what had I done? Perhaps I should comfort her, hold her in my arms. Perhaps I should run for my life. Why was I so bad at romance? Reyna made a squeaking sound, then a sort of sustained whimper. I really had hurt her! Then she straightened, tears streaming down her face, and burst into laughter. The sound reminded me of water rushing over a creek bed that had been dry for ages. Once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop. She doubled over, stood upright again, leaned against a tree, and looked at her dogs as if to share the joke. “Oh…my…gods,” she wheezed. She managed to restrain her mirth long enough to blink at me through the tears, as if to make sure I was really there and she’d heard me correctly. “You. Me? HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA.

You are now bilingual, bicultural, and binational. You are not less. You are more.

college honors, honors in my major, and Phi Beta Kappa.

I’d rather be poor but together,” he said. I thought about my own father, and the choice he’d made to go north, the price we’d paid for that decision. Was my uncle right? Was it better to be poor but together? Or was it better to try to find a better life, even if it meant breaking up your family?

But Anne got lucky when she was adopted by people who let her be who she wanted to be, who loved her and praised her for her talents, and who were not afraid to tell her they were proud of her.

One foot remained rooted in our native soil while with our other foot we dug into American soil to anchor ourselves and weather the storm.

Closing her eyes briefly, she felt grateful for the heat of the sun warming her skin.