brown queer daughter of immigrants

a love letter to my immigrant story.

after the chaotic five months we’ve had to endure under this fck sht administration, i was honestly looking forward to june — pride month.

if you’ve been here a while, you know pride is one of my favorite times of year. it’s queer joy. it’s political. it’s protest. it’s resistance. it’s celebration. it’s medicine. and as a brown & queer human being — this one hits different.

this june hasn’t been easy. it’s been heavy, enraging, and heartbreaking. and i wanted to share something real with you — a part of me that often lives under the surface. this is a love letter to my roots. to the people who made me. to my immigrant story.

i’m a proud daughter of immigrants.

growing up, i didn’t really know what that meant — or how much pride i’d one day carry because of it. i just knew i felt different.

i didn’t speak english at home. my first language was spanish. i didn’t get the american jokes, the sayings, or all the little social cues that white kids seemed to be born understanding. so i stayed quiet. i learned to blend in. i told myself not to ask too many questions. survival mode was second nature.

my mom? she worked multiple jobs — always moving, always grinding. restaurant jobs, cleaning gigs, long hours, aching feet. i remember going with her to clean her manager’s house on weekends. i was in elementary school, dusting shelves while she scrubbed and swept. i didn’t understand what we were doing then. now, i see it for what it was: love. survival. resilience. care.

my dad was in the picture, but not really. so it was my mom and me. her hustle became my foundation. her sacrifices became the blueprint for how i show up in the world now — with tenacity, heart, and a whole lot of fire.

but back then?

i felt shame. i felt out of place. i felt like i wasn’t enough — not american enough, not smart enough, not like the other kids.

now? i feel pride.

deep, ancestral pride.

i come from people of the land. from indigenous roots. from ancestors who moved with the rhythms of the earth, who worked the soil, built homes with their bare hands, and built community with heart.

i come from people who survived war and migration. who crossed borders for a better life, even if that meant starting over with nothing but grit and dreams.

we are adaptable.

we are resilient.

we are powerful.

i’m a first-generation, bilingual queer salvadoran-american.

i’ve done things my parents and their parents didn’t get the chance to. i’ve earned a degree. i’ve come home to myself. i’ve dared to heal and dream bigger.

i’ve broken cycles.

i’ve reclaimed my voice.

i’ve chosen to live in full, unapologetic expression.

and i know that’s a privilege. i don’t take it lightly.

but what’s happening right now to my people? it hurts.

they are tearing families apart.

they are ripping crying babies out of their mothers’ arms.

they are forcing children to come home to empty houses.

they are making parents run away from their kids’ graduations out of fear that ICE will come knocking.

it’s dystopian. it’s violent. it’s racism.

this isn’t new. but it’s still not normal.

there have been raids within two miles of my home.

and yeah — i’m scared.

for myself. for my loved ones. for every family living with one foot in fear and one foot in hope.

this could be me. this could be any of us.

because it was never about “doing things the right way.” it’s always been about racism. about white supremacy. about criminalizing brown bodies and migrant lives.

and if you’re not heartbroken or enraged by these atrocities?

this probably isn’t the space for you.

this is a brown & queer space. always has been. always will be.

and yet... even in all this grief — i choose joy.

i choose celebration.

i choose breath.

i choose healing.

because joy is resistance. because our ancestors didn’t just fight — they danced. they sang. they loved. they lived.

they would want us to keep dreaming.

so this is for every first-gen brown babe who’s ever felt small.

for every daughter of immigrants who grew up translating paperwork, doing homework alone, or cleaning houses on the weekend.

for every one of us who has held shame in our bones and turned it into pride.

you are sacred.

your story is sacred.

you belong.

and if you’re looking for space to breathe, to rest, to reconnect — i’ve got you.

there is no self-care without self-love. and self-love means remembering where you come from. honoring who you are. and never, ever forgetting your power.

con amor— kathy rivera, brown and queer daughter of immigrants, madre, LMT in-training, and energy medicine practitioner