- Thank you so much for
coming here to Centro tonight.

I see a lot of new faces,
which is really refreshing

because as an agency that's been
in this community for 33 years,

we strive to create
community here.

I've been at Centro
for about three years,

and there have been
significant changes

in the way our Latino families
and our neighbors have grown

and established themselves here.

But our task is still
very much the same.

We continue to focus on
programs that strengthen youth,

strengthen adults, and
strengthen neighborhoods

because our job
is yet to be finished.

And I think

a lot of rhetoric that you hear
out there points to that.

That there's a need
to strengthen our families

and to have events like this

where we bring this conversation
to those in the community

that perhaps
don't know enough about us.

So, tonight, I'm very proud that
we have here

such a wonderful voice in Reyna.

She's such a wonderful voice
in our Latino community,

and we get to share her with you

so that you become
even more familiar

with the complex dreams
of our families in Wisconsin

and the families that we
serve here in Centro.

And they're complex because

they are the dreams of fathers,
of mothers, of children,

intertwined with challenges,
life passages, and so on.

So, you know,

I heard Reyna speak
at the Madison Public Library.

I guess it was last winter.

It was really, really cold.
[laughter]

Araceli Esparza, who's here,

who's a beautiful
artist in this community,

invited me to come and
introduced me to Reyna.

And what I felt in that

reading is that I had a
connection to her and her story.

And no matter how cold it was,
I felt like I was at home.

And I think that's
what her book does

to so many in our community.

So, Reyna Grande, as you may
have read on her website,

is an award winning
novelist and memoirist.

She has received an
American Book Award,

the El Premio Aztlán
Literary Award,

and the International
Latino Book Award.

In 2012, she was a finalist

for the prestigious National
Book Critics Circle Awards,

and in 2015, she was honored
with a Luis Leal Award

for Distinction in
Chicano/Latino Literature.

Her novels,
"Across a Hundred Mountains,"

and "Dancing with Butterflies,"

were published
to critical acclaim.

Now, "The Distance Between Us,"
her latest memoir,

reflects on her life

before and after immigrating
from Mexico to the US.

Before we go on
and welcome Reyna,

I also want to thank our
sponsors for tonight,

without whom we wouldn't
be able to do this.

Wisconsin Public Television,
our presenting sponsor,

they're taping
the event tonight.

The University of Wisconsin-
Madison

Latin American, Caribbean,
and Iberian Studies program,

the International Division
of the University,

the Collaborative
for Education Research

at University of Wisconsin-
Madison,

otherwise known as
"The Network,"

Grzeca Law Group Inc.,

Madison Magazine ,
the Cap Times ,

the Madison Reading Project,
and Brava Magazine.

And lastly, I also want to thank
Food Fight Restaurant Group

for donating the food tonight.

If you hadn't had a chance
to taste it,

go ahead and go to the back,
after the reading and Q&A,

to have a little more.

But without any further delay,
I want to welcome Reyna Grande

and give her a big, warm
welcome from Madison again.

[applause]

- If you don't speak Spanish,
let me tell you that

the name Reyna Grande
means "Big Queen."

[laughter]

It's a very hard name
to live with

when you're only five feet tall,
let me tell you.

[laughter]

I don't know what
my mother was thinking,

but I do have an aunt whose
name is Empress Grande.

The "Big Empress."
[laughter]

Emperatriz Grande.

So, yeah, I think the Grandes

are obsessed with royalty
or something.

I don't know.
[laughter]

So I am very, very, very
honored to be here tonight.

I think one question
you might be wondering is,

how often do
I come to Wisconsin?

And I have to tell you
that I've been coming

for the past 12 years.

My husband is from Wisconsin.

He was born in Racine.

And I think he was made
in Madison because

this is where my father-in-law
and mother-in-law met,

here at the university.
[laughter]

And they lived here for a while,

and then my husband was born in
Racine, not too long afterward.

So he has family.

Grandma lives in Cambridge,
which is not too far from here.

And then the rest of the family

lives in the woods
in Manitowish Waters,

which is actually one of my
favorite places in the world now

because it's really beautiful.

So, I feel very much at home
here in Wisconsin

since I've been coming
for 12 years.

I do enjoy the summers
a lot more than the winters,

I have to say.

[laughter]

But it's always a wonderful
place to come and visit,

and I always feel very, very
welcomed when I come here.

So, I want to thank Karen and
Centro Hispano for inviting me

to be here tonight to
share my story with you.

I say that as an immigrant
and also as a writer,

it is such a privilege
to be asked to share my story

and to feel that
my voice is being heard

because immigrants struggle
to have our voices heard,

and writers also struggle
to have our voices heard.

So it is such an
honor to be here.

I want to thank Karen and Centro
Hispano and also our sponsors

because they're the ones who
make this event possible.

And also thank you for being
here tonight because without you

it wouldn't be an event.

So, thank you so much.

Ultimately, my dream
for all of us

is for our voices to be heard

and to feel that
our stories matter.

So, tonight's event is called
"An Evening of Dreaming," and

I want to thank you, too, for
coming here to celebrate dreams,

especially the immigrant dream.

So you might know this already,

but immigrants are
the biggest dreamers.

And it takes a lot of faith
to hold on

and to believe in a dream.

It takes a lot of tenacity
and perseverance

and something that,
in Spanish, is called ganas .

Ganas : to turn a dream
into a reality.

So, tonight, I'm going to be
talking to you about

my latest book, which is
"The Distance Between Us,"

and the book came out
a few years ago

and it has gone on to have
a really wonderful journey.

Many universities across
the country

have chosen
"The Distance Between Us"

for their freshman read
or for their common read.

Communities across the US
have picked the book

for their
One Book, One Community.

A few years ago, the state of
Maryland chose

"The Distance Between Us"

for their
One Book, One Maryland,

and that was such a fantastic
thing for a whole state, right,

to pick my book.

And, granted, Maryland
is a little state.

[laughter]

But it's still kind of
cool to say

that a state
was reading my book.

So, yeah.

So now "The Distance Between Us"

is getting republished
for young readers.

I did write the
book for an adult audience.

And this September,
the book is being reissued

by Simon & Schuster's
children's division, Aladdin,

for young readers.

So it's going to be available
for 10- to 14-year-olds.

So that, to me, has been
a really wonderful experience

because I really think it's
important for our young people

to have a mirror in which
they could see themselves.

And I struggled
as an immigrant--

As a child immigrant,

I always struggled to find books
that I could relate to.

And a lot of the books that I
read when I was learning English

were books like

"Sweet Valley High"
and "The Babysitter's Club."

[laughter]

And, you know,
there were no Latino characters

in those books,
and it was really hard for me.

And I always asked myself,
where am I?

Do I not exist?

Because I couldn't see myself
in those books.

So that's why, for me, like

it's really special
to be able to have this book

and to offer it as a mirror
for our Latino youth.

And then, for our
non-immigrant youth,

to be able to share this story

so that they can understand,
you know, their peers,

the other students
that they go to school with.

And I'm really hoping that,
you know,

this will help to remind
our young people

where they come from

and to recognize, you know,
as Joe mentioned earlier,

that this is
a nation of immigrants

and we did come from somewhere.

So this is what I'm going
to be speaking to you about,

is about
"The Distance Between Us."

And in the book,
I write about dreams.

That is the theme of the book.

And there's a quote that
I start the book with that says:

"Nothing happens
unless first we dream."

And that is from the poet
Carl Sandburg.

And I do believe with all my
heart that nothing happens

unless first we dream.

And I am where I am today
because of the dreams

that my family dared to dream.

And I'm sure that all of you
are where you are today

for the same reason.

Because we dare to dream.

So I'm going to show you
just some pictures

as I go along with my talk.

And then, after I'm done--

Oh, I'm going to read a couple
of excerpts from the book,

and then when I'm done,
I'll open it up for questions.

So if you guys
have any questions,

feel free to ask me
anything you want

because I'm literally
an open book.

[laughter]

So, my journey began in Mexico

in a city called
Iguala Guerrero.

And Iguala Guerrero is known as

the birthplace
of the Mexican flag.

So it's like the Philadelphia
of Mexico.

So it's "Cuna de la
bandera nacional."

So, like Philadelphia,

it's also about three hours
from the capital.

But unlike when you drive from,
you know, Philadelphia to DC,

when you drive
from Mexico City to Iguala,

you actually feel like you're
driving into another world

because the two couldn't be,

you know, so different.

Mexico City is a big city
with millions of people.

A metropolitan with
a lot of culture too.

You know,
a lot of old buildings.

But it's very, very different
than when you come into my city,

which is very small
and very, very poor.

One of the things
that we do boast is that

the biggest Mexican flag
in the country

flies over the city of Iguala.

And it's surrounded by
very beautiful mountains,

and I'm sure those of you
who've read my first book

"Across a Hundred Mountains,"

and also in
"The Distance Between Us"

I write about the mountains

because they played a big part
in my childhood.

Iguala, like I said,
is, you know, very, very poor

because it's located
in the state of Guerrero.

And Guerrero is the second
poorest state in Mexico.

70% of the population
there lives in poverty.

When you're driving from Mexico
City from the airport to Iguala,

that's the first thing you see
when you enter the city is

a lot of dirt roads and shacks

and most people there are still
living without running water.

And some people are still living
there with no electricity.

So there hasn't been
a lot of progress.

And once in a while you hear
that Mexico is doing better

or that the economy
is doing better,

but that's true like
in big cities

like Mexico City or Guadalajara,

but that progress never
really reaches little places

like Guerrero, like Iguala.

There's so many things
happening in my city

that I want to tell you about.

First, is that
due to heroin epidemic

that we're dealing with
here in the US,

that has affected
my city in Iguala

because Guerrero--
Because, you know,

Mexico is the number one
supplier of heroin to the US,

and the state of Guerrero
grows the most crops

for the heroin trade.

So, my city of Iguala

is a distribution center
for the Cartel.

And there are about
200 pounds of heroin paste

that gets shipped
out of Iguala every week

and delivered to places
like Los Angeles and Chicago.

So that is one thing

that the mountains
that surround my hometown

are now covered in poppy fields.

And the other thing
about Guerrero,

in addition to being
the second poorest state,

it's also now the most violent
state in Mexico.

And so when you enter my city,
the first thing you see

are the federal police
patrolling the city.

There are no state police
and no local police anymore.

They have been removed.

So now it's the federal police

that's always
patrolling the city.

And you will also see
the city hall in Iguala,

which burned down,
is now being repaired

after it got burned down
during a protest.

And Iguala has now
become a place

where college students
can disappear overnight.

Just like what happened in 2014

where 43 students disappeared
in my hometown,

and to this day
they have not been found.

We still don't know
what happened to them.

Many people have been arrested,
but nobody has been tried yet.

And there's still
so many unanswered questions,

and the Mexican government

continues to sabotage
the investigation.

And, again, we still don't know
where the students were taken

or why or what happened to them.

And that has really
affected the city.

You know?

The feel of the city,
the people who live there.

So it's been a tragedy
that, you know,

because we still don't know
what happened,

it's still very raw
and very painful

and people there can't move on.

They can't move on.

They can't heal.

And also due to the
disappearance of the students,

more and more disappeared
have been--

What can I say?

More people who have families
who have disappeared

have come out and said,
you know, it's not--

It wasn't just 43.

It's actually thousands
and thousands of disappeared

in Mexico.

And the mountains
that surround my hometown

are covered in graves.

So, to this day, ever since
the students disappeared,

they found over 120 mass graves

around the place
where I grew up.

So that is my Iguala.
That's my hometown.

And I talk about this
because it's really important

to always know, like, you know,
where immigrants come from.

Right?

And what is happening in
their towns and their countries

that is causing the migration.

So, with my family, you know,

a lot of these things
hadn't happened yet.

My family immigrated here due to

the economy and the poverty
and the lack of opportunities.

But now that the people that are
migrating from my hometown

are migrating for not just the
poverty,

but now because of
the violence and the stability

and all of these things
that are happening in my town.

So, back then, in Iguala,
I lived there with my family,

and it was me,
I was the youngest,

and my brother, Carlos,
and my sister, Mago.

And the three of us,
we lived with our mother.

And, for me, you know,
this picture is really special

because that was
the last picture

that we took with my mother.

And one day,
things changed for the family,

and that's where
I start the book.

The day when everything changed
for me and my siblings.

So I'm going to read to you
the very beginning of

"The Distance Between Us"

just to introduce you
to the story

and to the day
that changed my life.

My father's mother,
Abuela Evila,

liked to scare us
with stories of La Llorona,

the weeping woman who roams the
canal and steals children away.

She would say that
if we didn't behave,

La Llorona would take us
far away

where we would never see
our parents again.

My other grandmother,
Abuelita Chinta,

would tell us not to be afraid
of La Llorona.

That if we prayed,
God, La Virgen, and the saints

would protect us from her.

Neither of my grandmothers
told us

that there's something
more powerful than La Llorona,

a power that takes away parents,
not children.

It is called the United States.

In 1980,
when I was four years old,

I didn't know yet
where the United States was

or why everyone in my hometown
of Iguala, Guerrero,

referred to it as El Otro Lado,
the Other Side.

What I knew back then
was that El Otro Lado

had already
taken my father away.

What I knew was that
prayers didn't work

because if they did,

El Otro Lado wouldn't be
taking my mother away, too.

It was January 1980.

The following month,
my mother would be turning 30,

but she wouldn't be celebrating
her birthday with us.

I clutched on
my mother's dress and asked,

"How long will you be gone?"

"Not too long,"
was her response.

She closed the latch
on the small suitcase

she had bought secondhand
for her trip to El Otro Lado,

and I knew the hour had come
for her to leave.

"It's time to go," Mami said
as she picked up her suitcase.

My sister Mago,
my brother Carlos, and I

grabbed the plastic
bags filled with our clothes.

We stood at the threshold
of the little house

we had been renting
from a man named Don Ruben

and looked around us
one more time.

Mami's brothers were packing our
belongings

to be stored
at my grandmother's house:

a refrigerator that didn't work,

but that Mami
hoped to fix one day,

the bed Mago and I had shared
with Mami ever since Papi left,

the wardrobe we decorated with
El Chavo del Ocho stickers

to hide the places where
the paint had peeled off.

The house was almost empty now.

Later that day,

Mami would be handing the key
back to Don Ruben,

and this would no longer be
our home, but someone else's.

As we were about to step
into the sunlight,

I caught a glimpse of Papi.

My uncle was putting
a photo of him into a box.

I ran to take the photo
from my uncle.

"Why are you taking that?"
Mami said,

as we headed down the dirt road
to Papi's mother's house

where we'd be living
from then on.

"He's my Papi," I said,

and I clutched the frame
tight against my chest.

"I know that," Mami said.

"Your grandmother has pictures
of your father at her house.

You don't need to take
that photo with you."

"But this is my Papi,"
I told her again.

She didn't understand that

this paper face
behind a wall of glass

was the only father
I had ever known.

I was two years old
when my father left.

The year before, the peso was
devalued 45% to the US dollar.

It was the beginning

of the worst recession Mexico
has seen in 50 years.

My father left to pursue
a dream: to build us a house.

Although he was a bricklayer
and had built many houses,

with Mexico's unstable economy,

he would never earn
the money he needed

to make his dream a reality.

Like most immigrants, my father
had left his native country

with high expectations

of what life in El Otro Lado
would be like.

Once reality set in
and he realized that

dollars weren't as easy to make

as the stories people told
made it seem,

he had been faced
with two choices:

return to Mexico empty-handed
and with his head held low,

or send for my mother.

He decided on the latter, hoping
that between the two of them,

they could earn
the money he needed

to build the house
he dreamed of.

Then he would
finally be able to return

to the country of his birth
with his head held high,

proud of what
he had accomplished.

In the meantime, he was
leaving us without a mother.

Thank you.

[applause]

So I started the book there

because I really do feel that
this is where my journey began.

And after my mother left, it
was just now the three of us.

Just me and my
brother and my sister.

And so, basically, by the time
I was four-and-a-half,

I had no father
and I had no mother

and there was a border that
stood between me and my parents.

And, to me, you know,
as a little girl,

that was really difficult
to wrap my head around.

To have them so far away
and to not understand, you know,

what had driven them away.

And we don't understand anything
about, you know, the economy.

We don't understand
anything about

when the peso was being devalued
and that there were no jobs

and that, you know,

there were lacks
of opportunities.

As a child, what I felt
was that my parents had left

because they didn't love me
enough to stay with me.

And it really affected me
to be separated from them

and to not know if
I would ever see them again.

And when my mother left,

we were left behind
with my paternal grandmother.

And I refer to her a lot
as my evil grandmother

because she was really mean.

But also because her name is--
It was Evila,

which is spelled like
the word evil with an 'A'.

[laughter]

And I remember the first--
When I was learning English

and I ran into the word "evil"
in a fairy tale,

I said, "Ooh, that looks like
my grandmother's name."
[laughter]

And I looked up
the definition of evil,

and I said, "Ooh,
that is my grandmother's name."

[laughter]

So I know those of you
who've read the book,

you know that my grandmother
made life very difficult for us

while we lived there.

And she wasn't very happy

about being stuck with
three grandchildren to raise,

and, you know,
especially at her age.

And she really did
feel being put upon,

having to take care
of me and my siblings.

So as the years went by,
you know,

my siblings and I,
we just had each other.

And my older sister
became my little mother,

and she did her best to provide

and to give me
love and nurturing.

And she had to sacrifice her
childhood to become a parent,

which, for me, it's also one
of the tragedies in my family.

You know?

That something like
that had to happen.

But she was the one

who really helped us
to deal with the situation,

and she was also a big dreamer.

She would always talk about
the dream that

when our parents would return,
and that's really, I think,

when I became a dreamer
because that's all I had.

And I had this dream
that one day, you know,

our family was going to be
put back together again.

And that's what I held on to
during the eight years

that my father was gone.

I held on to that dream
with all my heart.

So, when I was
almost 10 years old,

my father finally
came back to Iguala.

And by the time he came back,
a lot of things had changed.

The economy in Mexico
had gone from bad to worse,

and people were not
going back home.

They were actually
continuing to migrate.

And, you know, my father and me,
we were part of

that biggest wave of immigration
from Mexico

that lasted for like,
how many years?

40 years?

So, my father,
he couldn't come back to Mexico

because there were still no jobs

and the peso
kept getting devalued.

And also other things
that changed in my family

was that my parents separated
when they were here,

and my father left my mom
for another woman.

So when he came back to Mexico,

he came back
with this new woman.

And it was really traumatic
for me

to meet my father
for the first time

and then to see a complete
stranger next to my father.

And it was seeing this woman
with my father

that when I really realized that

my family was never going
to be put back together again.

So that was a very difficult
moment for me,

but again, it was an experience
that changed my life,

when my father
came back to Iguala,

because he decided
to bring us to the US

since he wasn't going to
come back anymore.

And one of the biggest ironies
in my life was that

it took my father eight years

to build us the house
that he dreamed of,

and yet we never lived in it.

Even for one day.

So, when I was nine-and-a-half,

I found myself face to face
with the US border.

And, for me, it was, you know,

a very shocking experience to
see it with my own eyes because

this border had stood between
me and my parents for so long

and for me to finally
find myself there.

I wasn't very concerned about
that I was going to lose my life

because we were about to embark
in this dangerous journey

across the border.

But, for me, the stakes were so
much higher than that

because the stakes for me
were, you know,

losing my chance to have
a father back in my life,

if I didn't succeed.

So I'm going to read to you the
second excerpt of the book,

and then I'll finish
up my presentation,

and then I'll take answers.

But I'm going to read to you

the version of the young
reader's edition.

In the original version,

the border crossing is
only one chapter in the story,

but when I did the adaptation
for young readers

my editor asked me to expand
the border crossing

into three chapters.

I'm not going to read
the three of them.
[laughter]

I'll just read the beginning.

So this is
our first border crossing.

And it was really interesting
for me

to go back into the book
that I had already written

and reshape it.

And restructure it.

And the difference
between the two

is that I cut out
about a hundred pages.

Even though they look the same,
you know, they're just as thick,

but this one the font is bigger,
which I really like now

because now that I'm like 40,
I'm blind

and I can hardly read
this font anymore.
[laughter]

So I love the big font.

So now I actually like reading
from this version

because I don't need
to put on glasses yet.

All right.

So, here's our first attempt
at crossing the border.

Papi checked us
into a small hotel.

There was only a full-size bed,
a night table, a dresser,

and a television in the room.

Papi said we three
could have the bed.

"I'll sleep on the
floor," he said.

The floor was tiled

and I knew it would be
uncomfortable to sleep on,

but he said
a bigger room costs more.

"And with any luck, we will only
be here for one night," he said.

He left us there
to watch television,

and he went out in search
of food and a coyotaje.

The smuggler
who would take us across.

We watched reruns of
El Chavo del Ocho

while we waited for Papi.

We had never stayed
in a hotel before,

and we had never
watched TV in bed.

For the first time,

I found myself beginning
to enjoy our journey north.

Papi came back
with tacos and sodas.

"We head out tomorrow," he said.

"Eat your food
and then go straight to bed.

We'll leave early
in the morning."

The smuggler picked us up
before sunrise at the hotel

and drove us across the city.

I was sleepy, and I found myself
struggling to stay awake.

I wasn't used to
waking up that early,

and I was groggy and grumpy.

To make matters worse,

that morning I had woken up
with a tooth ache,

and Papi didn't have anything
to give me.

My tooth had hurt
once in a while,

and my grandmother had given me
mint leaves to chew on.

This time, there was nothing
I could do except doze off,

hoping that when I woke up the
pain would be gone.

"Reyna, wake up.

We're here," Mago said.

The sun was just coming out
when we came to a stop.

We got out of the car
and looked around.

The border turned out to be
nothing but dirt and bushes,

rocks and weeds,
under a light blue sky.

"This is where we start,"
the smuggler said.

He looked at me and said,
"Try to keep up, okay?

You don't want to be
left behind, do you?"

I looked at Papi.

My stomach clenched at

the thought of being abandoned
in the middle of nowhere.

The coyotaje must have seen
the terrified look on my face

because he laughed
and patted my head.

"I'm just teasing."

Papi's face was serious
when he looked at us and said,

"Stay alert and do
as the coyotaje says.

The coyotaje led us through
a hole in a chain link fence

into the vacant land
on the other side.

We followed in silence.

I looked at the ants scurrying
around, gathering food.

A hawk soared above in the wind.

Birds chirped in trees.

Lizards crawled under rocks.

If I hadn't been so afraid,

I would have been
enjoying our adventure.

But then I remembered that even
though this place was beautiful,

it was forbidden land.

We were not welcome here.

Once in a while,

the coyotaje shouted orders
to us and we obeyed.

"Walk!"

"Hide!"

"Run!"

"Crawl!"

I wasn't used to walking and
running so much and so fast.

My tooth began to hurt
even more, and around noon,

as we walked through the hills
under the heat of the sun,

I began to get a fever.

Mago put her arm around me
so that I could lean on her

as we walked, but soon we found
ourselves lagging behind.

"Come on, Reyna,
you can do it," Mago said.

"Maybe we should turn around
and go back,"

the coyotaje said to Papi.

He stopped and waited
for us to catch up.

"It's hard making this journey
with children."

"No," Papi said.

"We keep going.

She'll be okay."

Papi ended up carrying me
on his back.

I held on as tight as I could,

branches grasping at me as if
trying to tear me away from him.

I didn't remember ever being
given a piggyback ride by Papi,

and I wish
we were somewhere else,

like at a park having fun,
not at the border.

Not when I was hungry and sick
and terrified of being caught.

My throat felt dry,

and I asked for water
for the hundredth time that day.

"Not right now," Papi said again
as he struggled up the path.

His breaths came in gasps.

I knew Papi was getting tired.

Suddenly, a cloud of dust
rose in the distance,

and before we knew it, a white
truck was heading our way.

"Run!" the coyotaje yelled.

We rushed into the bushes,

and I clung to Papi
with all my might as he ran.

He dove behind a rock.

I gripped him so hard
I choked him.

He pulled free from my grip and
muffled a cough into his arm.

Had La Migra heard him?

The truck pulled over
and men dressed in green,

the men Papi had called
La Migra, got out of the truck.

"Come out," they said.

"There's nowhere to hide."

They took us to the
border patrol station.

Mago, Carlos, and I
waited in the hallway

while the agents took Papi
into their office.

We didn't know what
they would do to us, to him.

We waited and waited.

Our eyes hurt
from too much crying.

Agents passed by
without looking at us.

More and more migrants arrived.

Mostly men and a few women,
but no children.

Even though they were
just as afraid as we were,

they looked at us and they
smiled, encouraging us.

With their eyes, they said to
me, "Have faith, don't give up."

I didn't know how long Papi
had been with the agents.

I didn't know
what they were asking him

or what he was saying.

But as the minutes went by,

I began to wonder
if they would ever let him go.

What if they arrested him?

Arrested us?

What if we never saw
each other again?

I clutched my brother and sister

as fresh tears
came out of my eyes.

A border patrol agent with the
bluest eyes I had ever seen

stopped in front of us and said
something to us in English.

We shook our heads,

feeling stupid because we
couldn't understand him

and we didn't know
how to tell him that.

He smiled and went to
the vending machine.

Then he came back
with sodas for us.

He patted our heads
and walked away.

I didn't realize until then
how hungry and thirsty I was.

I had been too afraid

to think about anything
other than my father.

We opened our sodas, and the
sweetness of it gave me hope.

It was a gift from
a border patrol agent.

From a gringo
with kind blue eyes.

Maybe the agents
weren't so bad after all.

Maybe they would understand

that all we wanted
was to have a family,

and they would soon let us go.

And they would let us
keep our dream.

Thank you.

[applause]

All right.

So, you know how the crossing
turned out because I'm here now.

[laughter]

So, we did make it.

It took us three times.

And my dream came true in a way.

I had dreamed of
having both my parents,

but I ended up with just my dad,
which, in many ways,

I think it was a good thing

because my father,
more than my mother,

had a really, really big impact

on the the person
that I turned out to be.

So there I was with my father.

We came to live with him
in Los Angeles.

And when we arrived in LA,

I thought that I had finally
put the border between us

and that there would never be
another border

that I had to get across.

But, you know,
like most immigrants,

when we arrive here,
we realize that

the US border is really just
our first border to overcome.

And when we come
to this country,

there's so many more borders
that we need to get across.

And, you know,
these are borders like language.

The language barrier.

There's a cultural barrier.

And then, for many of us,
there's also the legal barrier

when we come here
without proper documentation.

And so these were
so many other borders

that I had to cross
when I arrived.

And at school, when I
first started, you know,

I realized that
school was another border

that I needed to overcome.

And I attended a school
that didn't really have

resources for
immigrant children.

They didn't have
bilingual education.

They didn't have ESL.

They just had a sink or swim
approach to learning English.

And I was thrown into a
classroom

where I didn't speak
the language,

and, for me, it was
a very difficult experience

because it was at school
where I first experienced

marginalization where, you
know, I felt discriminated,

where I felt that I didn't have
a voice, and I realized that,

you know, I was going to have to
fight for my right to remain.

But, you know, as I
mentioned earlier,

I was really lucky to come to
live with my father

because my father was
a very big dreamer.

And maybe it's our
last name, Grande,

that he tried to live up to

because he didn't have
little dreams,

he had grande dreams.

And my father, when we
got here, he told us that.

You know, he brought us here
so that we could succeed,

and he told us

that he expected nothing
but 'A's from us from school.

And threatened to deport us
back to Mexico

if we didn't do well in school.
[laughter]

So I wasn't afraid
of border patrol.

I was afraid of my father
because I knew that he would

deport us if we didn't,
you know, get straight 'A's.

So we were really good
students, my siblings and I,

and we were straight A students,
and my father talked to us

about, you know, going to
college one day

and having a career one day and
being homeowners one day

and having money
for retirement one day.

And, you know,
I was 11 years old

and he was telling me
about retirement already.

So that was my dad.

And one of the things that
I really appreciated the most

about my dad was that,
you know,

even though
we were undocumented,

he would always say,

"Just because we're undocumented
doesn't mean we cannot dream."

And he was the kind of person

that he was always ready
for tomorrow.

He would tell us,
"You never know

what opportunities
might come tomorrow,

and we need to be prepared
for those opportunities."

So that's kind of how he
taught us to live our lives.

You know?

To always be prepared
for what tomorrow might bring.

And, luckily for us,

what tomorrow brought
was the 1986 amnesty,

which legalized the status
of three million people.

And both of my parents
became legal residents

because of the amnesty.

So when I was 15 years old

was when our Green Cards
arrived in the mail.

And I remember that day when
my father opened the envelope

and he took out the Green Cards

and he gave us each
a Green Card.

He said, "I've done my part,
the rest is up to you."

And that was a very, you know,
powerful moment for me

because having that Green Card,

it really allowed me

to finally embrace the dreams.

To not be afraid anymore.

To not ask my father, you know,
"Can we really aspire

to all these things
you're talking about?"

And when that Green
Card came, you know,

it really--

I took the Green Card my father
handed me and I ran with it.

And so,
many dreams came true for me

thanks to that opportunity.

That, you know, for me,

one of the reasons why I wrote
"The Distance Between Us"

was to really try
to emphasize what can happen

when we give that opportunity,
right, to people,

and especially to our dreamers.

To our immigrant youth.

You know, what's going to happen

when we allow them
to legalize their status?

So when I was given that
opportunity as a 15-year-old,

you know, I went on to
accomplish all my dreams.

So I dreamt of going to college.

And I, you know, I ended up
at the community college

where I did
a lot of great things,

and one of them was to
participate in the Rose Parade.

And that was a big dream for
me to be in the Rose Parade.

And then, from there,

I transferred
to a four-year university,

and I ended up at UC-Santa Cruz.

And there,
I became the first in my family

to graduate from college.
[applause]

Thank you.
Thank you so much.

[applause]

And, you know, for me it was
a really big accomplishment

because my father
only went to the third grade

and my mother went
to the sixth grade.

So, for me, like, it meant like
once I did it,

I was able to break that cycle,
you know,

that my family
had been stuck in.

And I knew that by me doing it,
that meant that

I could now guide
the rest of my family

and the next generation
of Grandes through that door.

And it's just really
interesting for me, you know,

that experience because it's--

With my husband,
who I said is from Wisconsin,

his mother has a master's
degree, his father has a PhD,

his sister has
a master's degree,

my husband has
two master's degrees,

and his aunts and his uncles
have PhDs and master's degrees.

I'm like, geez, you know?

And I guess, you know,
his family,

his father's side
migrated from Finland,

and it was his great grandfather
who migrated.

And, for me,
it gives me a lot of hope

because I feel like
two generations from now

my great grandchildren
are going to be saying that

about the Grande family.

So that's what I aspire to now.

That's my dream now.

But that's what it meant to me
when I graduated,

that I started something.

And then, also, I, you know,
dreamed of being a US citizen,

and 10 years ago,
I became a US citizen.

And then my dream of being
a published author came true,

and not just being
published in the US,

but also being published
in other languages abroad.

And then, you know,
I have my own role models,

and these are Latino successful
artists that are my role models.

So being recognized by them
for the things that I'm doing

has meant a lot to me as well.

So, having that opportunity
to meet these role models.

And for 20 years, I dreamt of

being on the stage
with Sandra Cisneros,

who's my, like, idol.
[laughter]

And that dream came true
last year.

And it's like, man, I waited
20 years but, you know,

you just got to
hold on to those dreams

no matter how long it takes.

So, for me, you know,
what's driving me now

after all these dreams that
I've been able to accomplish is,

you know, I'm continuing
to fight for immigrant rights

because I do feel that,
you know,

that's my responsibility
as an immigrant.

And I fight
against invisibility.

You know?

And that's why
I always push myself

to keep going with my writing

because I feel like
if I'm not writing my stories,

then who's going to
write our stories?

And so I fight against
invisibility through my work,

and I contribute my stories
to American literature

to remind people that Latinos
are part of the American story.

And that we need to be part
of our literature.

So, those of us
who have made it, you know,

I think all of us
here in the room,

or many of us here in the room,
have made it in many ways.

We're still working towards
our dreams, but, you know,

we have a responsibility to
keep the dream alive for others,

right?

And that's something that

I take that responsibility
very seriously.

As Michelle Obama once said
in a speech,

that we shouldn't
close the door, right?

Once we go through
the door of opportunity,

we shouldn't close the door.

We should leave it open
for those coming after us.

So, that's what
I try to do with my work.

And that's what I encourage
all of you guys to do.

To keep the door open and to
keep helping other people

to go through that door.

And especially, you know,
our immigrant families.

And that's something that
Centro is doing beautifully.

You know?

Keeping that door open,
literally.

Keeping that door open

and helping immigrant families
to fight for their dreams.

Continuing to support
our immigrant youth.

I think that's very, very
important because, as we know,

youth are the future
of this country,

whether they're immigrant
or not immigrant.

You know, we need to make sure

that we help them
reach their full potential

and that we give them those
opportunities that they need

so that later on

they can contribute
their talents and their skills

to our communities
and make this a better place.

Also, you know, right now in
terms of immigration, you know,

we're living through the biggest
immigration crisis in history

here in the United States.

We're seeing it happening
in Europe, as well.

There are more displaced people
in the world today

than ever before.

So it's important, you know, to
keep talking about immigration

and not just locally,
but globally.

You know?
Like, what's going on?

And like I said,
I am a big dreamer.

So I dream of a world
where there is respect

for all human beings
regardless of where we come from

regardless of
the color of our skin.

But I also think that we need to
do some serious soul searching

as a country and also as a world

because I see that powerful
countries

have a history of denying
or failing to recognize that

their acts and their policies

create instability
in other countries.

And what I see is that,
you know,

first we create catalysts
for immigration,

and then we punish people
for immigrating.

So, we need to
really start asking ourselves,

"What are we doing?"

and, "How can we
change things for the better?"

So, just to conclude,
and I'm going to open it up

for questions after this,
is that, you know,

I really believe that there
has to be a place for immigrants

in our hearts, in our country,
in our literature,

and this is, for me,
what I'm fighting for the most.

This country, as we
mentioned earlier, you know,

it was founded by immigrants,
right?

It's fueled by immigrants.

It began as a dream.

It was founded by dreamers.

And it is dreamers,
especially our young dreamers,

who will continue to
make this country great.

So, let us dream together.

Thank you.
[applause]

Thank you so much.