Dreams Deferred, Dreams Inherited

The sun began to set as I turned the corner and ran along Roosevelt Avenue. The 7 train rumbled overhead and the tantalizing aroma of Mexican street food wafted from several food stands, pouring out into the busy streets. Music from neighboring businesses and cars blared, blending into the vibrant chaos of the neighborhood.

“Espérame,” my mom said, as she tried to catch up. Wait for me. 

Once a week, ever since I could remember, I went to Delgado Travel with my mom. She arrived from her housekeeping job in her blue scrubs, a shoulder bag resting at her side. I could see her exhaustion, revealed through long blinks in between sentences and brief pauses before speaking. 

Through money transferring services and currency exchange, Delgado Travel helps bridge the gap for immigrant families, allowing those who’ve left their home countries to remain connected despite their physical distance. The dull space, reminiscent of an airport, has bright ceiling lights and stanchions with red retractable belts.

Those waiting in line usually shared the same weariness as my mom. Many appeared in their work attire, each with a different profession, each with a different story, but all there for the same reason: To send money back home. 

“Que pase la siguiente persona,” the lady behind the counter said, waving her hand. May the next person come forward. 

My mom reached into her bag for the couple hundred dollars she had arranged earlier that day, and handed them over. The lady clicked away on the keyboard, her long acrylic nails following rhythmically. Her face was obscured by a computer, but I could see her blue tailored jacket and red silk scarf peeking out alongside the edges of the screen. Her attire resembled that of a flight attendant.

Every week, my mom sent large sums of money to my grandmother. Yet despite my familiarity with the routine, I couldn’t help but wonder about its impact beyond the numbers on the long yellow receipt. 

When I visited Mexico for the first time at the age of 7, I finally experienced the other end of the transaction. My grandmother took me along to pick up money my mom had sent. It was not an elaborate space like Delgado Travel, but a hole in the wall with the word “cambio” painted in black. The simplicity of the receptionists’ window matched the minimalism of the environment. I felt foreign in a place I was meant to consider “home,” surrounded by fields, cows, and goats, immersed in the earthy scent of soil. 

Here, in the small town where my mom grew up, the currency changed from dollars to pesos, the hundred dollar bill’s blue iridescent color becoming a pastel pink, adorned with monarch butterflies and a portrait of Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz instead of Benjamin Franklin. 

Lost in a Sea of Relatives 

I had arrived in Mexico in the middle of August, just days before my 8th birthday — my first birthday away from home. I was homesick and overwhelmed, and my aunts and uncles tried to help in any way they could, including tracking down a soccer-themed cake and piñata for my birthday party.

When the day came, I watched the tables, with soccer balls as centerpieces, fill up with unfamiliar faces. My grandma told me they were cousins, aunts, and uncles. They were family, yet strangers. 

Every time these relatives looked at me, they saw pieces of my mom, saying how my almond shaped eyes reminded them of her gaze. My mom’s childhood best friend, Lupe, stared at me and my sister the longest, touching our faces and squishing our cheeks, her eyes lighting up as she talked to us. 

“Nunca conseguí despedirme de tu mamá, pero aquí están ustedes.”

I never got to say goodbye to your mom, but here you are now. 

Before she could finish her sentence, tears filled her eyes and she hugged me and my sister tightly. It was a hug she wished to share with my mom, who left Mexico two decades ago, at the age of 20, without telling any of her friends. 

When it was time to cut the cake, I felt the world around me go in slow motion. Perhaps it was all my emotions rushing in at once, disconnecting me from the present and filling me with fear. 

The wax dripped from the number eight candle onto the green frosted grass of the fondant soccer field. I saw smiles illuminated by glow sticks, casting a red hue onto everyone’s face. I smelled the metallic scent of fresh beef, but nothing was enough to fill the void of the absence of my parents. 

While everyone filmed and documented my milestone, I knew I had to appear happy because my parents were watching on the other side. I knew it was important for them to see me enjoying the company of those they could not, a responsibility I felt I carried in that moment. 

As I prepared to blow the candle out, I made a wish in hopes that the universe would hear my prayer. 

I wish my parents were here. I wish my parents could travel.

Bridging Two Worlds  

I grew up thinking travel revolved solely around sightseeing and enjoying the fresh waters of different islands. The posters at Delgado Travel advertised resort packages with pictures of smiling families in bathing suits, splashing in white streams of cascading water. I was infatuated by the idea of exploring the world with my parents. Of being that little boy on the poster who stood beside his parents full of laughter. 

But the harsh reality is I will never be able to travel with my parents because they’re not legal citizens. Their first and last trip was coming to the United States.

When my mom came here, she didn’t bring any belongings. She couldn’t have anything weighing her down. She came on foot, leaving her footprints in sand that burned the soles of her feet. She carried the burden of grief and the guilt of abandoning her family for a greater future. One in which she had to sacrifice being near them.

Sending money to her mother each week was one way she tried to keep their connection alive. It allowed her love and aspirations to take shape as something that aided my grandmother through her daily life. 

She also kept a connection to her homeland through me and my sister. Sending us to visit each summer as a continuation of her love, a means of passing down her stories, memories, and culture. Ensuring that, no matter the physical distance, her bond with her origins remained unbroken. We became the messengers of her memory, the bridges between the life she left behind and and the one she built for us. 

Guilt and Gratitude 

As a kid, I thought of myself as a sort of archivist, freezing moments in time through videos and photography. I walked around with a digital camera, snapping pictures on field trips to museums or aquariums so I could show my parents all I was able to experience and see. 

I felt guilty for experiencing things my parents would never get the chance to see.

It was different in Mexico, though. I wasn’t capturing exhibitions or animals but instead the essence of their hometowns and the spirit of the relatives they hadn’t seen for years. Ever since my first trip there, at 7 years old, I felt a sense of responsibility. I grew anxious as I tried to freeze each moment, knowing I could never provide the sensation of physically being there. I felt guilty for experiencing things they would never get the chance to see.

For me, traveling has always been about maintaining a connection with loved ones. That’s why two years ago, when my cousins and I started planning a trip to Disney World, I had mixed feelings. I felt ashamed for being excited to go somewhere that didn’t have anything to do with my heritage. I had never traveled anywhere besides Mexico and I had never traveled for any reason other than to see family. But this trip was for myself. I was excited to see the castle, the characters I grew up watching, and the rides I had seen people experience through YouTube. 

This time, it was me on the rollercoasters, with the wind shutting my eyes and an unsettling feeling in my stomach. Although I had always been afraid of rollercoasters, I wasn’t afraid this time. I enjoyed the thrill and the adrenaline that rushed in every time I experienced a drop. I fell in love with freedom.

This year, I took another trip. This time to Puerto Rico, where my cousins and I visited Culebra island, famous for its beautiful beaches. I sank my feet into the soft white sand while I lay on the shore, blinded by the sun. I swam in the turquoise water, closing my eyes, allowing my body to float. Drowning out the thoughts and noises. 

I had finally made it to the place on the travel posters. But my parents remained back home, in Queens, watching from a distance through pictures and videos. 

One night in Puerto Rico I asked my cousins if they ever feel the same gnawing guilt. They’re older and they’ve seen more places than I have. How do they not feel guilty traveling when they know their parents can’t?

They looked at me curiously, as if I had awakened something within them. Their responses varied, but none of them had figured it out. We all acknowledged that these feelings must be part of the process. That we’ll have to learn how to balance the guilt with the freedom that is tied to our independence. 

Our parents’ sacrifices were made out of love, and honoring that means living fully and without boundaries. Through travel, we don’t just explore the world but carry our ancestors into new spaces they couldn’t have imagined. It’s one of many opportunities our parents envisioned for us, a part of their American dream.

Travel will always be a way to preserve family connections for me — but there is also a world of opportunities out there waiting to be explored, one I’ve been granted the privilege to see through the sacrifice of my parents. I can either sink, allowing the guilt to consume me, or I can swim, and enjoy the gift of freedom my parents have given me. I choose to float, allowing both sensations to coexist.