Small Moments, Big Questions
By Denise Carriaga
“¿Cómo se dice Estados Unidos en inglés?” the little Peruvian boy asked me, eyes wide, full of curiosity and wonder.
“Estados Unidos is ‘the United States,’” I replied.
He repeated it almost perfectly, carefully shaping each vowel and consonant.
After just an hour of conversation, both he and his older sister—only 10 and 11 years old—eagerly asked questions about the United States: the language, the food, the people, the phones. Although they had never stepped foot on U.S. soil, they already held a deep desire to understand the place they called the land of dreams.
Back home in the United States, migrants are often viewed through a lens of fear or suspicion. But do we ever pause to think about the people behind the label? About the families—the mothers, fathers, and children—who leave everything behind not out of choice, but out of necessity? These families are not faceless. They are full of stories, dreams, and potential.
It might be easy to think this perspective is unique to the U.S., but on my first day in Mexico, I was surprised to hear locals express similar sentiments: that migrants were not welcome, that the borders should remain closed. For many on the move, the journey through Mexico is described as the most painful part—full of fear, danger, and rejection. Migrants are often deported upon discovery. Many speak of their run-ins with la migra, of being forced to pay bribes to continue moving forward, of enduring harassment, assault, and violence from those who prey on their vulnerability.
They are persecuted. Displaced. Abused. And wherever they go, they are told they do not belong.
Migrants are like plants in broken pots, trying to root themselves in new soil before they wither—seeking just enough stability to survive, maybe even to bloom. But how do we ensure that a plant will bloom?
After playing every game we could think of, the Peruvian siblings approached me once more. “¿Nos puedes llevar contigo a Estados Unidos?”
Their eyes searched mine with a mixture of hope and longing.
This little boy, who had picked up colors and numbers in English just by listening, showed every sign of becoming a flourishing plant—one who, given the chance, could thrive in any classroom. Maybe he’d grow up to be an engineer, or a doctor, or a pilot flying across the celestial skies—the same sky he pointed out to be his favorite color as we launched paper airplanes together.
But the truth stung: we may never know what he could become if we never give him the chance.
We may never see his potential if we continue to withhold the rich, nourishing soil that could help him grow.
Why do we allow the dreams of many to be buried because of the actions of a few? Why deny the opportunity to thrive—to flourish—simply because of where someone was born?
Isn’t the promise of the land of dreams that any dream, no matter where it starts, has the chance to become real?
I smiled and softly replied, “Nos vemos mañana.”
I did not see the Peruvian children again after that. All I know is that the small moments I had with those children have changed my life and my views forever. I will continue to speak so that one day they will be welcomed in the land of dreams with open arms.
