Inherited Generational Trauma

Where is home, if I never knew what home felt like?

Growing up with a immigrant hispanic family is not for the weak. Speaking as a child born in Mexico, but raised since 3 in california, I learned the hard way, what it meant to be the child of people who were indoctrinated and conditioned since birth. In hispanic culture there is a lack of individualism. Expressing yourself in what ever way that you like. If you are gay, or anything but a straight male you aren’t accepted. If the women aren’t the way women are expected to be in society they aren’t accepted. A culture so colorful and vibrant that somehow is very black and white within.

I never understood myself, probably never will. That’s the fun part. Growing up in a household that was very restrictive of expression was not easy. As a child all you wish to do is expand and stretch your hands as far as you can to see how far you can reach. With parents who were once children and were under the same strict upbringing only continued an endless cycle. Every next generation carries the burdens of the previous. Like a curse.

There are those who fight against all odds to avoid becoming what their parents were. Then there are those who follow in the footsteps like a soldier trained, conditioned and stripped of personality. Black sheep as most kids who rebel are called; we are of the fewer percentile than those who aren’t. Of those there are the ones who follow a dark path that ends as such. Those who follow a light path and end up satisfied. Then are the ones who choose to make a change greater than themselves. Of the fewest.

It is not easy but given the choice, wouldn’t a reality where things are what couldn’t be forseen before; a place where there exists the truest freedom.