I’ve been doing a lot of reading on what happens to the children of immigrants in the subsequent generation(s) following their settlement in the US. Sociologists split up the generations like this:
- 1st – born in a foreign country, emigrated to the US
- 1.5 – children age 0-12 who emigrated with family members (some researchers split up this group further by 1.53 and 1.56, younger than 3 and 6 at age of immigration, respectively)
- 2nd – first generation born in the US
- 3rd – born in the US, parents born in the US, grandparents are foreign born
While reflecting on this in class, I re-realized that it’s not that simple. As a researcher, I know you need to set cutoffs and make labels for statiscal analysis, but if I was filling out a survey I know calling myself second generation would be putting it too simply.
Here’s what nativity looks like in my family’s past three generations:
Grandparents
Papá Chepe – Ciudad Juárez
Mamá Toni – El Cargadero, Zacatecas
Grandpa Bartolo – Salamanca, Guanajuato
Grandma Juana – Omaha, Nebraska
Parents
Luz – Jerez, Zacatecas
Carlos – Salamanca, Guanajuato
Me – Monterey Park, CA
The grandparents and parents’ generations seem pretty simple. Except when you throw in my Grandma Juana in there. I remember when I learned that she was born in Nebraska. I was in third grade and working on a three generation family tree for school.
When my mom answered my question about Grandma’s birthplace, I looked at her like she was joking. There were Mexicans in Nebraska?
Needless to say, I was surprised. I simply assumed that Grandma was born in Mexico because my dad was born there, she spoke Spanish and her sisters lived there. My mom explained to me that my grandparents moved to Nebraska for the same reason Mexicans cross the border now: to work.
A few years later, the topic came up again. My grandma sang the lyrics to a song she remembered in kindergarten. I don’t know how long she and her family stayed in Nebraska before returning to Mexico, but I do know she spent more time in Guananjuato than in Nebraska.
Both of my parents emigrated with their families as children. My dad’s family* went from Guanajuato to south Texas. They lived in Stockton (northern California) before settling in Boyle Heights. My dad looked no older than 8 years old in the passport photo he took standing next to his father and 6 siblings.
Mom’s family went from Zacatecas to Tijuana. Early in the 60s the family moved their main residence from Tijuana to Lincoln Heights, but they still kept the house in Tijuana. My mom was a little girl.
If my parents are the first generation — remember, my dad’s mom was born here — then they’re definitely part of the 1.5 generation. They did almost all of their schooling here.
Can you understand my confusion? The cut and dry folks would say 2nd generation. But they’d also say that my parents are different from a first generation person who came as a young adult rather than as a school-age child. And what about the fact that my grandmother spent her early childhood in the US? Her nativity gave her the rights of a citizen, which made it much easier in the sense of immigration.
I’m fine with calling myself 2.5 generation. Maybe I can just add an asterisk. I’m sure we all have our own asterisks for our families’ immigration stories.
[*Note: my 'unit of analysis' here is the family, so I'm ignoring the fact that both of my grandfathers worked as braceros as young men in the 40s and 50s.]
After reading a couple of articles, I heard my dad’s Jeep pull into the driveway around 10 pm. I went out to find him and my mom unloading a box and a couple of bags. They also brought the puppy, VR. While I played with VR, my parents unloaded fruit (apples, bananas, pears, lemon, jicama), bolillo, queso, aguacate, tamales, tacos al pastor, burritos de steak picado, burritos de chorizo con huevo, brownies, instant oatmeal packets, deli-sliced turkey, Fritos, and about four tupperware containers with ready-to-eat meals like ravioli and meatballs. Everything was labeled and showed that the whole family had pitched in. Lori made the brownies. Adrian made the burritos. Mamá Toni made the rice. My madrina Chilo made the tamales. My mom made stuff too, but she didn’t label it. Oh, and there was Adrian’s little note (accio, burrito!) which was silly and sweet.
