I wasn’t leaving my parent’s house, just loading up my car and clearing my laundry baskets from the living room. As I loaded the trunk with my baskets, Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni looked on from their swing beneath the broad shade of la mora (the mulberry tree).

I put the second basket in, closed my trunk and walked over to them.

“Your trunk is big,” Papá Chepe observed. I didn’t argue or try to explain that my old car had a bigger trunk.

Mamá Toni agreed and added, “You can fit a couple of pollos in there. Two, no three, one on top.”

In case you’re unclear on the terminology, my grandparents had just sized up my car’s usefulness for smuggling migrants across the border.

I remained silent, took a seat between them, and listened as they told me about my cousin, V, and her husband who live in Arizona. Well, lived. V’s family is one of thousands of families with mixed immigration status and citizenship. She and her two daughters are citizens, but her husband is not. I had no clue about this until recently; it’s not as if I ask my family members if they are here legally or not. I’m unsure if V’s return to Zacatecas is related to SB 1070, but do know it has to do with her husband’s immigration status.

My grandparents didn’t seem worried or even saddened about V’s family’s move. They used the same matter-of-fact tone as they had discussed my trunk’s ampleness earlier. I was a little saddened. I rarely see my cousin and her family. I had just seen V reunited with her siblings and parents scattered from California to West Virginia in the spring for her niece’s First Communion reception. There were a lot of joyful tears at that surprise reunion.

That afternoon, I was once again reminded that I’m not as removed from the recent immigrant experience, especially that of undocumented immigrants, as I tend to believe. My mother and father’s families migrated legally in the 60s. They have the benefit of legal residency or US citizenship. My cousins were born here and thanks to the 14th Amendment, we’re all citizens too. We can access federal and state financial aid (yay loans!), work legally in this country, obtain an ID or driver’s license, and travel freely to Mexico. We don’t “live in the shadows” nor fear that local law enforcement will turn us in to ICE if stopped at random traffic checkpoints.

I get angry and upset over the lack of any real immigration reform, the stalling on the DREAM Act, and Arizona’s SB 1070. But it’s an anger over general injustice. It’s all kind of abstract until it affects my family.

I was in New York when I got the first call on Monday.

“This is Lily with StoryCorps. May I speak to Cindy Mosqueda?”

“It’s me.”

She went on to tell me that a small portion of the interview I recorded with my dad for StoryCorps back in February had been selected to possibly be aired on NPR’s Morning Edition. The portion was about my father discussing Grandpa’s hobby (if you can call it that) as a sobador in Boyle Heights.

I tried to play it cool. Really. But inside, I was excited and plain old geeked. Very few StoryCorps interviews are played on NPR.

Lily asked me several questions and did her fact-checking duty. Sean waited patiently as I answered the questions and explained what Grandpa’s workshop looked like.

“Do you remember your grandfather doing this?”

“Yes, of course.”

Lily’s call came a few days after I took my dad to a Dodger game. During the game, we once again talked about Grandpa’s affinity for the Dodgers. Dad said he never remembered him going to the game. He was too busy attending to his patients and Grandma’s needs.

Except for Sean, I kept the news quiet, as it still seemed up in the air and they needed to talk to my dad too.

On Wednesday, I got a second call from the producer, Nadia. She had a few more questions to round out the information about Grandpa. She also played the clip for me. It had been a while since I heard it and I cried.

A few minutes later I got a message from my dad. He admitted that when he agreed to do the interview (last minute too ’cause Alex needed to find someone to fill the opening-day spot for the East LA stop on the Historias tour) he never imagined that Grandpa’s legacy would be shared over national radio. “Pretty cool,” he added.

I only wish Grandpa and Grandma could hear it too.

My dad and I will be on NPR Morning Edition tomorrow at 5:20 am and 7:20 am. The web story is currently up (sans audio as of the time this was posted). I’ll be up early to listen!

Two corrections for the web story: my dad as 5 sisters (3 older, 2 younger) and 2 brothers; Grandpa passed away in 1996. Everything else is accurate.

When I first signed up for StoryCorps Historias, I planned to take Papá Chepe, my 89 year old maternal grandfather.

I’ve always been a bit of a Grandpa’s girl. Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni sold their Boyle Heights home in the late 80s. They still had homes in Tijuana and El Cargadero, Zacatecas. However, when they were in LA, they stayed at my family’s home. Thus, I got to spend a lot of time with Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni growing up. I’m grateful for this as well as the opportunity to have learned more about my grandparents’ youth. I’ve interviewed both grandparents about their immigration stories, but this was the first time I recorded the stories.

In the interview, Papá Chepe speaks about being a feisty toddler, dating in 1920s Zacatecas, being a bracero and working in the lettuce fields of Salinas, coming to LA for the first time, his family and his proudest achievement. That would be donating his home in Tijuana to an orphanage. Oh yeah, he also tells the story of el blanquillo that I’ve always loved.

The entire interview is in Spanish. I apologize in advance for my pocha accent.

Historias de José Ureño

I watched as mom slipped on a pair of shoes and clipped a sponge curler into her bangs.

“Adrian’s taking me to the Hat. Ask him if you can go too,” she suggested.

I shook my head, “I already told Danny I’d go with him to 5:15 Mass. Besides, I just had some chili cheese fries from there last week. Do you know you can get tomatoes and pickles on them?”

“Really?”

I changed subjects as she put on a light jacket.

“Mom, how often do I ask you if you love me? Once a month? Every other month?”

She thought for a moment before answering. “Probably every other month.”

It sounded about right.

The questions started in high school after she brought home Mama, do you love me? from the kindergarten classroom where she worked as a teacher’s aide. The children’s book focuses on the unconditional love between mother and child.

The sweet story resonated with me and soon I found myself imitating the little girl in the book.

“Mama, do you love me?” (Or papa, I posed the question to him too.)

Mom would half-smile at me. “Of course, I love you.”

Dad would respond, “Yes, daughter-child. I love you.”

It wasn’t as if I’d never heard the words from them before this point. My parents are affectionate and honest. Mom would sneak a note in to the bags I packed for a week away at Girl Scout camp. Dad would remind us he loved and cared for us after a stern lecture.

Years later, I still ask. I want to hear the words. I often go days and weeks without seeing them. Thus, the words provide some of that warmth I miss from their hugs and home.

But I don’t need to hear “yes, Cindy, I love you” like I used to. Instead, I see it as I ask for help or support. They come through. Always. They’ve been doing it my whole life.