Letters from a Chingona - 2

Reflecting on My Immigrant & Indigenous Roots One Generation Removed from Being a Migrant Worker & Two Generations from Being an Immigrant.

Letters from a Chingona: Reflecting on My Immigrant & Indigenous Roots One Generation Removed from Being a Migrant Worker & Two Generations from Being an Immigrant.

My great-grandfather, Juan Ramirez, was born in Nuevo León, Mexico in 1881. He immigrated to the U.S. and passed away in 1971 in the barrio of Little Mexico in Dallas, Texas.

Our family traces its roots to Moctezuma II, the last ruler of the Aztec Empire—a connection confirmed by a Hispanic Organization for Genealogy and Research - HOGAR genealogical study in Dallas. More than a fact, this legacy is a quiet reminder of the resilience and strength passed down through generations. From our indigenous beginnings in Mexico to our immigrant journey in the U.S., I carry it with pride, humility, and purpose.

My grandfather, Camerino Ramirez, born in Seagoville , Texas in 1922, was a first-generation Tejano, Mexican American. My grandmother, Rachel Ramirez, was born in Barry, Texas in 1925, and is second generation Tejana – Mexican American. They raised their family in West Dallas barrio, La Babajda, the DHA housing projects, and the finally settling in Ledbetter.

They lived a life of hard work and sacrifice. They held many jobs and were also migrant laborers. My grandfather worked in landscaping and later opened a seasonal nursery business. He owned dump trucks and hired drivers to haul dirt used in constructing major highways across Dallas in the 1970s.

My grandmother taught catechism for 45 years at St. Teresa’s Church on Singleton. On Sundays, we’d sell menudo, tostadas, and tacos after church to raise money for the parish. She was deeply rooted in the community. She belonged to the Angels of Charity and was recognized by the bishop for her lifelong dedication. Both of my grandparents were active members of the PTA at Thomas Edison. My grandmother was even part of the welcoming committee for Native Americans from Oklahoma who settled in the DHA projects.

My parents Robert Ramirez, and Ofelia Ramirez were both born in 1944. As children, they were migrant workers—traveling to harvest cotton, onions, tomatoes, or whatever the season called for.

My mother’s parents, Amando and Rosa Leos, were born in Tamaulipas and Nuevo León, Mexico, immigrated to the U.S. and later settled in Dallas. My grandfather worked in the fields and in construction, while my grandmother was a homemaker. My mother was a first-generation Tejana, Mexican American.

She started working in the fields as a young girl and later worked in factories, retail, and administrative office roles. She was the first in her family to attend college—and the first person I ever saw go to college. When I was small and there was no one to watch me, she would take me to class. I’d sit outside the room or go in the room and play by my mother's side, absorbing the value of education before I could even spell it. Her determination and sacrifices cracked open the door that my sister and I walked through.

My mother supported my father as he worked and studied. She held it down while raising two daughters. When I was little, I stayed with my Grandmother Rosa—my namesake. My father had completed his education by then and was working to build a better life for us.

My father also worked as a migrant child laborer alongside his older sister. He attended Crozier Tech High School and later served in Vietnam. He became the first in our family to earn a college degree: Bachelors & Master’s degrees. He worked as a school bus driver while teaching school in DISD, and eventually a Civil Rights Investigator for the U.S. Department of Education. He showed me that education is power, and the impact of equity and inclusion.

My parents raised me with stories—stories of sorrow, discrimination, and strength. My mother told me about having asthma attacks while working in the fields and waiting in the truck because the work still had to be done. She shared how, as children, they were turned away from a restroom because they were told it was for "Whites Only." These were not just memories—they were lessons.

My older sister became the first granddaughter in our family to earn a college degree—an Associate’s in Music from Dallas College. I followed her lead. I started at Dallas College and transferred to the University of North Texas, my father’s alma mater, where I earned a Bachelor of Fine Arts. I became the first granddaughter to earn a bachelor’s degree. My younger sisters are in their mid-20s, getting their education and lives started.

I was born in 1973. I didn’t grow up working in the fields—but I always knew the only reason I didn’t was because they did.

I was a latchkey kid in the 1980s, often going to a friend’s house after school until someone could pick me up. My parents worked nonstop. My mother always picked up extra shifts. My father worked full-time and still remained deeply involved in the community—LULAC, AGIF, DMAHL, HOGAR, and more.

As part of Generation X, we experienced more racially integrated schools than generations before us, however it didn’t mean racism had disappeared. Words like “wetback” and “beaner” were used openly. I was always aware of my brownness. I was treated like I didn’t quite fit in. My identity lived between two lands—the U.S. and Mexico.

I remember running cross country in high school. After one race, a friend’s parent told me I did a good job—then turned to their child and said, "You gonna let that Mexican beat you?" That moment never left me.

Being second or third-generation Mexican-American Tejana comes with its own realities. You feel caught between two worlds. Not fully one or the other. Just trying to belong.

When I reflect on my family’s journey, I know this: I am just one generation removed from being a migrant worker and only a couple generations from being an immigrant. Their stories are part of me. Their struggles, sacrifices, and achievements built the foundation I now stand on. I carry their legacy, and I take that responsibility seriously.

As I witness the struggles migrant and immigrant families continue to face today, I hold deep awareness of the path my family carved so I could stand where I am. Their sacrifices made space for my opportunities. That is a privilege—but one I carry with reverence, not distance.

Still, I move through the world in brown skin. And when fear, bias, or broken systems strike, they don’t stop to ask how many generations I’ve been here. That’s why I remain grounded in who I am and where I come from.

I speak with care and intention—because my voice carries the hopes of those before me. I am Mexican-American. I live between two cultures, and I honor them both. My story is just one thread in a larger tapestry woven by resilience, love, and deep ancestral strength.

To all my Latinos, Chicanos, and every member of nuestra gente—this is more than my story. It’s an invitation to remember where we come from, to honor those who came before us, and to keep showing up with purpose and pride. I was taught to lift as I rise—so let’s keep rising together.
Viva la Raza.

Letters from a Chingona y Chingón is a community storytelling project, created by Linda Ramirez that invites voices like yours to reflect, reclaim, and rise.
If you feel called to share your own story —

We are quietly collecting submissions before our public launch.)

Our Stories Matter,
Our Voices are power.

#VivaLaRaza
#LatinaLegacy
#ChicanaPride
#RaícesFuertes
#SomosLaHistoria
#IndigenousRoots
#ImmigrantPride
#BrownAndProud
#TejanaPower
#LiftAsIRise
#VoicesOfLaRaza
#NuestraGente
#WeBelongHere
#StrengthInHeritage
#HerenciaViva
#ResilienceInOurBlood
#RootedAndRising
#LettersFromAChingona
#ChingonaChronicles
#ChingonaReflections
#ChingonaLegacy

Letters from a Chingona -1

I know so many people in our community, and yet, even within my own people, I sometimes feel like an outsider. “She’s too white,” they say. But let me tell you something—I am Mexican American, through and through.

So why isn’t my Spanish fluent? Because when I started Kindergarten, I wasn’t allowed to speak Spanish. I was punished if I did. The language of my ancestors, my family, my culture—taken from me before I even had a choice.

I can understand way more than I speak, and maybe my Spanish isn’t perfect, but you will hear me create magic in my Spanglish. I am still learning, still reclaiming what was once taken from me.

And that’s why I can only imagine how many young people today will feel lost, alone—questioning if they belong. Because it has taken me years to reclaim my culture, to feel at home in my identity.

Now, with this movement for the official language to be English, I see history repeating itself. They don’t want us to have our culture. They want to silence us, separate us from our roots. But we won’t let them.

So to all my Latinos, Chicanos, and every member of nuestra gente—I am asking you to stop shaming our people for not speaking perfect Spanish. Instead, let’s lift each other up. Let’s teach, let’s embrace, let’s remind our people that they are enough just as they are.

We are not less Mexican, less Latino, or less worthy because of the language we were forced to leave behind. We are still here. And we will stay connected, together.

#ReclaimingMyCulture #SpanglishIsMagic #LatinosUnidos