Stories From Home: Leticia Vega and Her Outlook on Life
By Brianna Vega / Spring 2026
My mother was born and raised in Abadiano, Michoacán, a small poor town where everyone knew each other. She grew up as one of the youngest in a family of twelve, surrounded by people, love, and memories, but also by hunger, work, and sacrifice. Life there was simple, but it was not always easy. Food, money, and opportunities were limited so from a young age my mother understood that her family had to work hard just to get by. She tells me stories about how my grandmother would make her dance if she asked for food, and even though she tells it almost like a childhood memory, I can hear the deeper pain behind it. My mother knew that when my grandmother said there was no food, there really was nothing to give. Its was not cruelty. Its was poverty.
Because of this, my mother did not get much of an education. She had to drop out to work and help support her family. Instead of spending her youth in a classroom, she spent it in the fields, cultivating corn, squash, and beans. I know she must have suffered in ways I will probably never fully understand, but she rarely speaks about those harder parts of her life. She chooses to tell me about the good times she shared with her family and the happy memories that still make Mexico feel like home.
At twenty-three, she married my father and had my oldest sister, Berenice. A few years later, at twenty-six, she had my older brother, Andres. They spent a few more years in Mexico before deciding to move to the United States. It was not an easy choice, but my mother and father wanted more for their children. She wanted them to have safety, opportunity, and a life that was not shaped so heavily by survival. I think that says a lot about the kind of person my mother is. Even when she was afraid, even when she did not know what would happen next, she was still thinking about her children before herself.
My parents officially made it to the United States in the 2000. My father crossed first because my mother wanted to make sure her children got there safely. Three days later, Berenice and Andres crossed with the Coyote. My mother stayed behind in Mexicali for a week after her children had made it across, then she crossed.
Her first attempt to cross did not go as planned. She was caught trying to cross the border and was deported back to Mexicali. They took her picture and fingerprint. She was tempted to just stay. After everything she had already gone through, staying probably felt easier than trying again. But she had her husband and children waiting for her, and that was enough to make her keep going.
She remembers the second attempt being even worse. She walked through the desert for nine hours in over 100-degree weather. By the time she finally crossed, her body was exhausted. She rested with her older sister Rosa in Coachella, finally able to sleep and breathe after everything she had gone through. The shoes she wore while crossing were too small, and when she finally took them off, her skin came off with them. Her body carried the pain of that crossing, shes still has some scars from that night. A week later, she began her new life in Oakland, California.
My mother is the brightest and most outgoing person I know. Her smile is hard to forget, and it is one of the things I hold on to the most when I feel alone. She is my best friend, and she carries the kind of wisdom I always seem to need. She loves going on walks, drinking her morning coffee, and looking at flowers, especially sunflowers. Her favorite color is purple, but not just any purple. She loves a deep purple. I never really understood why, but when she wears that color, it almost seems like she is glowing.
My mother’s personality is one of the reasons people are drawn to her. A lot of my friends call her “tía” or even “mom” because she has a way of making people feel comfortable and welcomed, even if they are not family. It sometimes makes me think my friends just come over to see my mom. Our home has always felt like a safe place because of her. We have had family friends come to my mom when they needed advice or just needed someone to listen. She carries this warmth that makes people trust her. Even when she has gone through difficult things, she still finds ways to smile, laugh, and care for the people around her. She is soft, but strong at the same time.
My mom also likes to play with my nose and make fun of me because of it, which is funny because we have the same nose. People have always told me that I look just like her, and I have always carried pride in that. I love when people tell me, “I see where you get that from,” or “I see why you’re like that,” because most of the time, they are talking about my mom. It is hard not to be like her when she is all I've ever known. Being like my mother does not feel like copying her. It feels like inheriting pieces of her. I carry her in the way I speak, the way I love, the way I protect the people close to me, and even in the way I try to stay strong when things are hard. When people see her in me, I take it as one of the greatest compliments.
The first stories that stayed with my mother center around her relationship with her father. Whenever she talks about him, her voice becomes softer. Even years after his death, it is clear how much she loved him and how much his presence shaped her childhood
Collecting Tunas (Prickly Pear)
One of her happiest childhood memories took place when she was around five or six years old. Her father would take her and her siblings to the countryside to collect prickly pears. During the interview, my mom told me that she did not remember a specific smell from the prickly pears because they did not have much of a scent. Instead, she remembered imagining how good they were going to taste. She compared them to fruits like pineapples, oranges, and mandarins, which have much stronger smells. Even after all these years, she still remembers that feeling of excitement and anticipation before eating them
“I don’t remember a specific smell from the prickly pears because they don’t really have much of a smell. But I remember imagining how delicious they were going to taste. Some fruits do have stronger smells, like pineapple, cucumbers, oranges, or mandarins.The prickly pears didn’t really have a strong smell you could recognize.”
He would carefully cut the cactus paddles and use the same cactus leaf to create a small open box. Then, he would peel the prickly pears and fill the box with them for the children. At that time, her family did not have enough money to buy fruit, candy, or treats, so receiving those prickly pears felt special and exciting.
Although prickly pears did not have a strong smell like fruits such as pineapples, oranges, or mandarins, she remembers delicious they were. The experience made her feel cared for and happy because it was something her father enjoyed doing for them regularly.
Capulines (Mexican Cherry) on the Hill
Another important memory involved her father is going to the hill where he worked. There were trees filled with capulines, small fruits similar to cherries. During the interview, my mom explained that her father would let them climb the trees and take as many capulines as they wanted after they had finished working. She described him as very generous and said he enjoyed letting his children have fun, even when they were helping him in the fields.
“When we went to the hill where he worked, there were trees with capulinas, little fruits kind of like cherries. He would let us climb the trees and grab as many as we wanted.My dad was very generous with us. He let us do those things after we finished working or when we went with him.”
She remembers those moments as joyful because they combined work, play, and family time together. Unlike her mother, who often expected them to focus on work and responsibilities, her father allowed them to enjoy themselves while they were in the fields. The memories of eating fruit together and climbing trees remained meaningful because they made her feel free and cared for.
One reason I think these memories stayed with my mom is because it represents her father’s love and the small moments when she was able to feel free. Her family did not have much money, so they could not always just have candy. Because of that, her father cutting prickly pears, peeling them, and placing them inside a small box he made from the cactus itself became more than just giving her food. It became a memory of care.
She also remembers going with him to the hill where he worked, where there were capulines,. Her father would let her and her siblings climb the trees and pick as many as they wanted. This part of the memory shows how her father gave them small moments of freedom and joy, even when they were around places connected to work. I think my mother just wanted to be able to feel free, not worry if she was going to be able to eat that day or worry too much about work. She just wanted to be. When her father gave her prickly pears or let her climb trees for capulines, those moments gave her a break from the heaviness of her everyday life. To me, this shows that the memory stayed with her because it allowed her to feel like a child, even if only for a little while. It was not just about the fruit. It was about feeling cared for, safe, and free. Looking at both the tunas and the capulines stories together, I noticed that the memories my mom treasures most are the ones where she felt free. Whether she was climbing trees, eating fruit with her siblings, or spending time with her father, the moments she remembers most fondly are the moments when she did not have to think about work, hunger, or responsibility. For a little while, she was simply allowed to be a kid.
My mother has always been very fond of her father. She says he was always the softer one while she was growing up, especially compared to her mother. When he was alive, he loved to play his harp. My mother said he could play any instrument with strings and that he was the best in the town. She remembers him singing to my grandma and to her, and I think those memories stayed with her because they hold the version of him she wants to keep, gentle, musical, and full of love.
Because of this, losing him carried more than just sadness for my mother. My grandpa passed away from Alzheimer’s in September 2020. When she found out, my mother had not seen him in about 20 years because she was undocumented and still in the very long process of getting her papers fixed. I had never seen my mother cry the way she did that day. For the first time, I saw her as a child, and it felt strange because, for a moment, our roles switched. I was trying to comfort her in the same way she had always comforted me. She couldn’t attend his funeral either. She was only sent pictures of him being placed in the small town’s panteón, (graveyard). When I visited Mexico this past year, I found his grave and talked to him about my mom. It sounds silly now, but at that moment, it felt like I was carrying a piece of her grief with me. Since she could not be there, I wanted to stand there for her, even if all I could do was speak into the silence and pretend he could hear me.
While my grandfather represented softness and freedom, my grandmother represented something very different. If my grandfather taught my mother how to enjoy life, my grandmother taught her how to survive it. The next story she shared with me reveals the strength, anger, and resilience that my grandmother carried throughout her life. It is one of the most intense stories from the interview, but it also helped me understand where many of the women in my family get their strength.
Revenge After Family Violence
One of the strongest and most painful stories she remembers involved her mother being attacked by two of her sisters-in-law, one was her uncle’s wife. Her father’s family did not like her mother and often treated her badly. One day, the two women physically attacked her mother together, not giving her a chance to defend herself. After the attack, my grandma spent about two weeks consumed by anger and humiliation. She could not sleep and carefully studied the women’s routines, observing when they left the house, went to the river to wash clothes, or visited the store. She waited for the right moment to confront them individually. Her mother carried a large lock inside the pocket of her apron and also kept a small gun with her. When she finally encountered her uncle’s wife alone, she grabbed her by the hair and repeatedly struck her with the lock until she began bleeding. Later, she sought out the other sister-in-law as well. The confrontations took place near the river where women washed clothes. She knows that these actions were violent and not necessarily a good example, she also understood the emotional pain and helplessness her mother felt after being attacked by two people at once. Her mother explained that what hurt most was not being able to defend herself during the original assault. During the interview, my mom explained that the part her mother remembered most was not the physical pain of being attacked. It was the feeling of helplessness. She described it as being held down by one person while another person hit you, leaving no opportunity to fight back or defend yourself.
“My mom couldn’t sleep because of the anger and helplessness she felt. What hurt her most was that the two women didn’t even give her a chance to defend herself. It was like one person holding you down while the other hit you.”
Her mother constantly taught her daughters not to search for conflict or start fights. She strongly believed in defending yourself when necessary. She would tell them “I don’t want people complaining that you go around starting fights, but if someone comes after you, don’t let yourself be pushed around.” This lesson stayed with her throughout her life. To her, her mother represented both strength and resilience, a woman who endured hardship but refused to let others take advantage of her.
I think this story stayed with my mom because it showed her the strength and anger of her mother. If I am being honest, almost every story I have heard about my grandma has been about her being a badass. My mom has told me that my grandma would even beat up men who catcalled her. But from what I can understand, my grandma also did not have an easy life. My mom said that my great-grandparents did not treat her well growing up, so I assume some of her anger came from years of being mistreated and having to protect herself.
Even though the way my grandma responded in this story was violent, my mom understood where that anger came from. My grandma had been attacked by two of her in-laws at the same time, and what hurt her most was that she was not given the chance to defend herself. Because of that, the story became more than just a memory about revenge. It became a lesson about survival, dignity, and self-respect.
My grandma did not teach her daughters to go around starting fights, but she did teach them that if someone came after them, they should not let themselves be pushed around. Those words were passed down to my mom, and now they have been passed down to me. I will probably pass them down too, because they are about more than fighting. To me, they mean knowing your worth, protecting yourself, and not allowing people to treat you like you are weak.
Hearing this story also makes me think about my relationship with my grandma. I was never really close to her because of the distance. For most of my life, she was in Mexico, and I was here in the United States, so most of what I know about her comes from stories my mom and family have told me. A few years ago, they brought her here to the U.S., and now when I see her as an old little lady, it is hard to imagine her doing any harm. At the same time, my aunt, who takes care of her, says she can still be a little aggressive, so maybe that part of her never fully went away.
I think that is what makes the story feel even more real to me. My grandma is not just one thing. She is not only the tough woman who fought back, and she is not only the older woman I see now. She is both. She was shaped by the things she went through. Even though I did not grow up close to her, these stories help me understand where some of my family’s strength and anger comes from. They also make me think that I am more like my grandma than I care to admit. I may not react in the same way she did, but I understand that feeling of not wanting to be disrespected or pushed around. This story reveals that my mom grew up around women who had to be strong because life did not always protect them.
Trip to Zamora
When my mother was around sixteen or seventeen years old, her sister Rosa invited her to Zamora to help care for her children. Rosa trusted her enough to leave her children under her responsibility, almost as if she were another mother to them. Her own mother gave her permission to go, and she felt incredibly excited because she had always wanted to leave Abadiano, the small town where she grew up and never fully enjoyed living. She stayed in Zamora for about a month and remembers the experience very positively. My mother enjoyed cooking, caring for the children, spending time with friends, and feeling independent. The trip represented freedom and a chance to experience life outside her hometown. Later, she also spent time in Guadalajara with one of her aunts. She remembers those visits fondly because they allowed her to enjoy activities she could not easily experience in her hometown. She and her relatives would cook, clean, play basketball, go to the movies, walk around the plaza, and buy snacks together. These experiences made her feel happy and connected to a larger world outside the small rural community where she grew up. During her teenage years, she loved attending dances and parties on weekends. My mom believes that my grandmother trusted her the most. Whenever her siblings wanted permission to go to dances or parties, they would usually ask my mother to ask for them because she was the more likely to get approved. Even though she was not the oldest daughter, her mother had a deep sense of trust in her, which made her feel valued and appreciated within the family.Her mother usually required her and her siblings to work hard throughout the week before allowing them to go out. Because she enjoyed the dances so much, she willingly completed all of her chores and responsibilities.
I think this memory stayed with her because it gave her a small taste of independence. Her older sister trusted her enough to leave her children in my moms care. During the interview, my mom described herself as being "almost like a mother" to her nieces and nephews while she stayed there. Even decades later, that trust remains important to her because it showed that her family believed she was responsible and dependable.
“My sister Rosa used to go to Mexico every year, and one time she had to return because her oldest daughter had a problem. So Rosa asked my mom (my grandma) for permission to take me with them to Zamora.I would help by cooking for them and taking care of the kids, almost like a mother.Since then, my sister trusted me a lot and left her children under my care.I was really happy because I loved getting out of Abadiano. I stayed there for about a month.”
That trust probably made her feel valued, responsible, and capable. What makes this story funny to me is seeing how that role still shows up now. All of my cousins on my mom's side are way older than me, so it is funny watching the way my mom gets along with them. They do not just see her as their aunt. In a way they still see her as a mother figure because she helped take care of them when they were younger. That makes the memory feel even more meaningful because it was not just something my mom did for a short time in Zamora. The trust her sister placed in her stayed with the family, and my cousins still carry that respect for her now.
Her memories of Guadalajara show this too. She remembers cooking, cleaning, playing basketball, going to the movies, walking around the plaza, and eating with her relatives. These details may sound simple, but for my mom, they meant freedom. They gave her a break from the work, responsibility, and limits of Abadiano. This story shows that she wanted more than just bare survival. My mother wanted movement, independence, and the chance to experience a life that felt like her own.
I also relate to this part of my mom’s story because I understand what it feels like to love a place but still know you have to leave it. For my mom, that place was Abadiano. For me, it was Oakland. As much as I love Oakland and miss it, I always knew I had to get out of there to grow and see what else was possible for me. That makes me understand my mom’s excitement about leaving Abadiano even more. It was not that she hated where she came from, but she wanted something beyond what that place could give her. Hearing her story makes me realize that this desire for freedom and movement is something we share. We both carry love for where we come from, but we also knew we needed space to become our own person.
When I look back at all of these stories together, I notice that the memories my mother chose to share were not random. Each one reveals something important about the person she became. The stories about collecting tunas and capulines with her father represent love, care, and freedom. The story about my grandmother represents strength, resilience, and self-respect. Her memories of working alongside her family reveal the importance of togetherness and finding joy even during difficult times. Finally, her memories of Zamora and Guadalajara represent independence, trust, and the desire to experience a life beyond the limits of her small hometown.
Before this project, I mostly knew my mother as my mom. She was the person who gave me advice, made me laugh, and always seemed to know exactly what I needed to hear. Through these stories, I got to see her as a little girl climbing trees for capulines, a daughter who adored her father, a teenager dancing with her friends, and a young woman trying to imagine a bigger life for herself. Listening to her memories helped me understand that the woman I know today was shaped by experiences, relationships, and struggles that existed long before I was born.
These stories also helped me understand my family better. Many of the values I carry today did not start with me. My grandfather's kindness lives on in the way my mother cares for others. My grandmother's strength can still be seen in the women of my family. Even my mother's desire to leave Abadiano and experience something beyond what she had always known feels familiar to me. As much as I love Oakland and miss it, I always knew I wanted to leave and explore what else was possible for my future. Hearing my mother's stories made me realize that this desire for growth and opportunity is something we share.
I also think these stories matter for people beyond my family. As a first-generation college student, there are times when I feel caught between two worlds. One is the world my parents came from, shaped by sacrifice, hard work, and survival. The other is the world I am building through education and new opportunities. Sometimes that distance can make it feel like I am moving away from my roots. Listening to my mother's stories reminds me that I do not have to choose between where I come from and where I am going. My family, culture, and history are things I carry with me wherever I go.
More than anything, this project reminded me of the power of storytelling. My mother's memories allowed me to understand parts of her life that I never experienced myself. They helped me see the joys, struggles, relationships, and lessons that shaped her to be the person she is today. They also reminded me why preserving these stories matters. One day, when I have children of my own, I want them to know who their grandmother was. I want them to know about the little girl collecting prickly pears with her father, the teenager who loved dances and parties, and the woman who crossed a border to build a better life for me. Someday, when I am looking down at my own children, I know I will think about my mother and father and everything they sacrificed to get me to that moment. Their stories, struggles, and love are the reason I will have the opportunities that they never did
At the end of our interview, my mother told me
“I have many memories, both good and bad, but I prefer remembering the good ones.”
After spending time with her stories, I think that sentence explains her better than anything else. Her life has been shaped by hardship, sacrifice, and loss, but she chooses to hold on to memories of love, laughter, freedom, and family. In many ways, that is the greatest lesson she has passed down to me.