Every time I clock in, whether I am happy or sad, I walk into the back door of the restaurant and say in a sing-song voice, “Hola!”
And every time, I hear “Hola, Rosie!” back. In the nearly two years I have been at my job, the 10 men who answer me have become like family.

I want this to be a happy, heartwarming story because of the bond I have with my coworkers, but there’s a big orange bigot in the room we cannot ignore. I am scared, my heart hurts, and my stomach is in knots. I, the daughter of immigrants, have grown up witnessing people mistreating my mother – a citizen of the United States — because of her ethnicity.

Do I even have to say she is Latina?

Let me tell you about my mother. She never stops. She will take a two-hour bus ride to work, stay on her feet for nine hours as a dental assistant, and then return home after the two-hour bus ride back. To still be called a “lazy immigrant,” and be made fun of because of her English — the second language she speaks — is beyond me. This 68-year-old woman who works and lives an honest life to help her daughter further her education, and she has been told to go back to her country.

But isn’t that the American Dream?

It’s not just my mother and the cooks at my job. Every immigrant has felt the sting of people who don’t welcome them. That includes the men waiting to be picked up for a day of construction work, the janitorial and cleaning crews, the nannies, the fruit and vegetable pickers, fast-food workers, landscapers and farm workers. In almost every single restaurant where I have worked, that includes the women and men in the back of the house.

Maybe because of my firsthand experience of people being cruel to those that I care for, I am capable of seeing the hard work an immigrant does, but I am also a compassionate human being who recognizes that other humans just want to survive. Where I work, these men never slow down. On a busy night, tickets are coming in so fast they’re spooling behind the counter, printing in a long strip.

Yet they never throw in the towel. There is no hesitation or anxiety, and they continue working fast. The men I have grown to love usually sit in rotating shifts to take makeshift breaks and sneak something to eat. You sometimes can’t tell anyone has taken a break because the others pick up the slack. It is an incredible ecosystem.

Often when it is slow, we joke around. I hear about their children, and the jokes meant to make me laugh. They split meals with me and I endure well-meaning interrogations about my life. They are my family and to hear that some regard me as a hard worker fills some of the holes in my heart.

“They are taking everybody,” my mom said in a shaky voice as she told me what is happening in our town, where there is a big Latino community. They are taking away children and splitting families. They are going into churches, schools, restaurants, supermarkets and homes. The administration is treating all immigrants like criminals and it is sickening.

And yet, here we are. I do not have anything left to say other than that I am scared. But you know that already.

Somos unidos, somos fuerte, y podemos vencer cualquier cosa con la fortaleza de ser latino