As soon as I opened the door when I went home in December, I was welcomed by the lingering smell of my mother’s cooking and the soft melody of her favorite Ricardo Arjona song. My dogs’ rapid scurrying and barking synchronized with the tune as they rushed towards me. The home that nurtured my teenage years enveloped me, and an instant rush of warmth shot through my veins as I reunited with those I hold closest to my heart — my mother, whom I call every day without fail; my little sister, growing into a young woman before my eyes; my father, whose strength I’ve always admired. As much as I’d never admit it to them, being separated from my family would feel like losing a part of myself.
I grew up in a predominantly Hispanic city where Spanish flows as freely as English, merging into its own language, Spanglish. Laredo is more than a border city — it’s a shared heartbeat with its twin across the Rio Grande. Connected by more than bridges, we are linked by culture, family and a deep understanding of belonging that transcends nationality, but lately, those lines feel harsh and unforgiving. I see division where there once was unity. I feel tension in places that used to feel like home.
Every time I turn on my phone, I brace myself for another headline. ICE raids. Detentions. Families torn apart and stripped of their humanity.
The recent surge in Hispanic support for the Republican Party in the last election sent shockwaves, reflecting the deepening division within our community. Conversations that once brought us together now pull us apart. Dinner table conversation feels quieter. Border Patrol trucks roam the streets of our neighborhoods, a presence we’ve learned to ignore. Many are safe, yet so many are not, and the ones who are safe often choose not to see. As immigration policy has placed a strain on communities, it’s important for students to work together and advocate for impacted families, even if they might not be directly at risk.
For a while, I tried to be neutral. I didn’t want to upset anyone, especially the people I loved. I bit my tongue in conversations, nodded politely and chose peace over honesty. But neutrality hasn’t helped. Every day, another family is separated. Every day, I see myself in that child — my mother’s warm embrace, my sister’s laugh, my father’s steady hand — all ripped away in an instant.
As a Mexican immigrant with U.S. citizenship, I have spent my life navigating two cultures, two languages and two realities — one of privilege and of fear. Two parts of me are in conflict with one another while my own people are being weaponized against their own.
Many see moving to another country illegally as a crime, a choice, a risk willingly taken. But those words ultimately justify cruelty. They don’t erase the desperation of a mother carrying her child to safety or the terror of a father ripped from his family after decades of building a life in this country. These are not statistics. These are people.
In the face of all of this, even the University is complicit. With the stripping of universities of their protected status against ICE raids on their campuses, UT has remained silent while its own students live in fear, despite its high Hispanic population. The place that promised opportunity and belonging has abandoned those who need it most.
We cannot allow ourselves to become numb to their suffering. The fear, division and dehumanization — it bleeds into us all. It shapes the way we see one another, the way we define “us” and “them.” If we allow ourselves to look away, we become complicit.
Vazquez is a journalism freshman from Monterrey, Mexico.
