Reflections On Citizenship Part 1 - Revelation and Immigration
Me with my mother and siblings, as well as my father and my middle brother.
A memoir by Gabe Coronado
After almost 22 years it's finally happening. I'm about to become a citizen of the United States of America. Of course it's not official until I actually take the oath of naturalization and receive my naturalization certificate, but the hard part is already done. No more long and confusing paperwork, no more having to drive two or three hours to an obscure part of my state with very little population just to be able to stay in the country, no more strange looks from people when I tell them that I am not a citizen. Words can hardly describe how that feels.
When I first came to this country it was because I was suffering from an unknown medical condition which my doctors in Guatemala could not figure out how to treat. You see, I was born 4 months prematurely, and after fighting to survive in the NICU, it was clear that something abnormal was going on with me: I was unable to keep food down and I had to be fed via an eye-dropper, I fluctuated between one and two pounds, and I had trouble breathing. To the doctors I was as good as dead. They suggested to my parents that they should just leave me to die. In fact, doctors even predicted that I would be dead within weeks and that it was only a matter of time before I kicked the bucket.
However, my mother refused to let this be the end for me. She told them that it was okay, but that even if I did die, she wouldn't just stop feeding me. So I went home, and slowly but surely, I survived. That wasn't the end of the story, though. As I made it into my first and second years of life it became increasingly obvious that I wasn't meeting major infantile developmental milestones. For example, when my parents would place on the couch I would lean over to one side. I could walk as long as someone was there to stabilize me, otherwise I would just fall flat on my face.
To the doctors this was business as usual. Over and over again they would tell my parents that this was normal and that they should "just give it more time." However, it was clear to both of them that this was not the case. Eventually, my grandfather suggested that we travel to the United States to get a second opinion. It was at the Mayo Clinic where my parents finally discovered that I had Cerebral Palsy.
Cerebral Palsy is a neurological condition resulting in damage to the brain sustained before, during, or after pregnancy. While each case is unique, generally speaking, it manifests itself physically as difficulties with fine motor movement as well as spasticity. The range of symptoms can vary from mild to moderate. The doctors in the United States told my parents that my case was severe, and that I would require the use of a wheelchair for the rest of my life because I would never walk again.
Okay, that's good news, right? My parents finally knew what was wrong with me and we could all finally live happily ever after in Guatemala. Well, not quite. In Guatemala there are no resources for the disabled. My parents were upper-middle class so they could at least afford to have tutors come over to my house, but as far as accessible public accommodations, schooling, and proper socialization went, that didn't exist for us.
My parents were faced with a difficult choice: go back to Guatemala, where I would essentially be confined to a life of being in bed all day, or abandon everything they had in Guatemala and sacrifice themselves in an unknown land so that I could have an increased quality of life at the expense of material comfort. Fortunately for me, they chose the latter. And so began our immigration journey…
Check back here next week for more.
Author: Gabe Coronado
Editor(s): Armando Rodriguez and Gabe Coronado
Funding for this post was provided as part of a grant/internship from St. John’s College, Annapolis
