We Are Still Here – My Family’s Immigration Story

Guest Post – Gabriela Robles, Chief Executive

My family’s journey to the United States is one of opportunity, resilience, and a strong sense of community. My father is a man of extraordinary vision and quiet strength. In the early 1960s, he was sponsored by his cousin to come to California. Immigration policy has undergone significant changes over the years, and unfortunately, this type of sponsorship is no longer available. My dad arrived in the States alone, found work in the Los Angeles meatpacking district, and worked hard to save money to return to Mexico and marry my mother.

My parents’ love was unwavering, and while they were apart, they wrote letters to each other. We lost my mom a few years ago, and I find comfort knowing they kept every letter they wrote to each other during that time.

When my parents settled in LA, they ensured my mom had permanent residency before the transition. I was born here, but their courageous journey has always shaped my identity. They both worked tirelessly and have always lived within their means. They encouraged my siblings and me to focus on our education and used to tell us, “I came to this country so that you wouldn’t have blisters on your hands.”

Our apartment building in El Monte was filled with mixed-status families from Mexico and Central America. Some of them were undocumented, while others were navigating complex paths to citizenship. I was 15 when the Immigration Reform and Control Act (IRCA) offered many a path to citizenship. Although I was just a high school sophomore, I helped my neighbors throughout the process. Our local church led this effort, and I saw the strength of community. The moms worked together to organize, schools stepped in, and neighbors lent money to cover legal fees. That was my first experience with organizing, the power of community advocacy, and immigration, not just as a political issue but as a lived experience.

Growing up, I witnessed firsthand the power of collective support. Today, those memories bring a mix of pride and sadness. I feel proud of what my neighborhood built together and the hope we once had. But I also feel sad because it seems like that sense of possibility isn’t just slipping away, but being ripped away from many people. I can’t believe people are arguing over who is American “enough.” My two young children, born here to two U.S.-born parents, are aware of what’s going on and ask if I’ll come back when I leave the house. That’s how deeply fear has seeped into our home.

It’s hard not to feel helpless. I’ve dedicated my life to community health and equity, yet in the face of raids, racial profiling, and political inaction, I don’t know how to help. Whereas, in my childhood, we came together to serve our neighbors, now, there are suggestions to move my daughter’s Girl Scout meetings to Zoom out of fear. Families are avoiding summer camps and other community activities. We are not just robbing children of memories and joy; we are stealing from them the hope that I once felt watching us come together to help our neighbors.

I don’t expect to have all the answers, but I wish I had more concrete steps forward than I do. I pray a lot, and hope that others will see that immigration isn’t a policy issue, but a matter of humanity.

We must remember who we are at our core—a country built on the belief that hard work, love, and community should be met with opportunity.

My parents came here believing in the American dream. My father still does. His logic model was simple: work hard, love your family, and invest in your children’s future. At 88, he’s done just that. That legacy lives on in me and, I hope, in my children.

Even on the days when I feel most helpless, I know that we are still here and therefore, we can still hope. And we will always be rooted in love.