Editor’s Note: Coachella Uninc. youth reporter, Berania Barraza uses media to uplift stories from her community, the Eastern Coachella Valley. She was recently accepted into Fusion’s “Rise Up: Be Heard” fellowship program. Through the fellowship, she traveled to Miami to meet Jorge Ramos, news anchor for Univision. In this personal narrative, Berania describes how she first discovered the power of media while in high school. Read her story below.

Growing up, I always knew I wanted to do something for my community, but I never knew how to make a difference.

One day, my friend invited me to join a club at school. Once I opened the door, I was in awe. I smelled the coffee the moment I stepped in the room and I saw students working on videos and discussing a project they were working on.

Once they were aware of my presence, everyone welcomed me with open arms and they started introducing themselves. Once introductions were over they filled me in on their agenda. They were currently in the middle of creating a documentary dedicated to the Eastern Coachella Valley.

I learned about the importance of fighting for social justice through the medium of film making

After everyone went back to their posts, Mr.Garza, the advisor of the film group F.I.R.M.E (Film. Inquiry. Research. Media. Education), approached me since I was the only new member. I probably looked out of place since I had never worked with film before. He asked me what my dream was, so I told him that I wanted to become a news correspondent. He told me that the best news correspondents were the ones who used a critical lens.

At first I didn’t understand what he meant but after he assigned me to shadow the seniors as they were working, I began understanding what he meant by using a ‘critical lens.’ After reviewing the interviews the students were editing, I began understanding that there’s more to reporting than just writing what you see. It’s about asking critical questions and understanding the material as it’s being given to you.

When I entered the classroom I thought I was going to learn how to edit videos and use a camera, but I learned so much more. I learned about the importance of fighting for social justice through the medium of film making. I even began going out more, something I was afraid of doing as an undocumented person.

Through this group I began creating videos dedicated to my community. I was creating content that mainstream media wouldn’t give a second glance but that was important to our community.

Even now I use the basic skill sets and critical thinking that I was taught in F.I.R.M.E. The group opened doors for me that I would have never thought of opening. I never thought that four years after I first stepped into that room, I would still be dedicating my time creating media from my community, the Eastern Coachella Valley.

About the Author: 

Berania Barraza loves to live on the edge. Though she’s allergic to gluten she loves to eat doughnuts. Another fact is that she loves learning about other cultures. She’s currently fluent in Spanish and English and can even introduce herself in Korean, Japanese and French. Her goal is to one day become fluent in five languages.Career wise she hopes to become the first DACA recipient to become a foreign news correspondent.

I’ve felt grief. I’ve felt hatred. And I’ve felt self-doubt. I’m only 18 but I feel like I’ve already gone through the hardest part of my life.

The most significant challenge I’ve ever faced was the depression I faced about three years ago. At the time, my mother was at the hospital all day every day for months, due to my father’s lung collapsing. My father was given just a few more months to live.

This was devastating for me. The idea of losing my father was something I never thought was possible. Shortly after my father’s diagnosis, another incident affected my life. My oldest brother was under the influence of cocaine and other drugs, leading him to try committing suicide three times.

The third time he tried, I’m the one who found him in a shed, talking to himself, out of his mind.

My sister and her husband tried helping. They took him to a rehabilitation center, but three hours later, the center called to let us know my brother checked himself out of rehab. My sister searched for hours trying to find our brother. She eventually did find him roaming the streets; he had just injured himself again.

Being a witness to my brother’s suffering, and the thought of my father dying, tore me from the inside out.

Being a witness to my brother’s suffering, and the thought of my father dying, tore me from the inside out.

At such a young age, I did not know how to deal with all this stress and grief all alone. With no one to share my pain with, I became weak and vulnerable. On top of all those family issues, I was being bullied at school.

For weeks, I would cry myself to sleep. Tears were my friends. They were the friends that greeted me as I awoke, and they were the friends that rocked me to sleep.

Tired of losing my strength and stability, slowly but surely, I made progress for myself by getting help from family members. I let them know how I felt physically, emotionally, mentally, and I was truthful about what was going on with me at school. I was also able to get close with counselors who would evaluate me, give me advice, and reassure me that everything was going to be okay. They helped show me strategies to get through my ordeals. One very helpful strategy I learned was to write down everything I was feeling, which made it easier to talk about and to overcome.

Today, I am a young man determined to succeed.

Eventually, my father pulled through and brother got the help he needed in rehabilitation. But I learned from this time in my life how cruel and unfair life can really be. Because of this, I became a stronger person, and I no longer let others push me around. Nor do I let a bad day turn into a bad life.

I’m a person with goals, and I am driven to fulfill them, no matter what obstacles I face. I’ve already accomplished quite a few goals in my short life, and I’m on my way to a better future. Today, I am a young man determined to succeed. I’m happy to say I was just accepted to my dream school, UCLA, and I am someone who will influence the world to make it a better place.

It’s 4:30 a.m. and I wake up to my little sister’s nudging. She’s used to waking up at this time and tenderly asks if I can put her hair into two ponytails today. “Sure.” I respond with a smile. I wake up the rest of my siblings and get them ready for school. With two younger brothers and two youngers sisters, it can be a hectic morning filled with surprises.

My parents are probably hard at work at this time by now.

My parents work in the fields. My mother harvests crops such as grapes, green beans, and onions. My father is handicapped, so he tries to look for small tasks here and there that can provide our family with some much needed additional income.

Soon we make our way outside. I walk them to my grandmother’s house. It’s an organized routine that we’ve become accustomed to. On our way there, we greet Doña Ruth. She’s an elderly lady who begins her daily walks at the break of dawn, hoping to find recyclables and trying to stay fit. She hands me a bag of oranges and asks me to give them to my grandmother.

We reach our grandma’s house. With her tired and sleepy eyes, she takes us into her arms for a warm embrace. I hand her the fruit and prepare to leave, but she stops me. She wants to talk about my school work. As I describe my day, she heads over to a pot filled with tamales. I am very well familiar with their porky smell. This hot delicacy is always eliciting smoke. I can already feel my mouth watering. I know what she is about to do. She hands me a bag filled with tamales, and tells me to distribute them among my teachers. She tries to do this as often as she can. She says those teachers were her children’s teachers, now mine, and soon the will be my siblings’ teachers. I look at the time. I excuse myself as I notice I’m late for the bus.

I feel the pressure as my lungs ache for air. I turn my head and see the bus behind me. The bus stop is too far, I’m not going to make it. But suddenly, as if a greater force hears my pleas, the bus stops two feet ahead of me. The bus driver opens the doors “Get in mija,” he says. A painful grin overtakes my face as I thank him. We pick up the rest of the students and make our way to school. As I get off the bus, I hand him some tamales. He’s too modest at first, but the enticing smell is too overwhelming for him to say, “No.”

Throughout the day, I distribute the tamales. Everybody asks me how I’ve been and sends their regards to my grandma. It’s time to go home. I greet my bus driver once more and he thanks me for the tamales. I drop off my backpack at home and head over to my former elementary school. I pick up my siblings and my former teachers stop and greet me.

We finally leave the school campus. On our way home, we see Doña Ruth once more. Her arms are packed with groceries. We all stop and help her. When we get to her doorstep she pulls out a Twix candy bar. My siblings squeal as their little fingers reach for the caramel delicacy. I smile at their joy and thank Doña Ruth.

I look up at the hot road ahead of us. When people look at this desert, the first thing they want to do is leave.

I want to leave too. But only to come back and help those I’ve left behind. After all, in this small rural desert, nobody is a stranger.

About the Author: 

Guadalupe Sandoval, better known as ‘fruit lupes,’ is a smiling ball of laughter. She’s an avid and loyal Netflix enthusiast. She has a hidden sketchbook. You’ll probably never see what she draws or whether or not she actually has any sort of artistic skill. She’s open to trying new things, just don’t make her run.

Dear past Juliana,

You never get enough credit. Your intelligence isn’t often acknowledged and you’re often not heard. I know this makes you wait for something, validation. We both know you don’t need it, but it’s still wanted.

But you are exceptionally whole, carrying yourself as high as you possibly can.

Growing up wasn’t easy for you. You spent most of your time alone, especially at school. Your curiosity has always been present, even at a young age. Your curiosity was, and still is, your favorite thing about yourself. But to others, it wasn’t.

At a young age, you learned what spaces were and weren’t meant for you.

You learned what it felt to be lonely. And though it hurts, breaks your heart even, you learned that it’s better to be alone than in bad company.

You’ve grown so much. Not only as a person but as a young muxer. You’re so powerful. You know your strengths, your triggers, your heart and that’s what helps you thrive. Your sense of yourself is so beautiful, you don’t need validation.

I see the passion in your eyes, how mindful you are of thinking about what to say. You sit with such radiance and power. To describe you as a gift isn’t enough.

Safety. Something you’ve looked for your entire life. You’ve found it in some places and not in others. When looking at the bigger picture, it’s never been easy finding somewhere to belong. Belonging, or even longing to be apart of the status quo, was something you secretly wanted but were never able to attain.

But I believe you’ve created your own somewhere. Even through pain you remained true and relied on your feelings, your heart, body and soul. You see the importance in growing and learning. You depend on your safe spaces and they depend on you.

Juliana, you’re valued and seen. Your family needs you, your friends need you, la raza needs you and I need you.

Sincerely,

future Juliana

About the Author:

Juliana Taboada is a local Xicana poet and community activist. She originally grew up in Thousand Palms but moved to Mecca in 2013. She loves both her communities. She enjoys watching Netflix for hours and bursting out into Broadway and musical songs at any given moment. She is also awkward but very social and also loves pretzels.

My father taught me that life is like a blooming flower. There’s a seed in the beginning, then at one point in its life cycle, it flourishes, spreading apart its petals. The flower helps create a new generation. As its life comes to an end, it realizes it has completed its purpose.

Everything has to change at a certain time. These changes are difficult to adapt to but in the end, I believe there is an explanation for everything. This is something I learned early on in my childhood.

I can recall having a beautiful childhood. I had a united family, close friends and people I could confide in. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had taken life for granted. In one day, I felt the world fall upon me. After the the shortest and most horrendous phone call, I found out that my father was in the hospital and had been diagnosed with colon cancer.

It was all so sudden. To my distress, I saw how  my whole family was breaking apart. How, I questioned myself, could a healthy hard-working man get pushed down out of the blue? He never showed any symptoms. It was a very difficult situation for everyone. My mother took full responsibility of taking care of my three sisters, my father and me.

One of my sisters decided to take independent studies, instead of going to a traditional high school, just so she could accompany my dad to his chemotherapy treatments. My other two sisters, who were eighteen and seventeen, decided to help financially support my mother. But I, as a twelve-year-old kid, felt useless.

I could do nothing to help my family.

In my father’s eyes, I was a studious, intelligent child. He was always my motivation, thus everything I did in school was for him. My main priority was to make my dad proud. Although he wasn’t in the finest condition, my father continued to encourage me to work hard and to fulfill my dreams. By doing that, he said, I would help him. He said he’d would be satisfied and content.

Not once did he lose hope, even when he was terminally ill. He is my idol.

Watching him lay still on a hospital bed tore me apart. After battling for two years, he could take no more. As much as he tried to hold on, he was slipping away. I held his hand for what seemed like hours, trying to extend every second in time, just to feel his lively heart beating.

Never would I forget him.

The way his lips curved up in an approving smile, his sign of passionate fatherly love to his family. I can clearly recall his words just a week before passing. “Keep it up, I’m very proud,” he said. It is because of my dad that  I have decided to work the hardest and to keep my word to my father. Everything I do will be for him.

Even if he is always in my heart, I still wake up desperate for his presence. The one thing I miss most about my father is his love for nature. His garden, with the alluring scent of mint, was filled with trees, plants, herbs and roses. He gently tended for each growing sprout. Each sprout, he said, contained true beauty. I loved those moments we shared together sitting outside on a swing and admiring the wonders nature brought.

Now I sit in that same swing, but this time I’m alone. As I watch how the plants continue to grow, I see the beauty of the flowers. I have learned my lesson. I had my father’s hand, guiding me, helping me grow.

However, like the flowers, I’d have to now bloom on my own. And one day, those seeds will spread and produce something new. It’s quite astounding how life works. Things come and go but the legacy lives on in the roots. Every time I sit and admire nature, I can feel the true meaning. I see the beauty through my father’s eyes.

About the Author:

Michelle Contreras, Thermal resident, is a sophomore at Desert Mirage High School. She is part of the National Honors Society and participates in Baile Folklorico.

Never did I ever believe we’d be in this situation again. But bigotry has made a stronger comeback than before, rising up and reclaiming all the progress we’ve made. It tries to put us “back into our place.”

I remember waking up on November 9, 2016. My eyes were puffy from the night before. I had cried myself to sleep. I was tired and frustrated and scared. I remember hoping to wake up to miracle; I believed everyone would come to their senses.

But I was wrong.

I woke up to only find that hate is greater than common sense. It’s greater than change and it’s greater than love. My heart had fallen to my stomach and my entire body felt heavy. I couldn’t think and trying to think made everything worse. My whole spirit was broken and I felt destroyed. I couldn’t breathe. I was too choked up with tears that breathing didn’t seem as important as crying.

At school, no one stood or said the pledge of allegiance that day or days after. We all had the same question, should we pledge our allegiance to a flag or to a country that couldn’t even do the same for us? A country that broke treaties time and time again and continues to enforce years of colonization, ignorance, hatred, and fear in almost everything we do, could we pledge allegiance to that? Without any hesitation, our immediate answer was, “No.” This country can’t give us the loyalty it so rudely asks for so we don’t owe it any.

We were all shocked, some of us completely broken. I had countless friends come up to me in tears, in fear for themselves and their parents because of their documentation status. Teachers were quiet. Students were silent. We didn’t do much that day; everything was heavy.

It’s been almost two months since that awful day. And now tomorrow, hate and fear will take on the role of president. The sad part is that hate and fear aren’t new parts of our country; this country was built on hate and fear. But I think this time is different. I think this is an attack on change. It’s an attack on a black president. It’s an attack on the change any minority has ever made and that is why I am in pain.

See, I knew my country hated me, but this much?

But despite all the pain I’ve felt for the past months, and even now, the fight for our liberation will go on.

¡Mi gente, somos fuerte!

We are valid and strong. We are the roses that grew from concrete.

Fight. Heal. Revolt. Survive. Decolonize.

Mi gente, how I care and love you. We have passion in our soul, from the food we eat, to the way we walk with music in our feet. We are the seeds of resistance and we will plant them for the rest of our lives. We create movements with just one flick of our fingers.

We will thrive like our ancestors intended us to.

Our existence is resistance.

We are valid. Our feelings are valid.
We exist. We are powerful.
We are here to stay.

– Chicahua

*Because the author is underage, Coachella Unincorporated asked that a pseudonym be used.

Bad grades or disorderly conduct may be the reason why high school seniors are not allowed to walk the graduation ceremony, but this was not the case for a senior at my old high school. My classmate was deported a few days before his graduation. The night of graduation there was a cold silence that could not be ignored. We all felt the pain of his parents, who were only left to imagine their son walking the stage.

In the eastern Coachella Valley, Border Patrol trucks are seen daily—at every stop light and at every gas station. They hide behind bushes at night waiting for cars to drive by and seize any opportunity to stop them. Every year, exceptional students are deported and although they are productive members of society, they are denied the chance of furthering their education due to lack of money, support and, unfortunately, their legal status.

During his 2008 presidential campaign, Obama promised he would create immigration reform that would benefit those applicable, but this promise was turned down by the U.S. Supreme Court. Instead, the Obama Administration has deported more undocumented people than any other president in history. On the bright side, President Obama passed an executive action in 2012 that allows those who entered the country as children and meet certain guidelines to be considered for deferred action for a period of two years with subject to renewal. Deferred Action of Childhood Arrivals (DACA) provides those applicable with a work permit and a social security number that allows them to enroll in college. DACA is still active today, but with the new president-elect arriving in the White House, it could become history. Trump said he will revoke DACA once he takes office and this is something to be afraid of.

Every two years, those in the process of renewing their work permit must take a biometrics exam, information which will fall under Trump’s Administration. From 2012 to 2015, a total of 908,479 DACA cases have been approved by the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. This means that today there is approximately 1 million undocumented students being productive members of society, whose personal information is in the hands of Trump. If Trump follows as promised and revokes DACA, a lot of talent, dedication, ambition and intelligence will be tossed out.

Those who oppose DACA argue that the government cannot reward people who committed a crime, because it produces a moral hazard. They believe that Dreamers or DACA recipients are criminals and should be punished. But, what crime did they commit if their presence here is not fault of their own, as they were brought here as children by their parents? Many DACA recipients do not even speak the language of their parent’s country, how can we “send them back” when they have no recognition of that place?

Our immigration laws are broken, which means we have a lot to do. Let’s give undocumented students a chance at being educated and the chance to be contributing members of our society. Undocumented students face consequences for actions they did not commit and actions they have little control over. What this country needs is a path to citizenship for undocumented students so they are able to study, work and live in this country without fear and without prejudice.

About the author:

Leydy Rangel is a youth reporter with Coachella Unincorporated and a senior journalism major at Cal Poly Pomona. She’s an eastern Coachella Valley resident and enjoys telling stories from her community. View her author page here.

I’d always wondered if my school was as safe as I thought it was. At 15, I’m still growing up and pretty innocent. I know there are many things wrong with our schools, but there’s one issue that needs to be addressed now. That issue is catcalling and the over-sexualization of young women.

Earlier this month, I was verbally harassed by 3-4 boys at school. I was walking to my fifth period class, and as I was walking I saw these boys in a group pointing and staring at me. I knew what was going to happen. I’ve been catcalled once before, but this time it was different. No one was there to help me, to tell them they’re disgusting. I was alone.

It felt like these boys took complete ownership of my body and I couldn’t do anything about it.

Now, since it happened so recently, I’m still terrified of just walking to class. It’s a sad thing knowing that I’m not even safe in my own school, in a place that’s supposed to work for me, to benefit me.

I never thought such horrible behavior would be within the borders of schools, but I guess I’m wrong. Even freshman boys know how to objectify young women. They don’t realize the amount of damage they do by just whistling at me or commenting on my body. It’s a harsh reality women have to deal with and can’t escape. In all honesty, even though it pains me to say this, catcalling is inevitable for women.

It’s even worse to to know that I’m only 15 years old and I’ve experienced the over-sexualization of women.

But it’s sadly not new, I was taught at a young age that I need to cover up my body and always be attentive of my surroundings, even at school. My schools have told me to dress a certain way, with lists of clothing I could not wear but only a couple things boys couldn’t wear. I knew the playing field was uneven but it was never a big deal before. I always thought if I wore something too “risky” I would call unwanted attention upon myself and it was my fault, not theirs.

But I was wrong.

I now know that regardless of what I’m wearing, you should have the decency and respect to leave me alone. I’m not your property. Catcallers have absolutely no right to yell at me from the sidelines and expect me to acknowledge them.

I’m a young woman, I’m a person. And it’s about time I start getting treated like one.

About the author: 

Juliana Taboada is a local Xicana poet and community activist from Mecca, Calif. She currently attends Desert Mirage High School and recently joined Coachella Unincorporated as a youth reporter.

It was a sunny day and I was walking home from where the school bus dropped me off. I had taken a different bus, only because I wanted to stop at the park to enjoy the weather and ease my mind. I continued walking with my eyes staring at the ground and my earphones blasting.

But what seemed like such an ordinary day soon turned into a nightmare. A guy stood in front of me, his arms outstretched as he whistled in my direction. I only giggled. See, I knew this man, he was a friend and I thought he was joking around as usual. I hugged him and when I did, he seemed to survey the streets for any wandering souls. We were alone. At that moment, every nerve in my body was screaming run, but as I tried to push away he only pulled me in closer.

He covered my mouth and pushed me into his truck. Someone else drove it into a garage and in a matter of seconds he took my dignity even as I fought for it. Maybe I was hallucinating or maybe he did, in fact, say sorry twice. At that moment, I gathered every ounce of strength I had left in me and I ran to the door leading to the house. I ran and he didn’t chase after me. He didn’t say anything, and he never tried to contact me again. I never saw him again.

To this day, I still feel shivers run down my spine every time I pass by the road where it happened.

I never spoke about what happened to me with anyone. I suffered in silence because I felt that nobody would believe this man, someone everyone liked, could do such a thing to an “ugly” 14-year-old girl. Maybe they would say something like, “She was probably asking for it,” and that was the very thing I feared. I was ashamed and embarrassed, and couldn’t confide in my parents, my friends, or the authorities.

After the incident, I became overly aware of my body and I began to hate it.  I would purge every time I ate. I would physically harm myself to replace the emotional pain with physical pain. Drug consumption became my only escape. I lost myself in depression and anxiety.

Eventually I decided to turn my life around. I focused on school and pushed myself to strive for success. I met amazing people who became my best friends and who helped me to laugh and feel joy again. I joined the Public Service Academy at my school and met the most amazing teachers who helped me find my true passion. I got involved in my community through clubs and organizations that raise awareness about political and social issues. I ended up discovering that I want to help people that have been through similar experiences as me, which is why I am majoring in psychology. For me, giving up is not an option.

I am all too familiar with the desperate solitude that depression leaves. I have felt the anxiety attacks that occur at the most unexpected moments.  I was lucky to have found support in teachers and friends. But, looking back, I wish there would have been more access to professional help, a place I could have gone to talk and be honest about the cause of my insecurities and depression.

Every day is a battle to push these incidents to the back of my mind. I won’t let this define me or my future. I am a survivor and every person who experiences sexual assault should be empowered to let their voices be heard.

I want to help the eastern Coachella Valley. We shouldn’t be afraid to walk down the streets of our neighborhoods. We shouldn’t be afraid to hug a friend. I know for certain I am not the only one here living with these issues in silence. It is time for that to change.

By Leydy Rangel

Children of farmworkers grow up seeing their parents wake up before sunrise, just early enough to make lunch, pack it and drive as far as it takes to get to work. They arrive back home at night, tired and dirty from a day’s work, and barely have enough time to rest until the next morning arrives.

Small children have a difficult time understanding why their parents can never make it to their school meetings, soccer games and even school graduations. Older kids may not question their parents’ absence because they have probably had to work in the fields themselves.

Many teenagers in the Eastern Coachella Valley, in fact, spend their summer vacation working in the fields trying to make a few dollars. For the past four summers, I’ve worked under the hot sun harvesting grapes and peppers. Often times I would work up to 11 hours a day, without receiving any overtime pay.

I remember asking my supervisor last year why it was that I wasn’t receiving overtime pay. He said that it was because overtime pay in California was different for farmworkers.

It didn’t make sense. At any other job, employees are compensated with higher pay after eight hours, so why not me if my job requires more physical strength?

It took decades, but now California farmworkers will get the pay they deserve. The California Senate passed AB 1066 earlier this month, a bill introduced by Assemblywoman Lorena Gonzalez (D – San Diego) that would create new rules for overtime pay for farmworkers.

A year ago, I couldn’t do anything to fix the injustice. Now, thanks to many supporters of AB 1066, the bill has been signed by the governor.

As of now, farmworkers do not receive any overtime pay unless they work more than 10-hours daily. Some employers do not pay any overtime at all and know they can get away with it because farmworkers are scared to stand up and demand it.

Under AB 1066, that 10-hour limit will be brought down by half an hour starting in 2019, and an additional 30 minutes each year after until, in 2022, farmworkers are receiving overtime pay for every hour worked beyond the traditional eight hour workday.

It is about time. Not only do farmworkers put fruits and vegetables on the tables of Americans across the country, they do so often at the risk of their own health, suffering from a variety of issues that stem from their time in the fields.

As a farm worker myself, AB 1066 will benefit me personally and it will benefit my community. We will know that we are being compensated for the work we do and the many sacrifices we make by being out in the fields.

About the author:

Leydy Rangel is a youth reporter with Coachella Unincorporated and a senior journalism major at Cal Poly Pomona. She’s an eastern Coachella Valley resident and enjoys telling stories from her community. View her author page here.