Smuggler's Daughter: A Story of Survival - Legacy of Grit

Where do I get my grit, you might ask? Let me start by telling you about my mom. She was a coyote — a person who smuggled people from Mexico into California in the 1970s. I remember her having a custom-built van to hide people in the seats. In the beginning, though, we used to smuggle people in our car.

I was probably around 8 or 9 years old at the time, when we would drive to the slums of Tijuana, where houses were barely built, yet families had already moved in. There were no bathrooms or running water, and poverty was everywhere. The local children often saw us as a symbol of wealth, even though we were far from rich. My mom worked tirelessly, holding two or three jobs, and being a coyote was just a side gig.

To distract the children and avoid attention, my mom had a few tricks. She’d bring a dozen donuts and hand them out to the kids. They’d swarm the car, begging for money or asking to be taken with us, giving us enough time to drive off. Another tactic involved carrying a bag of pennies to scatter when we returned for more trips. Back then, it was easier to smuggle people — often hiding them in the trunk, praying we wouldn’t get stopped. My mom’s cover story was that she was just shopping. To make it believable, we’d buy Mexican-made handicrafts like piñatas and piggy banks.

Trips to Tijuana were memorable for more than just the smuggling. I loved the painted donkeys that looked like zebras, the huarache sandals, and the street tacos. The cucumbers with chili and lime, and the Mexican pan dulce, were personal favorites. Those days were full of life and culture.

Later, my mom upgraded to a custom van with hollowed-out seats to fit more people. Her smuggling efforts were tied to her personal life, too. She married a man from Mexico who had a large family. When family members got deported, she’d bring them back across the border. Once he got a green card, our trips to Mexico expanded. We’d drive to places like San Felipe, which back then was a tiny fishing village with just a store, a bar, and a hotel. We’d fish in a small boat, surrounded by sharks. The ocean was full of life in those days, something I’m sure has changed now. To get to the boat, we had to walk out into the ocean, stepping on sand sharks and encountering hammerheads and other small sharks. When we went fishing, we’d often catch blue sharks, 4 to 6 feet long, in our little boat. The guide would pull them in, smack them on the head, and throw them back.

Not all trips went smoothly. Once, someone tipped off the authorities. We were stopped at the border, the van was searched, and people were found hidden inside. The van was confiscated, and my mom was arrested along with us kids. We waited at the border for someone to bail us out. It was a defining moment, but not the last of my mom’s adventures.

Eventually, my mom passed the family business to my sister in the 80s, who continued the work for a time. My sister once told me she even smuggled a baby across the border — an act of desperation by parents trying to save their child from poverty. Knowing my sister, I never would have imagined her doing something like that, but she has a kind heart and was willing to help. I couldn’t think of a better person than her to ensure that baby was safe. I was shocked when she told me, especially since I had gone to live with my dad, unaware of her involvement.

My mom did it all because she had to. She risked everything to pay the bills. Her career as a coyote ended when someone’s jealousy led to her being tipped off, but she left behind a legacy of grit and determination.

My mom wasn’t the most loving or affectionate, and she didn’t hand out compliments. She wasn’t the typical “nurturing” type. But I see where my strength comes from. It’s a gift from my mom — a woman who lived boldly and fearlessly, doing whatever it took to survive and provide for her family.