I migrated from Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, to Seattle, WA, in 1998 with my three older siblings. My mother and youngest brother had been in the U.S. a few years before our arrival. I was leaving the home I had loved with much of my family still left behind, including my father, whom I would never see again––he died two years after I came to the U.S.

As a teenager, adjusting to a new environment, language, and culture while going through a personal loss was challenging to say the least. My mother, a college graduate and a well-liked teacher in her native country, was now a single parent and a certified nursing assistant (CNA). She worked long shifts in nursing and adult family homes. She did her best to provide financially and emotionally for her children and our family back in Ethiopia. I witnessed her continuously marginalized and exploited because she lacked the language skills to stand up to and hold her employers accountable. Davis (2006, p.55) wrote, "imperialism is not merely an abstract set of economic circumstances but a form of literal predication on the bodies of poor people, particularly, people of color…." She didn't make much money, working double shifts at both jobs, and could've qualified for government assistance. However, every time she applied for help with food stamps or housing vouchers, she was treated like a criminal––deemed unworthy to receive service by "gatekeepers" who perpetuated her struggles.

Despite all the odds against her, my mother ensured we didn't go without the necessities. She worked hard to ensure we had health insurance and adequate housing. We lived in a cozy apartment (my siblings and I shared a bedroom until I was a junior in high school) in Shoreline, WA. I remember feeling insecure about living in an apartment. Our apartment was in the middle of multiple single-family homes (a predominantly white neighborhood except most of the people that lived at the apartments were people of color ) and was the only apartment on our block. I remember feeling poor every time the school bus would stop to drop me off. I felt every kid on the bus was looking at me with pity (I'm sure that was all in my head). Sometimes, I would walk to the next stop to avoid those pity stares. I was glad when I got to 11th grade; I no longer took the bus.

Much of what shaped my adult experience was witnessing my mother's strength as a black immigrant worker in America. Being an immigrant is challenging; being a black woman and an immigrant in America is exceptionally hard. My mother never questioned the "systems" that made things harder for her. I used to get so angry at her for it. But then I'm reminded of the power of colonialism and, by extension, systemic racism––a "system of power" that operates on many levels and fuels white supremacy ideologies that perpetuate inequities (UWDeptMedicine, 2015).

Given that less than 10% of the students at the middle and high schools I attended were people of color, it is not surprising that I never learned about these systems there. I now know the power of these designed systems. Even though my mother struggled as an immigrant, I cannot help but acknowledge her privilege. She was an immigrant on a visa and could work and get health insurance (even if it was bare minimum coverage). I think about all those immigrants, like Pa, who don't have "legal" papers to work to provide for their families. I think about immigrants who are kept in cages under unsanitary conditions, like animals, at ICE detention centers throughout this country—and the ugly, deliberate "illegal alien" labels. Vargas (2012) said, "actions are illegal, never people." Learning about these systems has led me to pursue a degree in public health. Specifically, to work in policy and health care systems. I recently turned in my grad school application for the MPH program at UW Seattle. My goal is to advocate for communities that are often marginalized and historically disenfranchised––people like my mother.