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USA250 Journal Project
Personal Chronicle: July 4, 2025 – July 5, 2026
A gift for reflection. A record of now. A story for what’s next.
🖋️ Opening Reflections
To be written in the days or weeks leading up to July 4, 2025.
There is no deadline for knowing yourself. Just begin.
JOURNAL ENTRY — June 18, 2025
📍 Phoenix, Arizona
📝 Prompt One: “Who am I?”
Soy la hija del silencio. The one who watches and waits.
I am not just a grocery clerk, or a caregiver, or “illegal” in someone else’s language.
I am Luisa.I carry Mamá’s rosary in my purse and papá’s absence in my chest. I carry the sound of Diego’s laugh before he got moody, and the smell of albóndigas on a Sunday afternoon before the world asked too much.
I remember being eight and writing my name in the condensation on a window, hoping someone would see it and say, “Yes, mija. You belong here.”
Some days I believe I’m strong.
Other days I believe I’m disappearing.Deep down, I think I’m someone who still wants to be whole. Someone who wants to go back to nursing school.
Someone who deserves more than just surviving.I don’t have the words for all of it yet. But I’m writing anyway. Because maybe that’s who I am, too—
A voice trying not to vanish.
JOURNAL ENTRY — June 21, 2025
📍 Phoenix, Arizona
📝 Prompt Two: “How did I get here?”
Not all stories start with a moment. Mine starts with many.
A red-eye bus ride across the border, curled against Mamá’s side, my small fingers tracing the seam of her jeans like it was a lifeline.
A quiet classroom where I learned to read in two languages but was told to pick one.
A letter I never mailed to the nursing program that accepted me—because Mamá’s health collapsed before I could say yes.
How did I get here?
By saying “I’m fine” when I wasn’t.
By picking up extra shifts.
By swallowing anger, and doubt, and the bitter taste of “maybe next year.”I got here by holding Diego’s hand when he cried in his sleep, and by translating dialysis schedules into something Mamá could understand even through the pain.
I got here by loving people too much to leave.
And now I’m here—
In this small apartment that smells like rice and worry.
In a life that wasn’t the one I dreamed, but still holds the shape of something sacred.I didn’t arrive all at once.
I unfolded into this place, one sacrifice at a time.
🪶 What We’re Not Passing Down
Journal Reflections from the USA250 Witnesses
Prompt:
“What are you choosing not to pass down?”
“What future would make your ancestors proud—not of your survival, but of your freedom?”
August 6, 2025
“I am not passing down fear wrapped in love.”
That’s what Mamá gave me—because it’s all she had.
But freedom? It’s walking through the world like you belong. Saying your full name with pride.
Family, Friends & Associates
Isabel “Mamá” Márquez – Mother.
Diego – Brother.
Tia Carmen Márquez – Aunt.
Maya Singh – Best friend.
