I looked at my pregnant wife and thought to myself, “My God, she is beautiful . . . her stomach as big as the moon, full of life, and there for the world to see.” You see, being in the poor town of El Arenal, Mexico, made me wonder how a beautiful girl like herself can fall in love with a poor man like me, let alone create such a beautiful family. As I helped Theresa, my wife, heat up the tortillas for dinner, I hear her yelling at our two sons from the doorway.

“Mijos, come eat dinner. You can play tomorrow.”

My kids, eight and nine, who both look more like their mother, walked into our home sweating and panting from playing a soccer game outside our street. Our house is shaped like a box, and I was sick to my stomach to think a house that small was “home.” I turned around and placed the hot tortillas on the table. Dinner that night was frijoles, elotes, and tortilla.

“Hola, apá,” the boys said with delight.

“Hola, mijos. How was the soccer game?”

“Miguel doesn’t know how to score!”

Miguel was the youngest with curly brown hair, sun-kissed skin, and carried my color of eye: dark chocolate.

“Shut up, Pablo. You don’t know how to pass the pass–that’s why!”

Pablo is the oldest with black hair like my wife, darker skin complexion, and he carried her honey brown eye color. I watched and listened to my boys argue from the kitchen table. I sat there and I saw that my boys were strong together despite their differences, and were capable of taking care of their mother and their new sister.

“Hush, both of you. Now go wash up, your apá needs to tell you guys something after dinner.”

Hearing this made me nauseous. I looked at the table; we had so little. After dinner I told my children I was going to the United States to get more money. Pablo got up angrily and pushed the table so hard that the plates rattled in fear. Miguel cried, his tears falling onto his tortillas, making them soggy. My wife went to Miguel and motioned her head to go talk to Pablo, as if signaling me to go make him feel better.

“Apá! You said you would never leave like my friends’ dads! You said you would stay. You lied, apá! You lied!” Pablo said angrily holding back his tears, his face reddening and swelling like a fresh wound.

I let my son yell at me that night until he couldn’t anymore and let him cry. I told them I had to go and how they had to grow up quickly to take care of their pregnant mother.

“Mijos, I will come back. No matter what, I will.”

I fought back tears that night. My kids cried for an hour, but I had managed to calm them down and put them to sleep. I left early the next morning.

“Roberto, I love you. Don’t forget me,” my wife whispered to me trying not to wake up the kids.

“I love you, Theresa. I’ll bring money to us and the kids. I will come back, I promise,” I said with sadness in my voice.

“Make this journey worth it, Roberto.”

These were the last words from my Theresa as she kissed me goodbye. I turned away from my beautiful wife and my unborn child on my way down a different path. I prayed for my safety and for my family.

To get to the United States was a difficult journey and one I do not like to share. I’ve seen deaths, loss of hope, and good men who have forgotten why they came to the United States–men who have forgotten about their family back at home. Coming to the United States is not an easy journey. The coyotes that help us cross the border often threaten us and our families if we don’t pay our debt to them. Most of them are heartless men. During the blistering hot walk, no one communicated with one another; it was just us, walking forward, together, towards the same destination and dream.

Once I made it here to Los Angeles, California, my life completely changed. I saw buildings that seem to reach for the sky; shiny, sleek cars that drove down the streets and, for the first time, so many white people! I walked around Los Angeles for three days and slept on the streets. I was a homeless dog; hungry, lost, and dirty. I met a man named Jose Luis; he told me about his journey and how he managed to make money. Street vending is what this man did for a living. He sold fresh orange juice early in the morning by the schools for students to buy. I thanked the Lord for this man; having an old-fashioned white mustache and broad shoulders, he was my angel. He gave me a small place to sleep and some money.

“Why are you helping me?” I asked Jose Luis a bit confrontationally.

He sighed, as if remembering a painful memory.

“Right here, most of our kind forget where we come from, and we forget out families. I wanted to help you in case I ever need your help. Plus, you smell disgusting.”

Jose Luis and I became good friends. I finally had a friend in the big city. I later moved up to North Hollywood because there was less competition. I sell raspados (shaved ice), chips, and elotes (corn on the cob). My back always hurts and my feet ache, but I never complain; my family is my motivation. My customers always greet me with a hello, and I always make conversation.

“Hola, how are you? What could I get you?”

Some know my name, many don’t. But recognition doesn’t matter to me. It has been two and half years since I last saw my family. I just imagine my two boys older, possibly with girlfriends, and my daughter that I have never seen before, resembling my beautiful wife Theresa. My heart aches with a longing to go home.

My experiences as a street vendor haven’t seen so difficult. Once this kind officer who looked Hispanic only gave me a warning when he caught me selling by a church on a bright Sunday morning.

“Buenos dias, Señor,” he said to me as he adjusted his belt.

“Hello,” I replied quietly. I was scared to death.

“You can’t sell her, Señor. You should walk around. I know selling is hard. It hurts me to tell you this, but you must leave this location. I won’t give you a ticket because my parents started off selling in the streets as well. Please go,” he said. I was shocked at how kind and understanding this young officer was. And I felt relieved, validated, and glad he understood my hard work.

For more than two years now, I have gotten up to start work at 10:30 in the morning until 6:30 in the evening, and everyday I grow more and more tired. Just a year ago, I finished paying off my debt to the coyotes and I can finally now send off money to my family back in Mexico. Every day is  a constant stress, ranging from whether I will get enough money for myself and family to survive, or whether I will get caught and be deported. Jose Luis, my only friend that I trusted in Los Angeles, was caught eight months ago and deported to Mexico. Being a street vendor is against the law, but I have to do what is necessary to get my family a better future. Every street vendor has a story, and some are worse than others, but we should all keep in mind that the end of each day, it is all worth it.

This true story, “Make It Worth It,” about street vendor Roberto was written by 12th grader Angelica from the Los Angeles School of Global Studies and appears in the book They Were Shining with Ambition: Stories of the Street Vendor in Los Angeles. This book was the result of a project produced in collaboration with 826LA, East Los Angeles Community Corporation, and the Los Angeles School of Global Studies.