Gisselle Burgo-Vargas

Gisselle’s Story

My parents crossed the border north of Mexico with their toddlers. Neither spoke English, yet both found laborer positions and always worked overtime. We moved from one rental to another, where my siblings and I were always stuffed into a small white room. Life was not luxurious, but we had a privilege our parents in Mexico didn’t: public education. I spoke only Spanish at home but found myself in a new setting where only English was spoken. I struggled to communicate with my teacher and classmates. Even asking to use the restroom was a chore, so most times I'd choose silence. I cried because I couldn't understand my homework and my parents couldn’t help me. Now, a fluent speaker of both languages, I am the voice of and personal translator for my parents.

We had little money, but our church community was vibrant. Every December 12th, Virgin Mary Day, donations were given to the less fortunate. We received a brown bag with french bread rolls and canned goods. I was gifted a small wooden cabinet, my first personal space, which I filled with my meager belongings. For Christmas, I received small toys from thrift stores in Fairfield. I saved coins, searching the couch cushions for loose change and picking up pennies I found on the street. At the laundromat, laden with bags and baskets of dirty clothes, I handed my mother the coins as my contribution to the household. I learned to cherish the little life had to offer and to be resourceful. 

Unfortunately, I was the fattest girl in my grade-school classroom. My parents followed Mexican cultural norms, calling me cachetes (cheeks) or gorda (fattie). Adults poked my stomach rolls or the pocket of fat next to my armpit. My closet gradually filled with large hoodies, the only clothing that covered most of my body. My mother, who fed me flour tortillas at every meal, bought me my first waist trainer from Burlington, silently criticizing the body she helped shape. I stopped eating at school and ate only one meal at home, trying diets I could never successfully maintain. Hungry on the weekends, I would gorge. 

When I was 10, my mother began teaching me to cook the circular corn flour tortillas as my ancestors had. The flames danced, and the heat scorched my palm when I put the tortilla on el comal, a flat griddle. As the tortilla shrank, my mom nodded a “just flip it” at me. Instead, I engaged in a staring contest with the tortilla. I was terrified of the hot stove, and I couldn’t move. With disappointment, my mom again demanded I flip it. With a fork, I cautiously flipped the tortilla, salty tears burning my red face. I was forced to eat my failure; the horrible taste of half burned/half raw tortilla made it difficult to swallow and seemed to mirror my struggles with life and family. 

Eventually, my sense of vulnerability at school and at home grew into enduring strength. The nausea that new environments and confrontations bred transitioned to adaptation and optimism. I embraced my culture and its many delicious foods, and my self-esteem increased. I initially failed to flip the tortilla, but with determination and practice, I did flip it -- without the help of a fork. I am no longer a failed tortilla. I refuse to feel ashamed of my body, and I am ready to challenge and change norms society forces on all of us. Nutrition & wellness and psychology classes taught me to balance mental stability, fitness, and health. I ate breakfast at school again. I swallowed orange juice and walked up three flights of stairs. Exhausted, acid reflux rose in my throat, but even rejection from my own body couldn’t stop me. I am enough. I am loved. I am in control. I will eat the evenly heated brown corn tortillas I made, without guilt or shame.

Education

School: Ramsay High School

Expected Graduation: May 2021

GPA: 4.1