The video explores the life journey of Alejandro Jimenez, who transitioned from Mexico to the United States at the age of eight. Alejandro describes the challenges and cultural adjustments he faced, such as the change of his name from Alejandro to Alex and societal expectations placed on him as a Mexican immigrant. Through his story, viewers gain insight into the personal and broader cultural impacts of migration on identity formation and social perceptions.

Alejandro shares his passions for writing and poetry, conveying how these arts help him make sense of the world. He discusses how writing serves as a form of resistance and expression, allowing him to reclaim his identity and voice. Through evocative poetry, Alejandro addresses themes of struggle, resilience, societal expectations, and cultural heritage, showing how these elements intertwine with his personal narrative.

Main takeaways from the video:

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Key Vocabularies and Common Phrases:

1. resistance [rɪˈzɪstəns] - (noun) - The refusal to accept or comply with something; the ability to not be affected by something, especially adversely. - Synonyms: (defiance, opposition, endurance)

I write to not forget, because of just everything that has meant as far as resistance.

2. injustice [ɪnˈdʒʌstɪs] - (noun) - Lack of fairness or justice. - Synonyms: (unfairness, inequity, wrong)

We were labor, and we knew that this injustice, like, how come, like, we're the ones working?

3. rekindle [ˌriːˈkɪndl] - (verb) - Relight or revive (something, such as feelings). - Synonyms: (revive, renew, rejuvenate)

let it remake itself let it rejoice let it remake itself let it rekindle itself.

4. facilitator [fəˈsɪlɪˌteɪtər] - (noun) - Someone who helps to bring about an outcome by providing indirect or unobtrusive assistance, guidance, or supervision. - Synonyms: (mediator, coordinator, enabler)

It doesn't tell me about my ability as a facilitator, but the need for poetry

5. yearn [jɜːrn] - (verb) - To have an intense feeling of longing for something, typically something that one has lost or been separated from. - Synonyms: (long, crave, desire)

When I write a letter or poem that yearns for a home, you never know what people are going to write.

6. cultural adjustments [ˈkʌltʃərəl əˈdʒʌstmənts] - (noun phrase) - Changes in behavior or mindset required to fit into a new cultural environment. - Synonyms: (adaptations, acclimations, acculturations)

Alejandro describes the challenges and cultural adjustments he faced.

7. pigeonholing [ˈpɪdʒɪnˌhoʊlɪŋ] - (verb) - To classify or categorize someone or something in a rigid and simplistic manner. - Synonyms: (categorizing, labeling, stereotyping)

The challenges faced by immigrants can often include identity struggles and societal pigeonholing.

8. evocative [ɪˈvɒkətɪv] - (adjective) - Bringing strong images, memories, or feelings to mind. - Synonyms: (suggestive, reminiscent, vivid)

Through evocative poetry, Alejandro addresses themes of struggle, resilience, societal expectations, and cultural heritage.

9. navigating [ˈnævɪˌɡeɪtɪŋ] - (verb) - To find one's way through something, often a difficult situation. - Synonyms: (maneuvering, steering, directing)

Creativity and expression provide a means to navigate and understand personal and cultural experiences.

10. identity formation [aɪˈdentɪti fɔːrˈmeɪʃən] - (noun phrase) - The development of the distinct personality of an individual regarded as a persisting entity. - Synonyms: (self-conception, personal development, self-discovery)

The video explores the life journey of Alejandro Jimenez, who transitioned from Mexico to the United States at the age of eight, and the formation of his identity.

Alejandro Jimenez - The Ground I Stand On - In the Making - American Masters - PBS

My name is Alejandro Jimenez. I live in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I'm originally from Colima, Mexico, and I'm a poet and writer. I came into the US when I was eight years old. I woke up in Walmart parking lot in San Diego. But the actual act of itself, like, I was asleep for it, but really, what I was like, whoa. Like, I am somewhere new. New was when we were riding the greyhound bus in Oregon. And then it started snowing.

When my mother registered me for the third grade in January of 1996, my ESL teacher had trouble with the multiple syllables in my name. She said, alejandro is too long. Let's call him Alex. My mother looked at the floor and said, okay. That same year, I met misses Parrott. She would not allow me to go to the bathroom until I pronounced my request correctly.

In 8th grade, my friends and I jumped each other and started our own gang. We were afraid of what the following school year would hold. After all, that was the furthest any of our parents had gone to school. I guess punching each other was how we short support and guidance. Later, some would drop out.

In high school, I was one of four brown faces in AP classes in a school that was over 30% Mexican. I always felt weird when my teachers praised me for not being like the rest of them. What is this rest of that? I am not. We were farm workers.

We were labor, and we knew that this injustice, like, how come, like, we're the ones working? And why do we get to live in a small cabin that's, like, coco roach infested? Why do we have to go to the bathroom outside? Why do we have to mix our pesticide filled laundry with our clean laundry when in the same orchard? Like, the owners live in a nice big house?

So my mom put this thing together, a bunch of albums of just, like, has all, like, my race things that she, like, kept. Yeah, that's one of my favorite running pictures of all time. Just because it's this, like, you know, a bunch of, like, farm worker kids, you know, doing it, so. And then this one, too. Here you are.

So I was really, like, had this fire to get to know the world outside of the world I lived in. I shared it with my counselor, and I was like, yo, like, I want to go to college. Varsity athlete, good grades, community service. I was undocumented. At that time, I didn't really understand what that meant. Her exact words were, I thought you were going to stay here and be a farm worker like your parents.

I write to not forget, because of just everything that has meant as far as resistance. Here in northern New Mexico, which was the first successful revolt when indigenous peoples around here kicked out the Spanish, the Pueblo revolt. The reason why the revolt happened, when it happened is because three runners were transporting the messengers by, like the arroyos that run here. Two of them got caught and they got hanged and one got away.

When people are like, yo, how did you get into poetry? My mom, my family and song. As we cook together, I ask my mother for a recipe. And everything she says is grab with your fingertips unpokito of this, unpoquito of that, una cucherita of this and of that. No mas. So how much is un poquito? Ama? Unpoquito mijos, un poquito.

You'll taste it and you'll know when it is good and the recipe. It is not about the dish I wish them to cook. It is about the trust in and with your body to know when enough is enough.

Let it grief let it remake itself let it grieve let it grief let it remake itself let it rejoice let it rejoice let it grieve let it remake itself let it rejoice if the brown body is not seen as worthy, is neglected, is deprived of light, of sage let it grief let it remake itself let it rejoice let it remake itself let it rekindle itself.

When I need to make sense of something, I write about it. I need to make sense of something and I can write about it. I run about it. Sometimes when I'm having trouble writing a poem or I need to work through something, I'll run and somehow they're not going to run and it just comes.

And so for me, it's a way to, in writing, reclaim, I mean, create new things. I love that about writing, what it does for me, how it allows me to connect with people, my vision, to hopefully open up space and create space where, you know, they feel that they can be who they are.

Hello. Did you ever imagine how it is that I explained to my mother that I peed my pants again and again and again? Misses Terry, I really, really need to go. I've been holding this for such a long time and I need to let it out. It might smell like genocide, like burnt ancient scriptures, but you told me to pronounce my words correctly. And for me that means to speak the truth. As proof that I have mastered your language, I wrote you this note. So, misses Parrot, may I please go to the bathroom.

But in that moment, right, whatever this anger, this pain I felt towards this person, it was gone. It was gone. I don't need this pain anymore. I don't need to carry this anymore. Because the poem did what it did for me.

Whatever we write, whatever story we want to tell, is much bigger than ourselves, even though we might not realize it then. When I write a letter or poem that yearns for a home, you never know what people are going to write. They don't know what they're going to write. And that's the beautiful thing about facilitating that space. It doesn't tell me about my ability as a facilitator, but the need for poetry.

I wake up in the morning with my two chubby daughters next to me, hit the kitchen, open the fridge, and eat the leftover chubbies from the night before. I see the ships and I smell the salt in the air while my grandfather checks the lobster traps and gives me a starfish she finds watching the waves as the tides come in, the smell of the salt in the air.

The place where I watch the fireworks on the 4 July, from the mountains overlooking the whole state, and I can point to a distant city and say, that is home. I think for me, returning to my country and being received with open arms, that's honestly like probably the best electronic experience I've had in my life so far.

I'm running from, yeah, just the noise of what expectations people have of me, what expectations I have of myself, what society thinks, what I should be doing or not doing. I know I'm running towards something, and I feel like every year gets clearer and clearer what that something is.

Education, Culture, Inspiration, Immigration, Poetry, Identity, Pbs