We Hustle

A love letter to the people who carry families, neighborhoods, and hope forward.

While driving around the city on my errand run, I couldn’t help but notice them.

Street vendors. Food carts. Flower vendors. Fruit stands. People on corners, in parking lots, near busy intersections, doing what so many in our community have always done.

Working.

The first thought that came to mind was simple:

We hustle.

The Latino community hustles to make ends meet. We hustle to provide for our families. We hustle because bills do not wait, children still need shoes, elders still need care, and life has a way of demanding strength even when we are already tired.

I know this kind of hustle because I saw it growing up.

As far back as I can remember, my dad worked full-time and went to school at night. On weekends, he worked on the house he was building for us or accepted photography gigs to bring in extra income. Then, by Sunday morning, he was ready to teach his Sunday school lesson.

It is exhausting just thinking about it.

My mom, on the other hand, was the unpaid miracle worker.

She raised three kids while caring for her aging mother-in-law. She was our taxi driver, taking us to school, sporting events, band practices, church activities, dental or doctor appointments, and everything in between. She made sure we had three meals a day, most of them cooked from scratch, with the occasional McDonald’s or Jack in the Box trip when life got busy.

She was also the CFO of our household. She balanced the checkbook, paid the bills, stretched every dollar, cleaned the house, washed the laundry, restocked the pantry, and handled countless tasks that often go unnoticed because mothers are expected to make hard things look easy.

And like my dad, she was ready to teach her Sunday school class on Sunday morning.

My parents were, and still are, the dream team.

In my eyes, they represent the American dream. They worked the fields as children and rose up to become homeowners, entrepreneurs, and church leaders. They did not wait for perfect conditions. They built. They served. They sacrificed. They kept going.

So what does this have to do with street vendors and hustling?

Everything.

Because when I see a street vendor, I do not see laziness. I see effort. I see sacrifice. I see someone standing in the heat, setting up early, staying late, and doing what needs to be done. I see someone’s parent, auntie, uncle, neighbor, or child trying to create a better life.

That is why the old image of the Mexican man sitting next to a cactus and napping never made sense to me.

Rest Was Never Laziness

An old stereotype that mistook exhaustion for laziness and turned it into a weapon against our community.

People used that image to suggest that we were lazy, that we only did enough to get by, that we lacked ambition. Growing up, I never understood it because I did not know anyone who fit that image.

I remember thinking maybe he was sleeping because he was tired.

Maybe he spent the morning picking in the fields. Maybe he spent the afternoon rebuilding someone’s home. Maybe he worked a double shift. Maybe he is resting because his body finally demanded it.

Somewhere along the way, someone mistook rest for laziness, turned it into a stereotype, and weaponized it against us.

But we are not a stereotype.

We are resilient people.

We have entrepreneurship in our blood. We are creative. We are resourceful. We understand systems, people, survival, and sacrifice in ways others may never take the time to learn.

We are carpenters, landscapers, cleaning experts, chefs, tailors, seamstresses, salespeople, artists, caregivers, doulas, midwives, clergy, counselors, community leaders, justice advocates, and multilingual bridge-builders.

We are the ones who learn the rules twice: once in English, once in Spanish, and many times the hard way.

I write this because lately, it feels like our culture is being talked about with cruelty. We are being reduced to the worst names and the ugliest assumptions. People try to convince others that we do not deserve space, dignity, safety, or a sense of belonging.

And what hurts even more is when that cruelty is dressed up in faith language.

I do not write this to pick fights or debate politics.

I write this to remind anyone who will listen that we are not the lies spoken about us.

We are the people who show up. We are the people who keep going. We are the people who make something out of little. We are the people who work so younger generations can have more opportunities and aging family members can live with dignity.

We are the people who bring albóndigas when you are in the hospital.

We are the neighbors who pull in your garbage bins when you forget.

We are the ones who invite you in for café de olla or a glass of horchata.

We are the ones who help you move, lift the heavy furniture, check on your kids, pray for your family, and pull over when you are having car trouble on the side of the road.

We hustle.

We get the job done.

We give generously.

We carry families, faith, culture, and community on our backs.

We are not strangers.

We are your neighbors.

And we belong.