“My father always told me, it’s not about what you have, but what you can share,” says Corissa, an entrepreneur, educator, involved in various businesses and community activism. “I can’t accept that they want to take away those dreams. We are the backbone of this country.”
Her voice breaks. Los Angeles is hurting and it hurts her; she’s more than an Angelino, she’s a Latina who has lived through the migrant experience through the history of her parents. She loves her city, loves her community, and can’t understand how someone with so much hatred can destroy the dreams of thousands of people.
“I don’t feel defeated, I feel angry and empowered. We need to educate the community, share information, and fight,” she says.
Corissa Hernandez is the daughter of Mexican immigrants.
“My father always told me, it’s not about what you have, but what you can share,” says Corissa, an entrepreneur, educator, involved in various businesses and community activism. “I can’t accept that they want to take away those dreams. We are the backbone of this country.”
For her, changing the narrative is crucial.
“Many people tell me they voted for Trump because of the economy. I ask them, ‘And how did you think he was going to do that?’”
Corissa knows about battles. She has lost businesses and risen again. She has cried and now laughs.
In the interview, you can hear Corissa sobbing, grieving, as if she were a character from Juan Rulfo, as if she were Susana San Juan or maybe Leona Vicario, the great heroine of Mexican independence.
“I decided, and my path in life led me to empower the community, and that’s what I’m going to do. Los Angeles has suffered a lot, and now, after the fires, it has suffered blows from the government. Federal cuts have affected many people, and that hurts,” she says.
Amid all this pain, she says, “I know many people that are involved in organizations, many people committed. We’re going to fight back, they haven’t defeated us.”
Corissa has a long history of fighting for civil rights. She was involved in the Chicano movement, finding her voice in high school, spending her summer vacations when she was supposed to be on some beach, instead helping at Indigenous reservations.
“This experience takes me back to those times, and I want to say one thing: they haven’t defeated us, we’re here, ready to fight,” she says.
I ask her, ‘Do you like boxing?’
And she says, ‘Of course!’
I add, “Are these times to be like Julio Cesar Chavez?” (the greatest Mexican fighter).
And she responds, “Of course, they won’t defeat us. We’ve been here fighting several battles, and they haven’t defeated us.”
“It’s nice to know that our community is ready, but we can’t burn ourselves out. We need to be strategic, organize ourselves, and prepare for the midterm elections, go out and vote, and show our power,” she adds.
Corissa knows about battles. She has lost businesses and risen again. She has cried and now laughs. She has mentored young people, entrepreneurs, and if you see her on the street and need something, she’ll surely stop and lend a hand.
“No nos esten chingando,” would be a phrase she might say. A phrase that our community would repeat.
“I’m heartbroken about Boyle Heights, the Struggle Left by the Pandemic.” Corissa Hernandez
