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My mom, Blanca, was born in a small village where survival depended entirely on your body and your endurance. There were no schools. No electricity. No running water. Drinking water and any water used for cooking, bathing, or washing came from a river stream more than an hour away on foot. Homes were built with dirt floors, walls made from sticks tied together, and metal sheets for roofs. The only work available was harvesting fruits and vegetables for pennies a day, long hours under the sun, with little pay and no future. Opportunity simply did not exist.
She taught herself how to read and write in Spanish. And one day, with nothing but the clothes on her back, she left her village not because she wanted to leave her home, but because staying meant there was no life ahead of her. She came to the United States searching for safety, opportunity, and a chance to give her children a better life than the one she was born into.
From the moment she arrived, survival wasn’t optional; it was necessary. She worked long, physically demanding hours, often in silence, often without complaint, doing whatever it took to keep moving forward. For nearly 20 years, my mom worked at the Tyson Foods plant in Lexington, Nebraska.
That job is how she raised six children as a single mother. It’s how she paid the bills, put food on the table, and kept a roof over our heads. It was never easy or glamorous, but it was honest work, and she gave it everything she had. Now, stability has disappeared.
Along with nearly 3,000 other workers, my mom was told the plant would be shutting down. During the meeting, people asked questions, but no clear answers were given. Then she was handed a letter explaining the closure only in English, even though she only reads Spanish. After decades of loyal work, that’s how she was informed.
Since then, I’ve seen people ask why she didn’t “just learn English.” That question ignores the reality of her life. My mom worked over 12 hours a day, Monday through Saturday, in physically exhausting labor. All of her coworkers spoke Spanish or other languages besides English. When she came home, she wasn’t resting; she was raising six children alone. Every spare moment went to caring for us and keeping us safe. Survival always came first.
Lexington is over 70% Hispanic/Latino. In stores, schools, clinics, and local businesses, Spanish was always available. There were few opportunities or reasons to practice English. At home, we spoke Spanish, keeping our culture alive. That wasn’t a refusal to adapt; it was how we survived. Learning a new language takes time, energy, access, and mental space. With nonstop work, exhaustion, and the need to care for six children, those resources simply weren’t available. It wasn’t a lack of effort—it was circumstance.
When I called my mom after the closure, she tried to reassure me. She said she had no savings for the mortgage but told me not to worry. No matter what, she’d be okay.
That broke my heart.
My mom knows struggle intimately. She’s fought to survive from the moment she was born. She’s endured domestic physical and mental abuse, poverty, hunger, and yet somehow, after everything she has been through, she still carries a heart full of love for those around her. She’s gentle, humble, kind, and resilient, always giving her last dollar, her last meal, her last ounce of strength to help others because that is the type of person she is.
Her home isn’t extravagant. It’s small and in need of endless repairs. The windows haven’t been replaced since 1970, so cold air comes in, and the heater struggles during brutal winters. The bathroom needs repairs. There’s no dishwasher — she still washes dishes by hand. The basement has water damage from multiple floods.
We did all the repairs and improvements over the years. We learned to fix things ourselves because we had to. We did not have funds to hire a professional, so we learned to fix things ourselves, we tried, and we made it work. We would even go to junkyards looking for things we could fix and repurpose. Bikes, scooters, home appliances, anything we could bring back to life. Other people’s trash became our treasure. Every improvement in that house represents resilience, family, and love. It’s her home, and she is proud of it because she did it all by herself with us by her side.
Behind her house, she tends a large organic garden, fruits and vegetables she grows with her own hands. The literal fruits of her labor. Proof of her patience, care, and determination.
We relied on food banks to make sure there was something to put on the table. Nothing ever went to waste. Every meal mattered. That kind of struggle stays with you. It teaches you how to stretch, how to survive, and how to keep going when things feel impossible.
Now, this plant closure threatens everything she’s worked for: her job, her home, her stability.
And she is not alone. Lexington is a town of about 10,000 people with a large immigrant and working-class community. Tyson is the backbone of this town. Losing this plant will ripple through jobs, small businesses, schools, and families.
My mom always planned to retire from Tyson at 65. That was the quiet dream she held onto after decades of physical labor, to work a few more years and finally rest. But when we started helping her gather documents to look for another job, we discovered something none of us were prepared for: her 401(k) has a zero balance. There is no retirement waiting for her. The plan she worked toward for nearly 20 years disappeared in a single moment.
Now, five years from the age she hoped to retire, she is facing job loss, mortgage payments, bills, and an uncertain future all at once. We grew up paycheck to paycheck. There was never room to save; only to survive.
For nearly 20 years, she was able to walk to and from the Tyson plant because our home is just a few blocks away. That job was accessible to her in a way no other work has been. Now that the plant is closing, even finding new employment becomes harder without dependable transportation.
This GoFundMe is to give my mom something she’s never truly had: time.
Time to just breathe.
Time to process.
Time to figure out what comes next.
It’s to help her stay in the home she built from nothing—the home she poured decades of love, sacrifice, and hard work into — and to help her get reliable transportation so she can keep working if she needs to. Knowing my mom, she will push herself forward immediately, searching for work without allowing herself a moment to rest. This fund is her chance to pause, to feel supported, and to know she is not facing this alone.
She has spent her entire life surviving.
She deserves peace.
She deserves dignity.
She deserves to know that her sacrifices mattered.
If you’re able to donate, share, or even take the time to read her story, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your kindness means more than words can express, and it will never be forgotten.
https://nebraskapublicmedia.org/es/news/news-articles/tyson-announces-plan-to-close-plant-in-lexington/
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