Patricia Martínez emigró de Colombia a Central Falls, Rhode Island en 1973 a los 15 años, para reunirse con su padre, quien había llegado antes a trabajar en la industria textil. Fue una de diez hijos y enfrentó grandes desafíos: el choque cultural, la soledad y la frustración de estar en un programa de ESL mal equipado. A pesar de todo, se mantuvo en la escuela, guiada por el mensaje de su padre: la educación es la clave para la independencia. Con el tiempo, Patricia se convirtió en una figura clave del servicio comunitario y la educación. Comenzó como voluntaria de VISTA en Progreso Latino y llegó a ser su directora ejecutiva. Desarrolló programas centrados en las necesidades reales de la comunidad, amplió servicios a otros grupos de inmigrantes y lideró una campaña para expandir la organización. Más adelante, trabajó en la Rhode Island Foundation, SER-Jobs y en el gobierno estatal. En 2005, fue nombrada directora del Departamento de Niños, Jóvenes y Familias. Hoy trabaja en el distrito escolar de Central Falls, apoyando a familias inmigrantes y promoviendo la educación como vía de futuro. Su trayectoria refleja un compromiso constante con la justicia social, siempre conectada a su propia experiencia como inmigrante.
Let me tell you, I didn’t plan on staying here. None of us really did—not at first. When my father left Colombia in 1970, it was like so many other stories. He came to the U.S. with a dream: work hard in the textile mills for two years, save up, and go back home. But reality had other plans. He quickly realized what many immigrants do—when you're paying rent here and sending money back to your family there, there’s nothing left to save. So instead of going back, he brought us over.
I was fifteen when I came to Rhode Island in 1973, the sixth of ten children. And let me tell you—it was brutal. I left behind my friends, my world, and landed in the cold of March, in a place where I didn’t speak the language and didn’t feel like I belonged. I used to cry every single day after school, begging my father to send me back to Colombia. I didn’t want to be here.
At that time, there were only a handful of Colombian families in Central Falls, maybe even the whole state. We were thrown into an ESL program that was housed in a trailer outside the high school—a literal trailer. They grouped all of us together, no matter our educational background, and the curriculum was aimed at the lowest level. The expectations were low, and the isolation was real. We weren’t even allowed in the main building most days. It was like we were invisible.
Eventually, I adjusted. Made friends. Stayed in school. Some of my older siblings who had already finished high school in Colombia moved on to UMass Amherst, joining one of the first bilingual college programs. But I stayed behind and graduated from high school in Central Falls. That wasn’t easy, but my father—who was incredibly progressive for his time—kept reminding us, especially the girls, that education was the one thing no one could take away from us. He used to say, “If you ever find yourself alone, without a husband or a job, at least you’ll have an education.”
That message stuck.
At that time, there were only a handful of Colombian families in Central Falls, maybe even the whole state. We were thrown into an ESL program that was housed in a trailer outside the high school—a literal trailer. They grouped all of us together, no matter our educational background, and the curriculum was aimed at the lowest level. The expectations were low, and the isolation was real. We weren’t even allowed in the main building most days. It was like we were invisible.
Eventually, I adjusted. Made friends. Stayed in school. Some of my older siblings who had already finished high school in Colombia moved on to UMass Amherst, joining one of the first bilingual college programs. But I stayed behind and graduated from high school in Central Falls. That wasn’t easy, but my father—who was incredibly progressive for his time—kept reminding us, especially the girls, that education was the one thing no one could take away from us. He used to say, “If you ever find yourself alone, without a husband or a job, at least you’ll have an education.”
That message stuck.
Education Then Organizing the Community
By the time I graduated, I didn’t even know how to apply to college. I had no idea what the SAT was. There were guidance counselors, but none of them helped me. It was my siblings who pointed me toward CCRI. I enrolled in human services, because I already knew what it meant to advocate—to translate, to support, to explain complicated systems to people like my parents and their friends. I had been doing that since I was 14.
As I learned English, I became the go-to translator for my family and half the neighborhood. I translated at the bank, at doctor’s appointments, even during mortgage applications. Can you imagine a teenager interpreting legal and financial documents without fully understanding them herself? That was me. That was many of us. Looking back, it was an enormous responsibility—but it also made me grow up fast. And it gave me purpose.
That purpose eventually led me to become a VISTA Volunteer at Progreso Latino in 1980. Back then, VISTA was all about grassroots organizing—canvassing, focus groups, knocking on doors to find out what our community needed. I loved it. But when Reagan took office, he changed the program’s mission. We weren’t allowed to organize anymore. Instead, we had to build programs. So we listened to the community and created what they asked for: ESL classes, job training, adult education. That’s how Progreso Latino’s core programs got started.
I went on to work as a community organizer for the Diocese of Providence, then returned to Progreso Latino as Associate Director, eventually becoming Executive Director. I co-led a capital campaign to expand the building. I also worked for SER-Jobs, the Rhode Island Foundation, and the Central Falls School Department, always staying rooted in service.
As I learned English, I became the go-to translator for my family and half the neighborhood. I translated at the bank, at doctor’s appointments, even during mortgage applications. Can you imagine a teenager interpreting legal and financial documents without fully understanding them herself? That was me. That was many of us. Looking back, it was an enormous responsibility—but it also made me grow up fast. And it gave me purpose.
That purpose eventually led me to become a VISTA Volunteer at Progreso Latino in 1980. Back then, VISTA was all about grassroots organizing—canvassing, focus groups, knocking on doors to find out what our community needed. I loved it. But when Reagan took office, he changed the program’s mission. We weren’t allowed to organize anymore. Instead, we had to build programs. So we listened to the community and created what they asked for: ESL classes, job training, adult education. That’s how Progreso Latino’s core programs got started.
I went on to work as a community organizer for the Diocese of Providence, then returned to Progreso Latino as Associate Director, eventually becoming Executive Director. I co-led a capital campaign to expand the building. I also worked for SER-Jobs, the Rhode Island Foundation, and the Central Falls School Department, always staying rooted in service.
First Latino To Serve in a Statewide Cabinet
Then, in 2005, Governor Don Carcieri asked me to join his cabinet as the Director of the Department of Children, Youth and Families. It was a huge honor. I brought my community-centered approach into the child welfare system, building public-private partnerships and shifting the culture so that families and youth had more of a voice. And I did it while staying grounded in who I was—a Latina, an immigrant, someone who never forgot the trailer behind the school or the tears of that first winter.
Later, I returned to the world of education, serving as Executive Director of Family and Student Supports for the Central Falls School District. Now I work with families every day—some of them new arrivals from Colombia, just like we were. I see how much has changed. Today’s families have better access to services, more bilingual support, and fewer barriers in some ways. But financially, things are harder. The economic pressures are heavier now, and the dream that brought so many of us here feels more complicated.
But I still believe in that dream—just not the one with the car and the house. For me, the American Dream is education. I tell my students all the time: education is the one thing no one can take away from you. It’s the key to everything. It’s the reason our families made the journey in the first place.
And if I have one message to the next generation, it’s this: dream big, fight for your education, and never forget where you come from. Our stories matter—and they deserve to be heard.
Later, I returned to the world of education, serving as Executive Director of Family and Student Supports for the Central Falls School District. Now I work with families every day—some of them new arrivals from Colombia, just like we were. I see how much has changed. Today’s families have better access to services, more bilingual support, and fewer barriers in some ways. But financially, things are harder. The economic pressures are heavier now, and the dream that brought so many of us here feels more complicated.
But I still believe in that dream—just not the one with the car and the house. For me, the American Dream is education. I tell my students all the time: education is the one thing no one can take away from you. It’s the key to everything. It’s the reason our families made the journey in the first place.
And if I have one message to the next generation, it’s this: dream big, fight for your education, and never forget where you come from. Our stories matter—and they deserve to be heard.
This incorporates two interviews: In 2000 and 2017 (for a RIPBS video)
Narrative written by Marta V. Martínez
The best thing that I did, my most proudest moment, is when a group of us founded the Coalition of Hispanic Organizations (Coalición) because that was the agency that gave respect to the community. That was the agency that put the name Hispanic high in the eyes of elected officials a policy makers.
You see, when you think about who are and what is a "Hispanic," you think about it only as a word, or maybe you think of a particular neighborhood. You’re not thinking about the people who may not live in that particular neighborhood, those who have established themselves outside of the south side of Providence. But, I tell you, those who do live [in that neighborhood] are people who have worked hard to be there: they run their house, they live there. The early years [the 1970s] were a period where the majority — mainly those who are not Hispanic — thought that these [Hispanics] were only people who were into drugs, and this and that. In reality the majority of the people there were very decent people... they lived very well and worked hard. So part of what I and a group of community activists did was to remind others that not everybody who lived in the South Providence neighborhood was poor or needy. Then and today, there are many professionals living in South Providence, and they are proud to live there.