Carlos Hernandez and his wife Maritza welcome me into their home and introduce their daughters. Only their son, Carlos Jr., 11, is not there.

The conversation jumps back and forth between English and Spanish, with Cindi, 18, and Daisy, 16, speaking both languages flawlessly. Carlos speaks English but prefers Spanish, and Maritza, the family extrovert, calls her English “muy malo,” but she is motivated to learn. Shy Anai, 5, snuggles quietly between her parents on the sofa.

Cindi and Daisy describe their parents as loving and supportive. They stick up for them throughout the interview, making sure I understand the rapid-fire Spanish their parents revert to when animated. When Maritza laughs about being the only plump member of the family, the girls assure her it’s because of her pregnancies, not a lack of willpower. Their friendly bantering puts me at ease as I work to keep up.

The good humor disappears, however, when Cindi and Daisy respond to my inquiries about being teenagers on Vashon. Their dark eyes blaze as they recount the discrimination they have felt since entering high school. Cindi relates an incident from the swine flu epidemic, when a substitute teacher accused her of bringing it from Mexico; Maritza’s eyes well up as she recalls how Cindi was made to sit in a corner because of a benign cough, while an American girl was not.

“I’ve never experienced racism on Vashon, but my kids have,” Maritza says, lamenting her inadequacy to advocate for them at school. Sally Adam, a bilingual family advocate, has intervened on the girls’ behalf, Cindi adds, “but she is only one person for the whole district.”

Cindi and Daisy have left Vashon High School and are now taking classes through an online program. Daisy also fosters animals for Vashon Island Pet Protectors, and Cindi helps her mom clean houses. They are not sure if they will remain in the United States long term, feeling discouraged about their prospects yet having no reason to believe it will be easier in Mexico. They are the betwixt and between generation, struggling to fit in while feeling the sting of their differentness.

When Daisy complains about her boring life on Vashon compared to the fun she has off-Island, I tease her about being a typical teen. Maritza clarifies that the girls never leave without adult supervision — perhaps not so typical after all — and calls her relationship with the kids both open and strict. “I teach them to think about consequences,” she says firmly.

I am struck by the respect the parents show their kids, allowing them to speak at will without interruption or criticism. They all agree that family is the most important thing, money and possessions less so. They reflect on life in rural Mexico as more communal and relaxed, and Maritza misses the easy flow of friends and family dropping by. They are not complaining, merely expressing a longing many immigrants share.

Carlos tells of coming to the United States to work at age 14, returning home and marrying Maritza, and deciding to settle in the United States in 1991. Although they are all U.S. citizens, they refer to themselves as “Hispanos” and to native-born people as “Americans.” When I ask why, they shrug as if it’s obvious, acknowledging their separateness even as they assure me how well they’ve been treated here. Maritza smiles about the way shopkeepers welcome her with “hola” and send her on her way with a friendly “adios.”

They moved to Vashon at the urging of Islander Hans Koch, whom Carlos has known for more than 23 years and sees as a father figure. The family lives rent-free in exchange for working on the property. Maritza speaks of her initial loneliness, as they were among the first Mexicans on the Island, but she considers herself a “luchadora” — fearless. “I explained that my hands would speak for me, and I found work.” Often the entire family pitches in, doing odd jobs, gardening, cleaning and painting houses.

Carlos says that it was easier to immigrate before 9/11, when everything changed. “Americans look at Hispanics differently now, see us as the enemy.” Carlos warns others against immigrating to the United States unless they’ve already secured work. “It’s too hard to make it now. We’re blamed for stealing Americans’ jobs, even though we do work no one else wants, and for less money.”

The family uses few Island services, except forays to the food bank and WIC funding during Maritza’s pregnancies. Since only the kids have medical insurance, Carlos and Maritza count on continued good health and no more babies. Carlos is bothered if he sees a Hispanic take advantage of services, worrying that they will be judged for another’s behavior.

Maritza says, “We are all equal in America. Whether we are Hispanos, black, red or Asian, it doesn’t matter. Everyone should be treated with dignity.” They dream of better opportunities for their kids, hoping they will attend college, find fulfilling careers and become happily married. They are optimistic, despite the odds.

As I prepare to leave, Maritza hands me a plate of mangos to take home for supper. “The next time you go to Mexico,” she says, “we will invite you to visit our family there. You are always welcome.”

— Janie Starr, an Islander active with Sustainable Vashon and Welcome Vashon, has written several “On the Verge” columns.