In the Country We Love

by Diane Guerrero

  Between my nightly performances and Los Hermanos Lebron blaring from our radio, rarely was there a quiet moment. Did the ruckus annoy the people on our street? Not in the least. In immigrant communities all over the globe, celebrating is part of the culture. It’s a survival mechanism. When your relatives are thousands of miles away, you make up for it by connecting with others who speak your language. Eat your food. Love your music. Understand your traditions. Our neighbors weren’t only our neighbors; they were our extended family. We showed up for one another’s barbecues, baptisms, anniversaries, quinceañeras. And the holidays? Off the chain. We partied our way from one residence to the next. In fact, I don’t remember a single quiet Thanksgiving or Christmas. Ever.

  We moved a lot, but all within the small radius of Boston’s neighborhoods, some more blighted than others. If the rent was due to increase at the end of a lease term, my parents had to search for a more affordable option. Until I was three, we lived in Hyde Park. From there, we relocated to Jamaica Plain, and then to neighboring Roslindale when I was around seven. And finally, when I was twelve, to Egleston in Roxbury. I liked Roslindale. It was mostly a residential area filled with working-class families who stayed away from trouble. Egleston, on the other hand, was frickin’ scary. Gunshots rang out at midnight. Reports of stabbings made the headlines. Graffiti covered the buildings. Dudes in lowriders blasted rap or reggaeton or Puerto Rican freestyle jams as they rolled down Washington Street. Not exactly the Hamptons, but it’s what we could afford.

  Our homes were small and often crappy; some were funkier than others. Tiny bedrooms. Eric usually had his own space, and until I was five, I slept with my parents. As I got older, Mami carved out a makeshift bedroom for me, mattress and all. We typically had a yard. Sometimes, we lived in an apartment; other times, we were in a two-family house. I didn’t care as long as we were together.

  Compared to some neighborhoods around Boston, ours felt like a different planet. On a Sunday when Papi wasn’t working, he’d drive us to Wellesley, as well as to nearby Newton, Weston, and Dover. As we weaved our way through the beautiful neighborhoods, passing the stone clock tower and the ivy-covered colonial homes, I’d stare from my window and imagine what it must be like to live there. Luxury cars, pools, ladies lunching—you know, typical white people stuff.

  “God,” I’d pray as I gazed dreamily from the backseat, “it would be so nice to live here one day.” I wasn’t asking for the biggest or most charming house; just a little house that was our own, just ours. A child in Wellesley surely couldn’t have the same problems as a brown girl from the hood. If you were white and wealthy and impeccably manicured, your life had to be perfect. In my head, that’s how the fairy tale unfolded.

  My mother did all she could to make our surroundings nice. She hung lacy sheer curtains that she’d purchased on sale from Marshalls or Macy’s. She spruced up our bathroom with a blue, fluffy toilet seat cover and matching floor mat. On her days off, she dusted and organized our entertainment center, which held dozens of old CDs, albums, and cassettes from all the best Latin artists. She also had a thing for scented candles. During the Catholic holidays, she’d line up a row, lighting each to fill our living room with a sweet aroma.

  Mami’s desire for good aesthetics extended to her own appearance. She took pride in how she looked, valuing cleanliness as much as she did an honest day’s work. Now that I look back on it, she was somewhat of a glam girl: She saved her pennies so she could occasionally splurge on Victoria’s Secret lotion and Lancôme lipstick; she kept her nails polished. And before bed, she brushed her shoulder-length, black mane until it was silky.

  Papi was well groomed, too. His short hair was swept neatly back, his mustache perfectly trimmed. He wore cologne daily. And no matter how close he and Mami came to the financial cliff-edge, they made sure Eric and I were presentable and always rocked at least one cool outfit. They couldn’t buy us many extras, but they taught us to make the most of what we had and to look our best. They also passed on an important lesson—that our bond with each other and with the people in our community was the one luxury that should be most treasured.

  Halloween is my favorite holiday. It was at a neighborhood get-together that I met two of my closest friends. I was five. Mami had gotten to know this nice Colombian lady, Amelia, who lived several blocks over from us in Jamaica Plain. “Why don’t you come by on Saturday?” she asked. She was having a gathering, just because; Colombians don’t need a reason to party. Mami agreed, and that weekend, I made my debut as Tinker Bell. Amelia’s daughter, Gabriela, also five, was dressed as Snow White; her cousin, Dana, was Minnie Mouse. When a flying fairy, a stunning princess, and a polka-dot-clad mouse come face-to-face, there’s zero need for small talk. That’s why I cut to the chase: “Wanna dance?” I asked. Both girls nodded and grinned. After we’d shown each other our best steps, there was no looking back; I had two best friends for life. A couple of hours later, Mami had to drag me out of there.

  The next Halloween at a church costume contest, I expanded my BFF circle by one. “Nice tutu,” I said to this girl named Sabrina, who’d shown up wearing the same white ballerina outfit I had on; I had a total “bitch stole my look” moment … like hell, this little girl is not going to out ballerina me! I am not the one. We both bolted onto that stage, full throttle. She clearly wasn’t going to bow down—thirty pliés, sautés, and whatever shit we were trying to pass off as ballerina moves. Later we both lost the contest; her cousin Dee, who wore a rad Little Mermaid costume made by the one and only Venesolana, the best costume maker and seamstress in the neighborhood, won it. Sabrina and I realized there was no other way to come out of this ordeal but to become besties.

  “Mami,” I’d beg after school, “can my friends come over?”

  “They can if you’ve finished your homework,” she’d say, cutting up a pepino cucumber ahead of supper.

  My mother’s answer was all it took to send me scurrying to round up the girls. Some days, I’d hang with Dana and Gabriela; other times, it was just me and Sabrina. But whenever all four of us got together, we were like the barrio rat pack; and we did not sit still. We Rollerbladed. We rode our bikes. We splashed in the public pool. But mostly, we lingered in the yard with our dolls so my parents could watch us. Every thirty minutes or so, I’d shuffle in to sweet-talk Papi into giving me Popsicles. “You’re not going to be hungry for dinner!” Mami would cut in. Before she could interfere, I was back outside, handing out the frozen treats to my playmates.

  On days now when I’m feeling out of balance, when the world is spinning too fast, I close my eyes and recall those afternoons. Papi, sticking his head out of the screen door simply to check on me and my friends. Mami, stirring her stew while humming and swiveling her hips to the rhythm of cumbia or the sounds of her novelas. Us girls, lost in our laughter, disappearing into our world of dolls, books, board games, and imagination. There, in the most ordinary of days, the greatest joys of my childhood resided. Supper on the stove. Music in the air. Love all around. My wonder years.

  * * *

  My mother and father loved Colombia and hadn’t planned to come to the United States. Mami, the fifth eldest of seven, was raised in Palmira—a rural town in the Cauca River Valley, the southwestern part of the country. That region is naturally gorgeous, its residents twice as warm as the tropical sun overhead. Farmers, with carts of mangoes, plantains, avocados, and papayas, line the dirt road leading into the main square. In the silence before daybreak, mothers rise to collect their children’s colorful garments from the clotheslines strung between tenement windows. Most locals get around by bike, pedaling to and from their jobs as field-workers. Plant workers. Civil servants. Fishermen. Maids. Cooks. In the evenings, as dusk gives way to nightfall, families share their meals. Their stories. Their hardships and aspirations. As impoverished as many Colombians are—nearly a third of residents live below the poverty line—they’ve maintained a spirit of resilience. There’s an optimism that things can and wil
l improve.

  My mother’s parents clung to that belief. They had none of the basics many of us take for granted, such as indoor toilets and often electricity, yet they held on to their desire to give their sons and daughters a leg up. For three decades, they worked their fingers to the bone, harvesting sugarcane in the fields. They used part of their income on schooling, and, in one sense, their investment paid off: Three of my mother’s siblings are college-educated. My uncle Pablo is a schoolteacher licensed in mathematics. My aunt Mare was becoming a lawyer. And my uncle Carlos became an industrial engineer. Yet in Colombia, getting a degree doesn’t bring the same opportunity as it can in America. Jobs are scarce. The economy is dysfunctional. Government corruption abounds. Those with a master’s or doctorate often can’t make a living. It doesn’t matter how admirable your work ethic or education if you can’t put either to use. And, of course, there’s a major economic and social divide. For those who don’t come from money, it’s almost impossible to become successful.

  Nonetheless, Mami set out to become a teacher. Life, however, had different plans. While completing her program at a local university, my mother fell in love. She left school, married, and became pregnant, all in the year leading up to her eighteenth birthday. She was in her first trimester when she made a crushing discovery: The man who had married her and who’d pledged to love her forever was already married and had another family, one he’d hidden from her. Under the weight of that enormous betrayal, their vows crumbled. Mami wasn’t just upset; she was completely shattered. Alone in her misery, she wept her way through the remainder of the pregnancy until, in August 1976, doctors delivered my brother as a preemie. It was just Eric and my mom now.

  My dad, who grew up a few streets over from my mother in Palmira, survived his own series of heartaches. He was fourteen on the day his father died suddenly of an aneurism. Amid the anguish of that misfortune, he was forced to help with his family’s expenses; he, the seventh of eight children, became one of his family’s breadwinners and began picking beans in the fields even as he continued his studies. More tragedy followed. Four years later, Papi’s widowed mother and sister were on a bus when the bus’s brakes failed. The bus careened off the road and burst into flames. Every passenger made it off alive except for one—my father’s mother, my grandma Carlota. She breathed her final breath while saving her daughter. After he lost his mother, my father set aside school altogether to work full-time in the fields. Like my mother’s family, Papi and his siblings grew up with so little, yet made the most of what they had. My aunt Luisa and aunt Nancy eventually became teachers; my uncle went on to work as a clerk. Maite, the eldest of the siblings, had always taken care of the family using her earnings as a seamstress. My uncle Johan had already left Colombia in search of work abroad. And some of the other brothers and sisters pursued college.

  My parents didn’t know each other as children. They met when he was twenty-five and she was twenty. A mutual friend introduced them. In those days, my mother’s family was known in the neighborhood for throwing dance parties; my father went to one, and while there, he spotted this goddess ballerina. My mother was the best dancer in the room, and to this day, she is a very poised and elegant dancer. Papi was attracted by Mami’s moves, as well as by her brilliant smile and spirit. By then, my father already had a reputation as an amazing salsa dancer. He was also fly. His sister Maite, who’d been a seamstress, was always making him these John Travolta–looking outfits. Around town, people called him Chino Pinta, which is slang for “well dressed.” My mother already knew of him and had a crush from afar.

  Practically from the moment she laid eyes on him up close, Mami knew she wanted to be with my dad. He was as handsome, fit, and olive-toned as he was charming and reserved—a perfect balance for my mother’s outgoing personality. Papi wasn’t the one to settle down, but my mom put in the work to bag it up. He thought long and hard before committing until he could no longer resist her bewitchment. Even now he’s the kind of man who doesn’t easily commit to anything. They didn’t marry, but they did struggle along together on the little money Papi could earn in his job in a sugarcane plant. Papi made so little that both he and Mami had to continue living with their families because they couldn’t afford a place of their own. Mami also worked for a bus company called Palmira Express. In a nation where employment is so difficult to find, romantic love sometimes comes second to survival.

  My parents had been with each other for only six months when Mami experienced another misfortune: Her younger sister was killed in the crosshairs of random gunfire. Exactly one year later, on the anniversary of my aunt’s passing, my mother’s mom was sitting in her living room, nursing the agony of her daughter’s death. As she wept, she suffered a massive heart attack. “Your grandmother died of a broken heart,” my mother has often told me.

  Those tragedies shook Mami to the core of her being. On many mornings, she was almost too distraught to crawl out of bed; her love for Eric and my father is what kept her going. Even as she carried on, she yearned to escape the despair all around her, to start over someplace else. She wanted my brother to have a better life, one that wasn’t possible on a plant worker’s pay. Years earlier, my mother’s older sister, Milly, had moved with her husband from Colombia to Passaic, New Jersey. They’d been granted permanent residence. Mami, who’d visited my aunt numerous times with my brother in tow, saw an abundance of opportunities there, a place far from her crippling losses.

  “We should go stay with my sister and get on our feet,” Mami told my father. Papi, known for his caution, wasn’t persuaded. But even with working from dawn to nightfall, he made less than $200 a month. Not only were he and my mother emotionally traumatized by the sorrows of their early lives; they were also financially desperate. So in 1981, with all their belongings stuffed into two suitcases, they arrived in Passaic, on a four-year visitor visa—the type of visa that was easiest for them to attain because they were invited and hosted by family members who were here legally. My dad had his doubts about making the trip. My mother planned never to look back.

  America wasn’t initially the dreamland my parents thought it would be; as fervently as they tried, they couldn’t land even the lowliest of jobs. With the help of my aunt and uncle and their friends, they eventually hustled up a few part-time positions. Yet with the work unsteady and the funds low, they argued about whether to remain. Mami wanted to stay; Papi, who was particularly bothered by the fact that they were in the country undocumented, considered going back. He hated living with the fear that, without warning, they could be deported. But my mother talked him into sticking it out. “Let’s see if we can make it work,” she told him. My father—aware that, as little as they were bringing in, it was far more than he could make in Colombia—reluctantly agreed. And even amid their bickering, my parents saw eye-to-eye on one thing: Somehow, some way, they needed to work toward legal permanent residence. That’s why, from the minute their visas expired, they began strategizing about how they could become citizens.

  One year stretched into five. They still had just enough cash to keep themselves fed and clothed, and yet my mother wanted to have another baby—to put down roots here with my father. For a long time, he held her off. But by 1985, the two were in sync. Papi loved my mother and wanted to raise a child with her. So they moved forward with what they’ve told me is their proudest accomplishment: having me. It’s so Third World of them, not to mention hilarious. The point is that I wasn’t an accident; they chose to get pregnant. Who says immigrants aren’t planners? Not much else had gone right for my parents, but I was right—110 percent.

  On July 21, 1986, I entered the world with a privilege that has shaped my entire existence. Because I was born on US soil, I received a right guaranteed by the Fourteenth Amendment of our Constitution—citizenship. The two people who made that blessing possible for me would’ve traded just about anything to have it for themselves. They’d grown to love this country and longed to call it their homeland.


  Mami was still breast-feeding me when our family moved from New Jersey to Boston. “You’ll be able to find more work there,” a friend had told her. “It’s a great place to raise kids.” In January 1987, on the eve of a big snowstorm, Papi loaded up all eight of our possessions and drove us four hours north. Ahead of the trip, my parents had managed to set aside a bit of savings. On the morning we moved into our apartment in Hyde Park, my father handed the landlord a neatly stacked set of bills, the lion’s share of everything he had. At least our rent was covered—for the first month, anyway.

  * * *

  My family had its share of drama. For starters, my brother and father did not get along, particularly once Eric reached adolescence. When he was fifteen, my brother fell into an emotional slump. He couldn’t see a future for himself in this country; it’s nearly impossible to dream big when you don’t even have your legal papers. As smart as Eric is—he’s excellent at math and English—he lost interest in school. His grades slipped. Instead of hitting the books, he spent long hours with his girlfriend, Gloria. He stayed out past his curfew, and when he did come home, he refused to say where he’d been. It takes a lot to rile up my father. My brother’s behavior did the trick.

  “Where were you last night?” he said to Eric one Sunday morning when my brother dragged into the kitchen. I, then seven, was eating a bowl of Lucky Charms. Mami and Papi were seated with me at our table.

  Eric didn’t look at my father. “None of your damn business,” he mumbled. My mother and I traded glances.

  Papi stood and walked toward my brother until he was about three inches from his face. Eric stepped back. My dad moved closer. “You listen to me,” he warned. “You don’t curse in front of our daughter, you hear me?”