I wrinkled my forehead. “My hair?” I said.
“Yep,” she answered. “It sheds. Before you leave the bathroom, can you please clean it up?”
“Uh, okay,” I said, the tears welling up. “I’m so sorry, Gabriela. I promise I’ll do that.”
From then on, I was OCD about my hair, which was immediately identifiable as mine since I was the only one with a straight, long black mane. After untangling my tresses, I’d thoroughly wipe down the sink and pick up every. Single. Strand.
At Amelia’s place, cash was tight. Papi sent money as promised. He’d gotten a friend to sell his and Mami’s cars; that cash, coupled with his lotto windfall, had to be split between providing for me and settling into his new life. If Amelia gave me a few dollars, I held on to it; I could make fifty bucks last for weeks. I loved being able to buy small things for myself. If I wanted a bottle of juice or something from the drugstore, I could pay for it without having to involve Amelia. I was smart and careful about my purchases, which pretty much limited me to buying tampons and dollar pizza. I couldn’t wait to turn sixteen so I could get a job. Financial independence—that’s what I wanted to create. While many girls my age were poring over fashion magazines or giggling about crushes, I was figuring out how I could make it on my own. My parents’ deportation had thrust me, headfirst, into the world of adult worries.
Mami and Papi vanished from my life at a critical juncture—as I was navigating that tricky passage between early and middle adolescence. My relationship with my parents had been changing. One minute, I wanted to be with them; the next, I was pushing them aside to hang with my pals. But once I no longer had access to them, I longed for the simplest experiences with them. Like watching a silly movie with my papi. Or having Mami bring me a cup of hot tea when I had cramps. In my mother’s absence, I learned to pop an Advil and keep moving. And although Amelia tried to fill in, it wasn’t quite the same.
I missed my parents most on one night in particular—Springfest. I’d nearly decided to pull out of the duet; I was so shaken up by my parents’ arrest that I didn’t know if I could get myself together. Then again, I didn’t want to disappoint Mr. Stewart or Damien. And I owed it to myself to go out there and do it. We’d worked hard. It would’ve been a shame to let our song go unsung.
The night of the concert rolled around. Amelia and Gabriela came to support me; so did Sabrina and her mom, Eva. “Dude, you’re going to be fantastic,” Gabriela told me before I went backstage. “We’ll be cheering you on.”
The show was filled with various performances, from opera, jazz, and contemporary to string ensemble and choral pieces. Everyone had a part in this thing; it was the one time of year when we could show our parents what we’d been working so hard at. Mr. Stewart gave Damien and me our cue, and we strode to our microphones. I peered out across the audience. It was packed with parents. Teachers. Administrators. People from the community. Even as I was about to perform, I was pinching myself that I’d been chosen.
Damien delivered his opening lines beautifully. Then came my turn. I closed my eyes. “‘In a world that’s moving too fast,’” I sang softly, “‘in a world where nothing can last, I will hold you … I will hold you.’” I was so nervous that my voice shook. And the words I’d practiced over and over now suddenly seemed new. Different. “‘So stay with me and hold me tight,’” we sang in unison, “‘and dance with me like it’s the last night of the world.’”
At the close of our piece, the room erupted in applause. Damien and I linked arms and bowed. I peered out again over the scores of faces, praying that, by some miracle, I’d spot Mami and Papi. Amid the bright lights and magic of that stage, the impossible seemed possible, even for the briefest of moments. Yet off the stage, with the curtains lowered and the auditorium empty, the cold truth remained. My parents, who for weeks had awaited their fate in a pair of New Hampshire jail cells, had already been sent to their homeland a world away.
* * *
I’d never been to Colombia. Yet in a way, I felt like I’d gone a dozen times. That’s because my parents kept Eric and me connected to their homeland. They played the music, prepared the foods, told us stories from their childhoods. We also talked frequently to our many aunts, uncles, and cousins there; and over the years, a few visited us. But in our culture it doesn’t matter if you’ve never met family; they are blood, and therefore you are connected by something greater. I didn’t have to see my relatives to know they cared for me; their love came through over the phone, and in the birthday cards and letters they always mailed us. Even still, since I hadn’t actually set foot in their country, it remained a kind of mystery to me. That changed in July 2001.
About three months after he’d returned to Palmira, Papi arranged for me to spend a month with him there. In the days leading up to my departure, I was eager and, yes, a bit apprehensive. How would it feel to see my parents again? What would their living conditions be? And was it safe there? As soon as my relatives heard I was coming, they began putting in requests for me to bring items that are hard to get or doubly expensive in Palmira, such as Victoria’s Secret lotion and Snickers candy bars. “Keep a close eye on your bags,” Papi warned me. “People steal.”
As if my blood pressure wasn’t already high enough, Papi hit me with some tough news a week before takeoff.
“Your mother and I have decided to separate,” he told me.
I pressed the phone closer to my ear. My heartbeat sped up. “What are you talking about, Papi?”
“We’re no longer speaking to each other,” he said. “When you come here, you can spend time with each of us. But don’t expect us to do things together.”
I nearly dropped the phone. All the bickering, the blaming each other for their circumstances, had threatened my parents’ connection for years. Deportation had apparently been the final blow. Once in Colombia, they went their separate ways. Mami moved in with her brother; Papi stayed with his sister. They lived minutes away from each other, but emotionally they were worlds apart. This trip was beginning to sound like one I’d rather not take.
I set out for Palmira on the eve of my fifteenth birthday. “Be careful,” Amelia told me as she dropped me off at Logan. “And call me once you’re there.” The flight from Boston to Cali’s Alfonso Bonilla Aragón, the closest international airport to my parents’ region, is long. Very. Especially if you throw in a layover in Miami. And especially if you’re uncertain what you’ll face upon landing. Mami and Papi had told me they’d meet me in the airport lounge. What they failed to mention is that they’d bring company. Oh my Lord.
When I entered the lounge, a band began playing a loud song. Oh no, please don’t let that be for me, I thought. Please don’t let that be for me. Yes—my mother had hired a full band to celebrate my arrival! Balloons, flowers, and a sign that read WELCOME TO COLOMBIA, DIANE! filled the waiting area. Several members of my extended family, as well as a bunch of neighbors my mom had rounded up, cheered, called out my name, and snapped random photos of me. I was so stunned that I couldn’t speak. I met eyes with Mami and Papi, both of whom were waving madly at me. My look of astonishment probably spoke volumes. I wanted to scream, “What the hell is all of this?” Instead, I put on a half smile. After all, it’s not every day that you get serenaded. The whole thing was pretty funny. Well, sort of.
“You’re here!” Mami shrieked. She rushed toward me with a hug. Papi stood aside as we embraced, and then he leaned in and kissed me on the forehead. “Hello, chibola,” he said. “I’m glad you made it.” Meanwhile, the band played on. People I didn’t know pushed bouquets into my hands. Finally, we all made our way out the sliding doors and into the sauna. The humidity immediately turned my straight hair into a puffy Colombian ’fro.
First stop: a party at my aunt’s place. Among a caravan of cars, my uncle drove Mami and me there. As you know by now, my mother can be chatty, but on this day she was completely wound up. She hurled question after question at me. “How’s Amelia?” she asked. Be
fore I could answer, she was on to the next topic: “Did you bring the lotion and all the other gifts for the family? And how did Springfest turn out?” I sat dazed and silent. I couldn’t believe I was in Colombia. I’d always thought I’d come for the first time with my folks, once they’d been granted citizenship—once “nuestra situación” had at last been settled. Everything had happened so quickly. One night, I was cheering with Papi over his lucky win. The next night, my parents were wearing orange. And now I was standing in the nation they’d once escaped. A serious whirlwind.
I stared from my window. In downtown Cali, locals on bikes weaved in and out of traffic. A lot of motorcycles and old cars, models I hadn’t seen in America, honked and switched lanes without signaling. Teen girls strutted by in booty-hugging dresses; some girls wore tiny, midriff-baring stretch tops and jeans that barely covered their butt cracks. Music rang out from all directions. Then on the road into Palmira, throngs of barefoot children begged. When we stopped at an intersection, some of the kids wandered right up to our car and pleaded for money or food; many were juggling limes, trying to earn cash from passersby.
“Mami, why are there so many children on the streets?” I asked.
My mother sighed. “Diane, they’re homeless,” she told me.
“Where are their parents?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she told me. My eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like for a five- or seven-year-old child to be left on their own. The entire scene was chaotic. Colorful. Exotic. Wild. And, because of the straight-up poverty, it was also a bit unsettling. In the States, I hadn’t witnessed that kind of hardship. I was struck with a realization: This could have been my life. OMG, would I have been juggling little limes too? WTF. This is not okay. What is going on? Save the children!
We pulled up to the house. My aunt and a slew of excited relatives filed out of the front door to greet us. Among the faces, I saw Eric. I lit up. I hadn’t expected to see my brother because I’d heard he was away in Santa Marta, a city in northern Colombia. He’d come home early.
“How are you, sis?” he said, picking me up and twirling me. “You’re so big now!”
“I’m good,” I said shyly, probably because I hadn’t seen him in so long. He looked different. Better. His face was clean-shaven, his complexion bright. During his first months in Colombia, he’d struggled to find his way; he floated from one family member’s home to the next. But he eventually found work as an English teacher. On the day of our reunion, he seemed happy.
After a bash that went on for hours, Mami and I left for her place. I’d stay with her first. Both of my parents’ homes were in working-class areas. Many of the residents had only cold water; you had to be wealthy to afford hot. Rows of cookie-cutter homes, most made from adobe, were as basic as basic can get. No bells. No whistles. No fancy interiors.
“Come on in,” Mami said as we walked through the door of my grandfather’s house. “Make yourself comfortable.” I rolled in my suitcase, set it aside, and began glancing around.
I followed my mother into a rear bedroom. There, she shared a tiny space with my young cousin. He slept on the top bunk, she on the bottom. At the foot of Mami’s bed, her suitcase lay open. Because she had no dresser, she lived from her bag—the one I’d hurriedly packed for her. She reached down, pulled out a coat from her luggage, and chuckled.
“So why’d you put this in here?” She smirked. “In this climate, I certainly didn’t need a coat.” I rolled my eyes. She went on to mention that I’d accidentally given her mismatched shoes. I knew my mother was half-joking, but her complaining annoyed me. How the heck was I supposed to know what to pack? Didn’t she understand the stress I’d been under just trying to keep our neighbors from looting? “I did my best,” I muttered. “At least you got a bag.”
That exchange set the tone for our visit. Day after day, Mami talked constantly about how sad she was, how excruciating her split from my father had been. Through the eyes of adulthood, I now understand that my mother was still reeling from all she’d been through. And if I found her new lifestyle difficult to accept, she must’ve found it incomprehensible. She was also recovering from the heartache of separation, because make no mistake—she was going through one. She and Papi hadn’t married, but their breakup was as devastating as any legal separation. At the airport and party, the two had been cordial for my sake. But all they wanted was to steer clear of each other.
I felt sorry for my mother, yet, at the same time, I blamed her for our predicament. By reopening the case in New Jersey, she made herself susceptible to deportation. On the one hand, I didn’t fault her for trying to shake things up—she was desperate to move forward in her life, to finally call this country her legal home. Even still, I blamed her for the haphazard way in which she handled the situation. She never tried to get confirmation about whether her application had indeed been handed over to the feds. Instead, she got scared and just let everything fall apart. And because she didn’t resolve it, because she didn’t see the process through to the end, she’d left our future up to chance. She’d also left us susceptible to people who wanted to do us harm.
I dealt with my resentment by leaving the house. I went out a lot, mostly with my other family. I’d clicked with three of my cousins, Raul, Fernando, and Liz; all were within a couple of years of my age. “Wanna go out tonight?” Fernando would swing by and ask. “Sure,” I’d say, glancing at Mami’s face to measure her degree of disappointment. To her credit, she didn’t hold me back. Even before she left Boston, I’d started spending more time with my friends and less with her and Papi, so this wasn’t new. The difference was that, rather than hanging with my friends in the neighborhood, I was stepping out into the unknown.
With my cousins as my tour guides, I experienced a side of Colombia I absolutely loved. There, teens generally have a lot more freedom than they do in America, so we’d be out for hours at a time. We sampled all kinds of foods. We hit the movies, the park, the mall. We danced all night at salsa clubs. It was a way to escape my reality. You name it, we did it, and I enjoyed all of it. Even with its many societal challenges, the country has this amazing energy, an irresistible vibrancy, this fervor that draws you in. When I was out with my favorite trio, I was shuttling between my relatives’ homes. From day one, people were all over me. I felt like a celebrity. “Can Diane come over for lunch today?” one of Mami’s brothers would call and ask. An hour later, the phone would ring with an additional invitation. Everywhere I went, people wanted to feed me, talk to me, hug me, dance with me, or introduce me to their friends and family. I got all of this attention because others saw me as unique. I was this young American girl who was still totally down with my Colombian roots. I was connected to the culture. I appreciated all the fuss, but it was easy to OD on it.
My last two weeks were spent with Papi. His surroundings were as modest as Mami’s, but he was chill about it; if his new lot in life was bothering him, he didn’t mention it. In fact, he was quiet overall and maybe a little down. At dusk when the humidity had dropped, he’d often take me out biking. One evening as we returned, I struck up a conversation.
“Papi?” I asked.
“Yes, Diane,” he said. “What is it?”
“Do you think someone turned you and Mami in?”
He paused. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“One of the guards at the detention told Mami that someone probably snitched on you guys.”
“I don’t know, Diane,” he said. He looked away from me. “And at this point,” he went on, “I guess it doesn’t matter. We’re here now. There’s not much I can do about it.” I shrugged, wheeled my bike into the garage, and left the mystery at that.
On the Sunday of my last week, Papi surprised me. “I want to take you someplace special for your birthday,” he said. “Just the two of us.” In Latin cultures, turning fifteen is a big deal for a girl; it marks the beginning of womanhood. Years before, I’d told my parents I had no desire for
a quinceañera, the traditional ceremony complete with white gloves and ball gowns. Not my thing. But I did want some kind of party, and, in fact, I’d already had three—one thrown by my mother, a second by my father’s sister, and a third courtesy of my cousins. So when Papi told me he’d top all that off with a vacay, I was thrilled.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I’m taking you to Cartagena,” he told me.
I raised my eyebrows. “Really, Papi?” I squealed. I’d heard that the historic city on the Caribbean coast was one of Colombia’s most gorgeous.
“Yes, really,” he said, laughing. “I used some of my savings to buy our tickets. We’ll go this week.”
I wasn’t just excited. Given the scarcity of cash, I was also grateful. Papi’s generosity made the journey so sweet as we strolled through the streets of Old Town, savored ceviche at a quaint restaurant, and watched the red-golden sunset over the silver waters. The getaway was perfect.
The magic ended as soon as I returned to Palmira. When I mentioned the trip to Mami, she teared up. “Wow,” she said, “it would’ve been nice to be there with you.” Hearing that we’d gone away without her brought up all the pain of her split from Papi. The sadness in Mami’s eyes reminded me of how wacky our lives had been.
Both of my parents went to the airport to see me off. “Why don’t you come live here?” Mami said. I didn’t respond. As much as I relished certain things about the trip, I knew there was no life for me there. Mami knew it too. Papi stood quiet. In fact, he’d never said one way or the other whether he wanted me to move there. He probably knew it was pointless to give his opinion, because I’d clearly made up my mind. I heard my call to board. I kissed each of them good-bye and set off for the one homeland I’d ever truly known.
* * *
More change awaited me in Boston. That July, Amelia had relocated from Roslindale to a two-bedroom in Roxbury. Gabriela’s brother had moved out, so although the new house was smaller, there was one less person sharing the space. Gabriela and I shared one room; Amelia and her oldest daughter were in the other.
In the Country We Love Page 11