In the Country We Love

by Diane Guerrero

  I began my sophomore year—no longer a newbie. I was still finding my way in the music department, and I loved it. I was into my classes. And I was excited about developing as a student and an artist. That fall semester also came with a bonus: Gabriela became my classmate. “You’d like it here,” I’d repeatedly told her the year before. “You should audition.” She did, and a few weeks later she received the same letter that once gave me a reason to keep going.

  The only thing better than being at Boston Arts was having a close friend there. After eighth grade, Dana had moved to Florida with her family, and Sabrina went to a different high school. Still my homies though—don’t get it twisted. It was great to have a familiar friend in high school, and even better to know that my other girls would be friends forever.

  Following that huge taste of freedom in Palmira, I returned ready to spread my social wings. At a movie theater near campus, a bunch of my friends and I would hang out after school. We’d play around, snap photos of each other (the old-school kind that you have to get developed at Walgreens, lol), and just be ridiculous. That year, we were obsessed with John Leguizamo, the Colombian-American comedian. He’d released his HBO special, Sexaholix, and we’d memorized all of it. We got really annoying after a while, but we were so excited to see a Latino on TV. He was speaking our language and bringing up issues we cared about. Finally, someone we could relate to. We’d entertain ourselves by reciting every joke the guy had told. It was the best time. And then 9/11 hit.

  Along with the rest of the nation, I watched in horror as the hijacked planes hit the Twin Towers. American Airlines Flight 11 and United Airlines Flight 175 had originated in our backyard, at Logan. Both planes were filled with Bostonians, adding to the death toll of those lost in New York and Pennsylvania. The day was terrifying. We all held our breath, uncertain whether more attacks were coming. Amelia rushed home early from work to pick up Gabriela and me; the next two days, we stayed home. Even once we returned to school, a funk lingered in the air. What was true in my own life became true for our nation: You can quickly get back on your feet right after disaster, but real healing takes longer.

  The year progressed, and as it did, I became super-focused on my studies. For the first time, I fully understood why my parents had put so much on the line to come to the States, and I intended to make good on that opportunity. Not only did I buckle down in school, I became even more conscientious around Amelia’s house. I was determined to keep my spot. My chance.

  One evening that December, I called Amelia on her cell. She and Gabriela had gone out to run some errands. I was studying.

  “May I please walk to the store down the street?” I asked her.

  “Why don’t you wait until later?” she said. “We’ll be there shortly. Gabriela can go with you.” But I persisted. I wanted to buy some colored pencils for an art project.

  She gave in. “Okay, but don’t be gone for long.”

  I knew the route well. Gabriela and I passed the store every day on our way to the T. I pressed the crosswalk button. The go signal appeared. So I looked both ways and began strolling across the street. When I was about halfway to the other side, a green Mazda swerved out in front of me and—boom!—crashed into the right side of my body. The driver, a young white woman, hurried from the driver’s side and over to me. I laid sprawled out on the pavement, moaning.

  “Miss! Miss!” the lady screamed. “What the hell were you doing crossing the street like that?” She reached down and took my hand. With her help, I slowly stood. I looked down to notice that my knees were bloody. My right arm throbbed as if it was about to fall off.

  “Let me call 911,” she said, searching her pocket for her phone. I grabbed her arm. “Please don’t!” I screamed. “I’m fine!”

  “But, miss,” she said, “you’re hurt!”

  “Go, go, go!” I begged, tears flooding my face. “I’m okay!”

  I’d just gotten the crap knocked out of me, and yet one thought reeled through my head: Do not cause any trouble. If the police showed up, they might realize my parents had been deported and throw me in foster care. Aside from that, I refused to hassle Amelia.

  In fact, I didn’t want anyone to know I’d been hit. I planned to stay as far under the radar as my family had always been. Rather than calling for help, I hobbled to the house, cleaned myself up, and came up with a story about how I’d hurt myself.

  “Oh my God, what happened?” Amelia said the second she opened the door and saw me limping. She put her groceries on the counter and rushed to my side of the sofa.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” I lied. “I fell on the street.”

  “You did?” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her. “It’s not a big deal.”

  But of course, Amelia insisted on taking me to the ER to be checked. Once there, doctors discovered that I’d cracked my wrist. Hours later and a few weeks before Christmas, I left the hospital in a cast I’d have to wear for six weeks. I spent the final days of 2001 recovering from a broken arm. Regretting the deep fracture in my family. And hoping I’d wake up to discover that the last four months had been only a bad dream.

  Bright and early and hard at work at Barnes & Nizzles.

  Senior recital day with friends from the music department at Boston Arts Academy.

  Me on graduation day from BAA. Of course, I thought I was the only one graduating.

  CHAPTER 10

  Butterfly

  Artists are the emotional historians of the world.

  —RICHARD BLANCO, first immigrant and Latino to be a US inaugural poet

  “Hello, Diane?”

  “Hi, Papi,” I said. I’d been chilling on the sofa, listening to India Arie’s song, “Ready for Love,” when my dad’s name popped up on the caller ID. He usually rang on weekends. This was a weekday.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  He paused. “I got a call from Amelia today,” he said.

  “You did?” I asked. My pulse quickened. “Everything okay?”

  He stopped. “She cannot have you there any longer.”

  I got up from the couch and walked out toward the balcony to get some privacy. “But, I mean, why?” I stammered.

  “Because her oldest daughter just found out that she’s pregnant,” he told me.

  “She is?” I said. I’d seen Gabriela’s sister every day that week and hadn’t noticed any change in her mood or demeanor.

  “Yes,” he told me. “And with the baby coming, there’s not enough room for you.”

  My mind scrambled to process what he’d told me. Did I cause this? What did I do? What makes them want to get rid of me all of a sudden? Things seemed pretty perfect between Gabriela and me, but earlier that week we had argued; nothing major, just a tiff between friends. But upon learning this news from Papi, I concluded that our disagreement must’ve prompted Amelia’s decision. I pressed my father for information.

  “So did I do something wrong?” I asked. My voice shook. “Are they upset with me about something?”

  “No, mija,” he told me. “It’s not about anything you did. Not at all. It’s only because the house is too small.”

  I wasn’t convinced that was true. I’d made it all the way to the end of my sophomore year with no big dustup. There had to be something that brought this on now. I must’ve recently slacked on my chores without realizing. By my silence, Papi could tell I wasn’t buying his explanation. My eyes welled up with tears. Amelia and Gabriela had become like family to me, and I didn’t want to feel lost again.

  “Look,” he went on, “Amelia was only supposed to have you there for a few months.” A few months? Until my father said that, I hadn’t known he and Amelia had ever agreed on a timeline. “You’ve now been with her for over a year.”

  “So what am I gonna do?” I asked.

  “Well,” he said, “I’ve spoken to Sabrina’s parents.” Upon the mention of my pal’s name, a weight lifted from my shoulders
. Huge exhale. “They said that they’ll take you in,” he assured me. He then spent ten minutes promising me that all would be okay.

  I didn’t want to move again. I’d gotten close to the family and didn’t want to let them go. Despite Papi’s reassurances, I felt lost. At a moment’s notice, I could be asked to leave. That’s the reality when your own family, your tribe, isn’t there to keep you grounded. I was grateful that Papi had lined up my next move, and what better move than with my homie Sabrina and her parents, Eva and Don Federico. They’d come from Colombia years earlier, been granted citizenship, and owned their home. They lived upstairs. Sabrina’s aunt and elderly grandmother lived downstairs in the other part of the two-family. Because we’d all been friends for so long, I’d practically grown up there, like I had at Amelia’s. All good. Even still, this is the truth: I was sick of all the changes. I wanted one thing in my life to be steady for longer than five minutes. I craved stability.

  Amelia heard me sniffling and knew why. Papi had told her he’d talk to me that evening. She wandered onto the balcony, sidled up beside me, and placed her hand on my shoulder. “I just want you to know something, Diane,” she said softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She must’ve read my mind. “My daughter is having a baby,” she went on. “That’s it. That’s the only reason.” From the compassion in her eyes, I knew she was sincere. That eased the sting a bit.

  Once Amelia left the balcony, I wiped the tears from my face, pulled my act together, and dialed Sabrina. “Hey, guess what?” I said, trying to seem upbeat, although my heart was in my stomach.

  “What?” she said.

  “I’m coming to your place,” I told her.

  She giggled. “I know!” she exclaimed. “My mother told me. But I couldn’t say anything to you about it yet.”

  A week later, I packed up. Gabriela helped me gather my things and saw me off. “Sorry, dude,” she told me. “I hate to see you go.” Amelia placed my bag into her trunk and drove me to Sabrina’s home, which was in my old stomping grounds, Roslindale. Sabrina and her parents welcomed me warmly. “Come on in,” said Eva. “You’ll be in Sabrina’s room.” And that’s how the summer before my junior year began. Another house. A whole new family. And a new reason to lament that my parents had been forced out of the country. Sigh. Here we go.

  * * *

  I got a job. Sabrina had been working at iParty, this party supply store in West Roxbury. They sold everything from streamers, balloons, and Halloween costumes to paper plates and cups. “Can you get me in?” I asked her that August. “I’ll try,” she said. A few weeks later, as the fall semester got under way, I was hired as a cashier at $5.15 an hour, minimum wage then. I put in twenty hours a week, mainly on weekends and a couple of days after school. “Can I catch a ride with you?” I’d ask Sabrina if our shifts overlapped. “Yep,” she’d say. She had this little green Jetta. She drove that thing into the ground.

  When Sabrina couldn’t take me to iParty, I relied on the bus for the hike across town. The new responsibility was a lot to juggle with my studies, but it was worth it to me. Papi continued to send money, but his resources were dwindling; that Powerball money was long gone. If I requested cash for, say, school supplies, he’d scrape it together—but I’d then later discover he was running short on grocery money. So I stopped asking. Landing the gig meant I didn’t have to depend on him or anyone. And bonus: If I wanted a cute shirt from H&M or a tube of MAC lip gloss—boom!—I could purchase it for myself.

  It’s tough to imagine that my time at Boston Arts could have gotten any better, but during my junior year, it did. That fall, Ms. Jackson became the head of the vocal department. Her specialty was jazz. She encouraged us to study the greats, and she underscored the importance of good musicianship. I’d been bitten by the blues bug all those years earlier in elementary school, so I knew this was going to work out great. I immersed myself in all things jazz and listened to Miles Davis, Roy Haynes, and Nina Simone. In the middle of the semester, Ms. Jackson even gave me one of the best gifts I’d ever received—a Sarah Vaughan album.

  From the first note, my life was forever changed. There’s something in Ms. Vaughan’s voice that just takes me away. I could listen to her for hours. I admired her power, her vocals, her elegance, and her ability to make me recognize both pain and our capacity for love. I studied the history, the evolution of the genre, the lyrics. Healing power lived in that music. With each note I memorized, I felt less alone. Others had been through far more than I had, and they’d channeled their pain into their art. From devastation, they’d created something beautiful. I wanted to one day do the same.

  Then again, I had my doubts. My insecurities. My secret fears that I’d never make it as a professional artist. Aside from that appearance at Springfest, I’d rarely sung duets, much less solos. I didn’t want to be too showy; staying in the background, as a member of the chorus, was safe. When I did step up, I thought I had to sing like someone else in order to be good. Some of the other kids at BAA were very talented—I’m talking Whitney pipes. Instead of appreciating my unique sound, I questioned my own talent because I didn’t sound like them. I didn’t yet have the confidence to be myself.

  Another concern also nagged at me: If I pursued a career in the arts, how the hell would I pay my bills? Could I fully support myself after I left Eva’s? Once I was eighteen and on my own? At the time, that survival instinct was strong—so strong, in fact, that it made me second-guess my dreams. Let’s not get it twisted: Those dreams were alive and well inside me. I was the same girl who’d laid atop my twin mattress and fantasized about taking on Broadway. Yet as graduation inched closer, I got more convinced that I didn’t quite have the chops to earn a living as a performer.

  And then there was the turmoil in my family. Between school and work, I kept myself insanely busy so I wouldn’t have to think about all that had happened. Buried beneath all my activity was a broken heart. I became a classic avoider, talking to my mother and father only if there was no way out of it. Whenever Eva wrapped up a chat with my mother, she’d hand me her phone and say, “Your mom wants to speak to you.” I’d take the phone and think, Here we go again.

  Mami’s life was one never-ending telenovela, complete with full-length episodes of drama, hardship, and agony. During our calls, she’d recount all her difficulties and even those of our relatives. By then, she’d moved into another family member’s house and had her own bedroom, so that was an improvement. Yet for the most part, her calls were filled with doom and gloom. This aunt or uncle had lost a job; someone had been mugged on the way to the grocery store; and of course, she’d end up sobbing over how much she wanted us all to be together again. So did I; I just saw no point in rehashing it. “Okay, Mami, I’ve gotta go,” I’d say to rush her off the line. It was my sixteen-year-old’s way of shouting, “I can’t effing deal with this anymore!” My poor mother. I now realize how difficult it must have been for her. But I was still sixteen and cranky.

  Meanwhile, I’d lost touch with another family member—my niece. I seldom saw Erica. With my parents and Eric away from Boston, the drifting apart happened naturally. I did once run into her and her grandmother in the park. Erica spotted me in a crowd and yelled, “Aunt Diane! Aunt Diane!” When I turned to notice her running toward me, the world stopped for a moment. In the middle of the loud music, the screams, the children begging their mothers for cotton candy, I stood there dazed. She was about seven and had gotten so much taller. It made me suddenly aware of how our lives had moved on, how quickly time was passing.

  “How are you, sweetie?” I said, giving her a big hug.

  “I miss you!” she squealed.

  “I know,” I said, still stunned. “Me too.”

  If I was struggling, at my age, with my parents’ deportation, it must have been crushing for her. She’d lost her father and two grandparents she’d lived with, all before her fifth birthday. I’d at least had my parents until I was fourteen. Although the circumstances were out of
my control, I felt like I’d abandoned Erica. Just thinking about that broke my heart. Following our reunion in the park, Gloria occasionally brought my niece to Sabrina’s place. But between her busy schedule as a single parent and all my responsibilities, our visits petered out.

  By that spring, my parents had taken to leaving angry messages on my voice mail; that’s how infrequently I’d reached out to them. I loved and missed them as much as they did me, but talking to them was a reminder of everything I was desperate to forget. “Please come here, sweetie,” Mami would weep. “I need to see you.”

  My parents persisted so much that I finally agreed. I was also well aware of the need to give Sabrina, Eva, and Don Federico a break from me, because let’s face it, after a year, even the nicest hosts want a little break. So during the summer after my junior year, I booked a ticket for four weeks in Colombia.

  The trip was a blur. I may have gone there to spend time with my folks, but I didn’t see much of them. That’s because I was out chilling with my cousins. Dancing at salsa clubs. And basically having a blast. It was my chance to let loose, to set aside the pressure of being a good girl, a perfect houseguest. Every weekend, I hooked up with a bunch of other teens and went to fincas, these summerhouse estates where wealthy kids hang. We’d camp there all night, make fires, play in the pool, and drink. (You’ve gotta be eighteen to consume liquor in Colombia, but courtesy of my older cousins, I had my first shot of aguardiente, a Colombia liquor with a name that means “fire water.” One shot soon became two.) Oh, and yes: Let’s not forget the tragic belly ring I got. They were the shit at the time. So early 2000s. I thought it was cool—that is, until mine got infected and began oozing.

  I brought the party home with me—senior year is when I blossomed socially. My self-doubts hadn’t magically melted away, but I was becoming more sure of myself. I’d saved up a few hundred dollars, which gave me a sense of power. I threw myself into even more extracurriculars. In class and out, I was learning to express my opinions. And rather than heading straight home after work, I wanted to have a life. I started hanging with my friends on the weekends, socializing and going to dinner, but I didn’t get crazy or anything; I loved it that Eva trusted me and I wanted to keep it that way.