Memories that haunt our Mother

Memories that haunt our Mother

Today brought a memory back. One that I hardly share. Its painful. It hurts. But most importantly, I am disappointed in myself --for keeping this story, but for not going back. Not going back.

A couple of years ago, my grandmother came to visit us from Mexico. The historian in me, the one that tries to understand her life and compare it to my life, asked her about her siblings. I knew she had several brothers and sisters, but most I had never met. She told me the story of the oldest daughter that was still alive. She had not seen her in over 20 years. For all she knew, that sister could have been dead by now. She lived in the outskirts of Mexicali, a border town next to Calexico, California.

With the help of my little brother, we were able to successfully lobby my parents to take us. It was the least we could do for my grandma, after all the unconditional love she has always given us.

We arrived in Mexicali. It was like any other border town. A lot of young people, many working in border-type of jobs. We stopped at a nice house that was owned by family of my grandma’s. But this was not the sister my grandma was looking for. The family in the house (distant family) asked us to follow them as they drove to an area were the city dumps its trash. I was not sure what we were doing there. There were small houses there. Mostly built of peoples’ excessive trash – plastic, aluminum, wood put together  to resemble the rectangular shape of a home. We stopped at one of those homes. Out the people we had just met went towards the home. There were three small kids, unnourished. Their bellies popped from the rest of their skeleton body. Their limbs had not fully developed. They looked to me like animals. Unable to communicate thoroughly, they expressed their feelings through their actions and facial characteristics. Then a man and a woman came out, younger than my parents. They looked like the homeless people, I frequently ignored in downtown. The woman’s hair uncombed, wearing scraps of cloth for an outfit. And the man, tore up jeans with grease/dirt stains throughout.

They called for someone inside their home. An elderly lade came out, she looked like my grandma but much skinnier and shorter. She hunched her back. But had a spirit like no other. A beautiful spirit. I could feel it. It matched my grandma’s presence. Warmth.

“Mijo, esta es tu tia.” My grandma said. My mom was near us. She knew what we were thinking. We were afraid. She was afraid. I could not sense my grandma anymore. Her aura had changed. Who was this lady we were meeting? Why was she living like this? This must be a joke. My younger brothers and I kept close. My older brother kept looking at us. He also knew what we were thinking. But him being the most ethical and full of morals pretended he did not see what was going on.

What? This was exactly like what you see in the commercials for missionaries asking for money. Feed the children. But my own cousins? Feed my cousins? The odor of the garbage was finally beginning to normalize itself.

The couple apologized for not having anything to offer us. My mom said not to worry. The man we saw was actually my mom’s cousin. The woman, his wife. The kids, their children. Three boys. Ages they could not remember. They had lost track of time.

I had lost a sense of security.

The older folk were talking. Trying to reconnect. My mom and grandma questioned my aunt, my grandma’s sister, about her location. What is this? When did you get here? Why are you here? My uncle’s wife tried to chime in. it’s not much, but it’s a home.

The men spoke about work. What type of work do you do, my dad asked. Well, the man replied, nothing. Every week, we rummage through the garbage that the city dumps to look for livable supplies.

And for food, my mom asked. Sometimes the University students come and drop stuff off.

“Tu eres del otro lado?” one of the kids asked me. I was unsure what side he was talking about. My oldest brother chimed in, “si vivimos en Los Angeles.” Those kids aspirations were to one day cross the border. They had heard so many stories. Met so many University students from “el otro lado.” They desired a better life. They were younger than me. And already knew of their own conditions.

Y los ninos no van a la escuela, my mom asked. The wife tried to answer, “pues si.”

Y tu vas a la escuela. I asked. Quasi no, the kid responded. Los otros ninos nos hacen burla. It did not surprise me that the other kids did make fun of them. To everyone else, they were invisible. Meant to stay in the garbage. My youngest brother had gone to the car and had taken out the toys he had brought and began to play with the younger two. The oldest kept asking me to translate for him. Y como se dice….

He knew he had to know English. Un dia voy a vivir en el otro lado.

My mom asked the kids to get in the car. We drove back to the City and found a market. She gave them each twenty dollars and told them to buy whatever they wanted. They began to cry. They wanted to save their money. Did not want to spend it. My mom told them to keep the money but to still get whatever they wanted from the market. They were humble. Did not ask for much. Very basic stuff. Groceries. They picked stuff essential for survival. My mom told them to not be shy and get what they wanted, I suggested chips and my youngest suggested some candy. They didn’t want to. So I took them with me and asked which ones were they favorite. I got them, put them in the cart and we continued through all the aisles.

Then we went to a restaurant and ate. They ate differently than we did. To them, it could be their last meal for the next couple of days. They savored it like there was no tomorrow.

We drove back to their place and unpacked all the groceries and supplies we had just bought. My grandma’s sister began to cry. Crying with tears I could not read.

When we left, my grandma promised her that she would take her back home to el rancho. When we got back to L.A my mom told my grandma that she would send money to get her aunt a plane ticket back to el rancho.

Months later, after 20 years, my grandmas sister went back home. She spent a couple of weeks there. Then she died. Died the happiest that she had ever seen her, my grandma said. She went back to pass to the other world in her home.

My cousins laughed when we would tell them the story of our family in Mexicali. They didn’t care. Didn’t seem to care. Ignorant. My uncles refused to go visit. For the next few years, my mom would go back and take lots of clothes, food, essentials back.

But for some reason we stopped going back. I asked about those little boys. What ever did happen to them. They must be teenagers now. I hope they’re still alive. I need to go back. They are family. They are me. In lak ech. You are my other me.