Knitting the Fog Page 8
Sindy was silent.
“I miss the mango and tamarindo trees,” I said.
“I miss the pine trees and the Moros,” said Consuelo.
“I miss the marimba music,” I said.
“I miss Mamatoya’s food,” said Consuelo.
“I miss Tía Soila’s laughter,” I said.
Then suddenly, Sindy joined in. “I miss my life in Guatemala!” That concluded the missing game.
In Conversation with a Poem Called: Detachment
A blue-velvety shelter is what I seek before I transform
into something else. Who knows if I will return as an over-
romanticized poem, or simply indifferent like the silence
of the moon. What’s left in me, what lingers, no longer
resembles me. As a child, I passively sank too many times
in the river. I wish to go back to my vacant home in
Guatemala to smell the scent of wet, jagged grass; to visit
El Llano where I’d let myself go from the tallest hill, rolling
down, until I’d reach the mouth of Río Chixoy. It was there
where I was confronted with the reflection of a fragmented
face; where I briefly found the scattered pieces of our child-
hood in the middle of war. Pieces of me, pieces of Consuelo,
pieces of Sindy floating by, not ready to sink. Dear Mother:
I learned to bury your quiet distance underneath a manic smile.
Dearest Consuelo: I meant to be just like you. Maybe then
Mamá would have glanced at me with her honey-colored eyes.
Dearest Sindy: I finally understood why you purposefully
drowned in your inconsolable gaze. Your disappointment
for life—unbearable. Forgive me for not having the courage
to understand your pain. I admire you for not wanting to bathe
in my river. Instead, you chose to eat adobe stones from the
walls of Tía Soila’s home. Today, I’m going back home.
Matamoros and the Moors
Six days later, we were walking the streets of Matamoros, Tamaulipas. It took us almost two and a half days to travel from Oaxaca to Matamoros. We transferred three times to other guaguas, one of which had mechanical problems, and delayed us by a few hours. The waiting was atrocious. Mamá pulled us away from the gathered passengers and away from the road. The cars would pass by at what seemed like a hundred miles an hour.
I spent the whole time in Matamoros in a state of fear because I always remembered los moros, the Moors, from Tactic, when they would take to the streets mocking the Spanish conquistadores, dressing as Spaniards and animals like deer, monkeys, and bulls. These dances were entertaining, but because matar means “to kill,” at age ten I imagined that the Moors in Matamoros were being killed.
We stayed in several motels in Matamoros. In one motel, all the rooms were overflowing with people. Some sat on the sills of glassless windows, some on the iron rails, others on the sidewalks, while some remained standing, blocking the doorways. These people weren’t part of our group, but they were also trying to cross over to the other side.
Mamá became even more serious than she already had been. It was her way of protecting us. One glare was enough to scare away any man who approached us. Nobody dared to mess with Mamá; she had a ferocious warrior gaze. We successfully passed all the overflowing rooms until Javi led us to a tiny room with two other families. Thirteen of us, mostly women and children, shared the place for one night. Javi made sure that there were no men in this room. Even though there were no men present, Mamá didn’t allow me to talk to anyone, let alone interact with the other children.
“Do not leave my side.”
“Stay with your sisters!”
“You’re not here to make friends,” she said.
I didn’t leave her side just as she’d told me. I didn’t make any new friends at that motel or throughout the trip. Mamá didn’t trust anyone. She never did and never will.
Once again, Consuelo and I tried to entertain ourselves by playing silly games. Sindy was never in the mood to join in. After playing the copy game, where we mimicked each other’s movements, Consuelo came up with the looking-forward game.
“Is it like my missing game?” I asked.
“Yes. I’ll start,” she said. “I look forward to eating hamburgers in the US.”
“I look forward to learning English,” I said.
“I look forward to meeting Amado,” Consuelo said.
“I look forward to our new house,” I said.
“I look forward to going back home,” Sindy said coldly.
This is how the looking-forward game ended, and we fell asleep soon after.
The next day, Javi picked up all three families in a van. He took us to another house about two hours away from the motel.
It was our last night in Matamoros, and we stayed in an enormous house with several rooms. Each room was inhabited by at least ten people, two or three unknown families. There were no beds. Each family received an inflatable mattress. The four of us found a way to accommodate each other. Consuelo and I were squeezed in between Sindy and Mamá. We couldn’t turn or find room to shake out a numb leg. However we fell asleep in the evening was how we awoke at dawn.
“It’s better this way,” Mamá said. “We don’t want to leave any space for a malicious hand.”
Mamá didn’t sleep; she kept watch over us. In the morning, she was grumpy and the bags under her eyes were even darker.
The River Never Happened to Me (i)
I used to walk half a mile from Tía Soila’s house to the river; I bathed in it pretending to know how to swim.
I was
eight, breathing, eating the constant heat of Mayuelas. The river was my biggest alibi; its muddy path was crowded with
pumice
rocks, verdant ceiba trees, and buried mango seeds. I came across floating mango pits—cracked opened—their
flesh
consumed to the bone. No one noticed their nakedness floating by or sinking to the bottom of the river; I bathed
in the
river hoping to rescue those seeds from drowning alone. On my way back home, I’d jump from rock to rock, trickling
river
and mango seeds everywhere. By the time I’d reach Tía Soila’s house, I was dry, as if the river never happened to me.
The River Never Happened to Us (ii)
We walked more than a thousand miles to get to the other side of the Río Bravo, guided by the coyote’s howl. We didn’t bathe in the
river.
Instead, we floated like thin paper boats, tanned by the sun. I don’t remember caressing the surface of any pumice
rock.
I stuck my fingers between cottonwood crevices, their trunks rooted on opposite sides of the river. We were
bound
to eat desert wind; I was ten. When we reached the other side, we hid behind bushes; quietly, we sank slowly in the
mud.
When the coyotes signaled, we walked, no, we ran and our knees shed broken pieces of mud. No one drowned in the river; no one had
to be
resuscitated from the mud. Yet we continued to trickle shards of mud, as if the river had never happened to us.
My Side—Your Side
Sixteen days into our journey we finally met the moist lips of the Río Bravo, as it’s called in México, or Río Grande, as it’s called by those who reside on the other side. It was one of the most terrifying days of my life.
I imagined the river to be just like the one where I bathed every day in Mayuelas: filled with rocks and shade from the mango trees, the water clear and sweet. But when we arrived at the riverbank, I was confronted with a wide river, dense with the color of mud, its currents livid. Even the birds flying above the river didn’t dare make contact with it, no matter how hungry or thirsty they seemed to be.
“It looks like Mayuelas�
��s river after it’s rained for a whole week,” Consuelo pointed out.
“What if the boat sinks?” asked Sindy. “I don’t know how to swim.”
“I’ll rescue you, Sindy,” I said, trying to be brave and hopeful.
Marco, the other coyote, was also there with another group of people. Javi made it clear to stay away from open areas. He spoke to us hiding behind some dry bushes. It was hot.
“La migra has their eyes peeled for immigrants trying to cross the river,” he said.
We hid behind the bushes, listening closely to Javi’s explicit instructions on how to cross the river in the aluminum boats that awaited us.
“Step in the boat carefully.
“Once you sit down, don’t move or else the boat will sway and sink.
“Leave space for me in the middle of the boat; I will guide it across the river.
“Parents, sit your small children on your lap.
“We have no life preservers, so be safe. We don’t want to leave anyone behind.”
After giving us his orders, Javi left the group for a few minutes to talk to Marco and the men who owned the boats. We continued to hide in silence. Consuelo held my hand and Sindy’s. Mamá was quiet. She looked like she was meditating. Getting ready. Or perhaps she was remembering how she had crossed the same river twice.
Ten was the maximum capacity of each boat—I counted the seats—but Javi and Marco somehow planned to squeeze in twenty of us, like sardines. The boat was dented on all sides. Water was seeping through little holes that were covered with plastic bags.
Finally, Javi gave the order to board the boats. After a few people had boarded ours, Consuelo stepped in and held on to Sindy’s hand. I followed after Sindy holding Mamá’s hand. They sat first, placing their small bags under their feet. They rested their hands in between their legs. Mamá sat down next to Consuelo and placed her bag under her seat. Consuelo was sandwiched in between Mamá and Sindy. I think she felt safe, or at least she pretended to be. The boat was so full; it seemed to sink if someone sighed. We were like statues, jammed up against each other. I sat on Mamá’s lap, without breathing, without looking back.
Javi, being tall and thin, stood in the middle of the boat. He began to pull the boat across the river, tugging on a rope that was tied to trees, rooted to both sides of the river. It looked like a tightrope, but instead of balancing and walking on it, Javi was underneath, holding tightly to it, and pulling it, dragging the boat across. The trees had deep scars on their trunks.
The other side of the river seemed so far away. Its trees looked stronger and healthier, revealing all shades of green. The landscape looked clean, full of promise. I wondered if the water tasted or felt different on the other side. I swore to never forget the sweetness of the water in my motherland.
The river churned angrily around us with its threatening currents. I closed my eyes, knowing that any sudden movement could rob us of our lives. Those twenty-some minutes of crossing, huddled on the boat, seemed to last an eternity—I feared we would never get to the other side. Mamá’s hand was clammy, but she held me tight. Sometimes her strength gave me hope. Sometimes it filled me with despair.
There I was, crossing the river, leaving things and people behind—my home, my family, my country. Mamá was taking us to a new, unknown place, somewhere where I didn’t know what to expect. Would I forget how to be myself, how to dance or sing the way I did in Tactic or Mayuelas? I was afraid to forget. I was afraid to change. Sindy had already lost hope since the beginning of the trip. I didn’t want to feel like her.
Finally when we settled on dry earth, I asked in hope, “Are we in Los Angeles, Mamá?”
“No, we still have a long way to go,” she said.
Frontera de mi lado
Caminábamos
en el polvo
Nuestra piel
con pies derretidos
de la nada/
tostada
platicábamos a
hasta
nos abrigó
p a u s a s
tropezarnos
y flotamos
con bocas
con los húmedos
como
pegajosas
labios del río
lanchitas
selladas
Río Bravo
salpicadas
de la sed.
de mi lado.
de
Nuestras miradas
Río Grande
agua dulce/
quemadas,
de tu lado.
agua salada.
a s u s t a d a s
Ninguno quiso
Llegamos
de ver tanto fantasma/
beber de ese
al otro lado:
en lo oscuro
serpentino
Tu lado.
del camino/
pasaje.
Mi lado.
Border on My Side
We walked
in the emptiness
our bronzed flesh
with melted feet
of dust/
kept us warm
chatting in
until we
as we floated
s l o w m o t i o n,
stumbled upon
in the water
our viscid
the moist
resembling
mouths
lips of the river:
small boats
sealed
Río Bravo
splattered
with thirst.
on my side
with
Our
Río Grande
fresh water/
burnt gazes
on your side.
salted water
a f r a i d
No one
we disembarked
to see the ghosts/
drank from
on the other side—
in the darkness
the muted
Your side.
of the path/
river;
My side.
Are We There Yet?
After the boat ride, we walked for several hours through plowed land. It looked like a desert, but it wasn’t. In the distance, there were vegetated fields that glowed with both pale and flamboyant greens. Then, I don’t know how it happened, but suddenly, the arid, dusty path came to an end and I felt my legs go weak. They became heavy. My legs were sinking in a thick mud that went up to my shins, but I continued. There was no time to complain or I’d be left behind.
Muddy, all twenty of us reached a wide road where we were instructed to wait for a truck to pick us up. Again, we hid behind some bushes, quietly, attentive, ready to run just in case.
While waiting, I rested and contemplated the beautiful landscape and the aroma that emanated from the moist soil. Gradually, the mud dried, and I shed my old skin like a snake. A new land, a new life, I secretly thought.
Half an hour later, a van came by and Javi instructed us to board it. The van transported us to a hotel in Brownsville, Texas. Once again, we were squeezed into the van, leaving us with no room to breathe; everyone recycled each other’s warm and thick exhales. The windows were tinted or covered with black paper. I couldn’t see anything on the road. No one said a word.
When we arrived to the hotel in Brownsville, Javi gave us our own room. The room was different from the flophouses we had seen in México. The hotel had two big beds with a desk and a lamp. I ran to the desk and opened the top drawer. There, I found a Bible. I took it out to feel its weight. I put it back right away before Mamá yelled at me for touching things that didn’t belong to me. The Bible was written in English, and I couldn’t read one word in it. I only knew how to count up to five in English.
I was delighted to see that our room had its own bathroom and that we didn’t have to share it with anyone else.
“Consuelo!” I yelled. “Come check out the bathroom.”
“It’s a bathtub,” said Sindy.
Mamá was busy talking to Javi and Marco in the hallway. The bathroom looked sparkly clean in my eyes. I had never seen a bathtub in my life. At Tía Soila’s house, I showered outdoors in the cement washbasin. Mamatoya’s house was a little different. Her small bathroom had a large plastic bucket where we poured boiling water and cold water to shower. I didn’t need a bucket of lukewarm water for this bathtub; the knobs were magical.
The first thing I did was undress while Sindy and Consuelo lay on the bed playing with the TV remote. I played with the shower knobs for a while until warm water started to run. While I waited for the tub to fill up, I slid from one end to the other like the ten-year-old child that I was. The water tasted like glory. I felt like I was a dolphin at a waterpark, but the spell was broken when Mamá caught me in full slide.
“How could you slide your bare bottom on this dirty tub? You didn’t even give me chance to disinfect it!” she yelled.
I stayed quiet. Naked. Those things didn’t matter to me at that age, but Mamá wouldn’t allow anything to get by her.
We spent nearly a week at the Brownsville hotel. Javi visited us frequently to explain to Mamá the process of forging documents, which we needed to board the plane that would fly us to Los Angeles.
During that week, Sindy didn’t do much. She slept and slept. Consuelo and I played indoor games. We pretended to speak English, mixing Spanish words with Poqomchi’ words. I felt happy in this strange, clean place. I couldn’t wait to see what our new home looked liked. Consuelo didn’t show much emotion; she’s always been grounded. I could tell Mamá was already used to this lifestyle, but Sindy continued to spiral in her own head. She gave Mamá the silent treatment for forcing her to leave Guatemala behind.