La vida con los Flores - Heart Pieces

Supongo que hay que ser realistas en la vida... creo que nunca no voy a traducir estas memorias. Esto es algo que escribí en KMWP.  La historia de mis papis (3) fue publicada en el folleto de este año en Kennesaw. Me imagino que mi familia entenderá muchas cosas escondidas aquí y que no todo es 100% verdad: el corazón a veces recuerda cosas que tu cabeza no ha visto.

Ahora ya me gustan los aguacates, pero a los 7 no tanto...

1) Farm life – Snap shot

I am not a big fan of avocados just because we always have some many of them and quite honestly, I think my mom is running out of ideas on how to serve them anymore. Still, I am excited to go outside with my dad and pick avocados. I am wearing the same jeans, the yellow t-shirt with the "Menudo" picture on and the red sneakers I had on yesterday, but I suppose that doesn’t matter.  I am just happy to climb trees.

I love feeling the sun and the dryness of my grandma’s farm; the grey dusty mountains in the distance make me think of giant sleeping dinosaurs that are too old and too tired of the heat to even move. Chickens, pigs and other noises invade the place and my memories of that day. I can’t tell if I like all of the smells or not; all I know is that I am happy to run after dad.

I can hear the church bells ringing and someone announcing something with a megaphone, I think to myself that it’s Sunday and that I don’t want to go to church. My dad is carrying a very long stick with a metal hook at the end and I know he thinks I am not listening, but I am. He’s telling me about all these trees; what they are and how he got the seeds.  We are eating some wild berries that he picked on our way; that makes me feel so special. I won’t tell my mom I ate them without washing or that I had them before lunch!

The black dog, “Puppy” is barking at something by the fence, it doesn’t bother me, but my dad keeps calling his name and complaining of the heat; at the same time that he continues with the stories. I am just so pleased to run around under the sun with el Puppy that is now chasing the chickens. It makes me happy to laugh, climb trees and get avocados with my dad.

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2) The Flores’ House – Childhood

I never met my grandpa, I think he died of pneumonia when my dad was eight, which is why my dad had to work at very young age - I suppose being an only child didn’t work in his advantage - although this is what made him who he was. The only image I have of my grandpa is an old picture that my grandma had in her room: mustache; he wasn’t bald, but didn’t have much hair and his blue eyes seemed kind. He was wearing a tie and a suit – I don’t even know for sure that the image I have in my head, it’s really him or not.

The silver frame holding his picture appeared in our living room one day; it was on a table right next to my keyboard. I use to spend a lot of time in the living room, looking outside the window and playing my own ‘compositions’ in the keyboard; Ronchi my loyal Cocker Spaniel would sit next to me and ‘sing’. I was so grateful to have his howling as accompaniment in my masterpieces. I was in fact surprised that my mom didn’t appreciate it the same way as we both did. I was happy to have grandpa as my accompaniment too.

I didn’t attend Kindergarten that year because I didn’t like it; I would cry every day and was just miserable in class. I always run away from class to see my brother who was in the same school, crying and asking him to take me home. - I guess there’s got to be some kind of twisted plan that the universe played on me, since now, at the age of thirty four I am a Kindergarten teacher.

I had all the time in the world to explore the big house. Two story house, four bedrooms, cozy and light living room; a warm and very welcoming kitchen, a simple but stylish dining room and two gardens. Later in my life, as a teenager I could sit in the greenhouse for hours. My mom had many plants and flowers there, making it the perfect place to read or just relax looking at the arupo tree that my dad planted outside or just enjoy the stars at night. The scents and the fluffy pink flowers felt like a warm breeze in the summer. When Ronchi died I was fifteen, I liked sitting there and imagine he was with me.

Ronchi came home when I was four and he was five months old. My mom’s cousin gave it to us. I fell in love with him right away; he was small, with very long ears and a tale! - We never let our parents cut it - his fur had a nice caramel color and when the sunlight hit it, it turned red; he had curly hair and was very moody. That’s when we knew, I guess, that he belonged to this family. My brother and sisters named him “Fonzie” but I couldn’t pronounce that, and what came out of my mouth was “Ronchi”, his unofficial name- the only name that we would call him.

Grace was fourteen; a very popular and cool sister. I liked her a lot; she helped me when my brother or sister were bothering me. But sometimes, when she found out that I had been playing with her dolls, she would go crazy at me. Now that I am older, I am not sure if she got mad because I took her dolls or because she didn’t want anyone to know that she still had dolls.

My brother’s room was ‘forbidden land’, he locked the door every day and for some reason I have always felt uncomfortable with things that are banned. I don’t think of myself as a rebel but, somehow I figured out the way to open his window and go in there, I suppose curious defines me better. It was like going into a mad scientist’s lab: lots of destroyed clocks and toys lying on top of his desk; candy wrappers, wires, bolts, tools and other random things that were inside an old shoe box. He had so many cool toys and I couldn’t understand why I didn’t get them for Christmas too. The closet door had a metal name plate that said ‘Ernesto’. I was fascinated by a green car that he kept in that closet, I could open the little windows and doors; my dolls were happy to ride the green metal car in ‘forbidden land’ until noon. I knew he came back from school around that time, so I left everything as it was and jump off the window.

My sister Loli is four years older than me; we shared a room and many more things too. I remember waking up in the dark wanting to go to the bathroom but, since I was really scared by monsters and who knows what other things. I had to wake her up and ask her to go to bathroom with me. Now that I think about it, I am sure that she hated me for this, but I am grateful because she came with me anyway.

One day I was in my room playing under my sister’s dresser – it had enough space for me to go in there and my dolls too- I heard my mom calling me, but it was with the ‘you are in trouble’ voice.

“Where is Andrea” – I heard her asking the maid

I noticed she didn’t say Andreina like she always called me. I hid quietly under my sister’s dresser for a long time; until a tingly and uncomfortable feeling in my legs forced me come out. I didn’t like my mom’s unhappy frown when she asked me to come with her to see how her pristine, white wall at the entrance hall had now some colorful alien looking people and ‘Andrea Amor’ (Andrea Love) written all over. I cried while I was cleaning that wall, but that didn’t stop me from drawing and writing on the walls – My mom decided to get me a chalkboard.

I usually didn’t have to fight for my parents’ attention even though there were four of us; I was the youngest and I just knew I was entitled to all the attention. Until that day: ‘tragedy’ had arrived to the Flores’ house. The year was 1985, November seventh, at nine p.m. Of course I was sleeping, having peaceful dreams when this happened and didn’t find out until the next morning. Sitting at our desks, talking and laughing, my teacher interrupted because she wanted to make an announcement. She seemed so happy and everybody was congratulating me, I just sat still. I didn’t like this new thing; she didn’t even ask me if I was ok with this. I wasn’t.

I was eight when Fer was born, she was actually very cute and didn’t cry that much, but I had a feeling that life was going to be different at the Flores’ house. It sure was. Since that day my mom was always with her and when she wasn’t, she seemed very tired. I wasn’t sure if she paid any attention to what I had to say to her. She forgot to pack my lunch for school one day; I was really hurt and felt neglected.

I walked into my parents’ room one day and there she was, awake, playing with some toy. I looked closer in the cradle and saw those huge black eyes looking at me; tiny hands, arms, legs and feet pedaling simultaneously in the air. She smiled at me. My mom must’ve seen this.

“She likes you” she said

“Do you want to help me change her diaper?”

“Hmm, I have to go to the bathroom”, I remember saying

I felt like I had to leave the room and flee; I fell in the hallway and hit my head against the wall. I cried quietly in my room.

I taught her a song about a monkey; she smiled and copied my actions. She loved that song. She called me ‘ñaña Mona’ (monkey sister). Fer was funny; one of the first words she ever said were all bad words, four words in one long word. I thought it was genius! You can still hear that four word insult that she made up, around the Flores’ house as well as someone calling me ‘ñaña Mona’.

When Loli got married I knew I was going to be lost without her, my older sister and confident. I was secretly angry at her, but I didn’t want to show it or say anything. Now it was only Fer and me in the big Flores’ house.

Fer and I didn’t have to share a room, but some nights we would take turns sleeping in each others’ beds; laughing childishly, we could spend hours like this. My dad would come into the room really angry because it was school night and we were not sleeping – that usually only made it worse!  

She moved to Germany five years ago to go to college; I have visited her a couple times and spent time in both apartments that she has lived in; we have traveled together and enjoyed many experiences that I will always cherish. We are still very silly and laugh childishly at things that no one understands. I miss her more and more every day. We have an eight year difference, but shared nineteen great years together in the Flores’ house and, that makes a huge difference! 

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3) My Parents– The bond

I have heard many friends say that they didn’t know how their parents ended up together; that makes me wonder if we’ve all had similar questions about our parents.

I have thought about my parents and how different they were. At the age of 18 my mom met a 29 year old man who came to visit her dad for a business meeting. However, that was not the first time that my dad had seen my mom.

               “I told my friend I was going to marry your mom when I first saw her in the town’s parade” – my   dad had told us one day.

He also told us that his friend laughed endlessly in disbelief - My mom had just won the town's pageant; the prettiest girl in town.

My dad was certainly not the strong -can lift a car- kind of guy; he was a worldly, intellectual -can answer any question- kind of guy. I was in fact inspired and impressed by how much he knew about everything. However I was sometimes, afraid when I had to ask him anything, because he would bring me books and other reading materials that could clarify my simple question and easily turn it into a one week research project.

I do thank him now, for everything I learned with him.

If you opened a dictionary and found the word ‘patience’, I am sure a picture of my mom, her name, or at least her description would be there. We had a chalkboard in our room that my mom used to explain, in all possible ways, the things we didn’t understand until we got it -for me it was Math- There were some things that I never got, but she never gave up on me.

Any pain or illness was nothing compared to my mom’s magical powers. She knew every plant in the garden and their uses. Although I was happy to just have her sit next to me feeling her soft hands on my forehead and listen to her sweet voice.  The teas and concoctions that she made tasted horribly.

Doctors and medicine were all foreign and untrusting concepts for my dad.  He said he was being practical but, I know even though he never admitted it, that he was scared of doctors and blood. He fainted when he took my sister to the hospital after cutting herself climbing a fence.

The most exciting thing that we all looked forward to was the weekends. Somehow my dad’s compulsion to plan everything in advance, my mom’s sense of adventure and our endless energy made our weekends unforgettable and very busy.  Those weekends would have been so different and probably boring if GPS existed! I know I have the worst spatial orientation, I inherited that from my mom, but I would never get lost because I’d never stop looking and exploring until I found my way. I got that from my dad.

The green GMC Blazer- which later got replaced by a red GMC Blazer – was our accomplice in all our trips and adventures. My sister and I had the back of the car, all for ourselves to play, read, write or just sleep. Thanks to that, I never get motion sickness.  God blessed me with a really bad memory; I don’t think there’s a way to be remotely sane if I remembered all the songs we sang in our trips; the stories we heard or read and all the facts that my parents wanted us to remember.

We had ‘movie night’, ‘chimney night’, ‘theater night’, ‘game night’ -I suppose our nights were never meant to be boring. My parents had an old projector and silent movies that we just loved watching while eating popcorn from a red metal bowl. I remember putting plays and ‘musicals’ together with my sister and cousins to present them to everyone in our family. I suppose that’s why I like singing and being a little theatrical sometimes. I get frustrated with any board game and that is because when you are one of the youngest in a group of seven, you don’t have much of a chance to win -game night that was-  For our chimney nights I just remember the laughs and the jokes sitting on the rug in the living room. We drank hot, sweet cinnamon tea; my parents put some alcohol in theirs. We knew.

I am certain that everybody have wondered about their parents.

When I think of my parents, I don’t think of them as super heroes or a match made in heaven. I know they were not perfect and I don’t think of them as -the fairy tale kind of couple- they certainly had their bad, loud and sad days  (if I could only erase those days…)

I just know that I am surrounded by this amazing group of people that loves and supports me no matter what. 
I am so grateful to have been raised by these two incredible individuals, who were so different from each other, but learned to be together.

We are the result of this bond, their love.

Atlanta- Experiencias Culturales

Parte 1- Experiencias culturales

Algo que me encanta de este lugar es la cantidad de arboles que hay; he visto muchas cosas que no había visto desde que era niña. En las noches, después de comer, mi compañera de cuarto y yo nos vamos de caminata y hemos tenido que parar, no solo para que pasen conejos y ardillas sino, porque no podemos más con la admiración de ver un espectáculo de ‘luces’ que saltan desde el césped: miles de luciérnagas que me hacen recordar la casa de mi abuela y como siempre quise atrapar luciérnagas; guardar su magia en un frasco y tenerlas para siempre, al lado de mi cama.

El sábado subí una montaña de roca totalmente sólida, un parque nacional muy interesante. Subí en falda, medias y converse ¡súper guapa! El calor y la humedad no ayudaron mucho; aunque empapada y con ganas de morirme, lo logré. Desde ahí  pudimos ver la vegetación y los lagos que tiene este parque, realmente hermoso. Cuando bajamos, era ya la noche así que nos sentamos frente a la montaña listos para ver una presentación de laser que hacen sobre la imagen de tres personajes a caballo tallados sobre la gran piedra.

Este lugar me hizo pensar en algo que una amiga me dijo: “los gringos no necesitan mucha imaginación para hacer sus películas, porque les basta y les sobra con verse a sí mismos!” 

Sentados sobre una piedra vimos a montones de gente que llegaron con cobijas, cojines, sillas, parasoles, coolers, etc. Compraban luces de colores, banderas, juguetes – esperaban ansiosos el show. Despues de varias horas de espera, empezó y yo estaba muy emocionada (es fácil emocionarse cuando no sabes que esperar). Con una súper tecnología y unas imágenes muy chéveres empezó con la historia de Georgia y la guerra civil, la gente cantaba los himnos de los estados confederados con un patriotismo impresionante, las luces azul, blanca y roja invadían el lugar! Con mi cabeza un poco inclinada y con una ceja arriba, pensé: ‘se habrán enterado todos estos, que la guerra civil se acabo hace mas de cien años; que los estados confederados perdieron la guerra y que por lo tanto ya no existen? Solo me reí. Había una familia sentada a mi lado y les pregunte que si les había gustado el show y me dijeron que era un show increíble y que esto era ser americano… sera que Lincoln hubiera pensado igual?

Nos fuimos, dejando a ese lindisimo parque cubierto con estos juguetes y basura patriótica! En fin, es divertido aprender de nuevas culturas.

El domingo fuimos al acuario, entramos a un túnel transparente rodeado de agua, peces de mil colores, manta rayas, tiburones, tortugas, peces espada, anguilas y otras especies que no tengo idea que eran! El piso era una banda eléctrica que se movía sola para avanzar dentro del túnel; supongo para que no te vayas encima de nadie, mientras ves esto totalmente maravillado! Me hizo sentir como una niña!

Cuando tienes la memoria activada parece que todo te quisiera decir algo o quisiera revivir algún momento. Vimos una película que se llama “Super 8” (que si no la han visto, se las recomiendo) y me acorde de mi infancia, mis hermanos, ‘el camino de las aventuras’, las travesuras y la ‘investigación’ que siempre me veían con ojitos de tentación. Que viva la infancia!! Que vivan las memorias…

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Parte 2 – Mi clase (KMWP)

En las mesas no solo tenemos papel y lápices, si no pañuelos y chocolates.  Mi clase se ha transformado de un taller de escritura a una terapia grupal esta semana; hemos trabajado en nuestra historia, buscando en nuestras memorias lo mejor y peor. Oímos muchas historias mientras seguimos con nuestros ojos las palabras, unas nos hacen llorar, otras entristecen por la ironía, otras nos hacen reír; pero al final descubrimos que nunca sabemos la historia de nadie. Este grupo de desconocidos se ha trasformado en confidentes, psicólogos y amigos en tiempo record; de aquí en adelante todo lo que hagan o digan tendrá un sentido diferente para mí. Sus historias irán acompañando cada acto, cada palabra que digan.

En cada ejercicio y tarea me encontraba riéndome sola o por lo menos con la mirada perdida en la nostalgia; no sé si debería agradecer a Dios por haberme bendecido por la tan mala memoria que me dio o, porque las memorias que tengo me traen mas sonrisas que lagrimas. En la lista si hay los peores momentos pero, aun así, me he dado cuenta que siempre he estado rodeada por mi familia y amigos. De esto si estoy realmente agradecida.

Cada vez que empiezo a escribir historias sobre mi vida, muchas de las imágenes que me vienen a la cabeza y las historias con las que las relaciono, no siempre son lo que creo que paso de verdad; se me mezclan historias, lugares y nombres.  He dudado tanto que hasta pensé preguntar a mis hermanos y mamá, pero el objetivo de la actividad era recordar, ahí es cuando ‘recordé’ lo que nos dijeron sobre las memorias (memoir) es como uno recuerda su propia vida, mientras que una autobiografía es historia, requiere investigación para que los datos sean verídicos. 

Qué bueno que no haya verificación de datos, porque mis memorias tienen dos casas mezcladas, ventanas de una casa que muestran el jardín de la otra; lugares e historias que no coordinan porque no van en secuencia.  Me he robado historias contadas por otros e imagines que otros han puesto en mi cabeza.

Escribí sobre las personas, lugares y momentos que han sido importantes en mi infancia y como me han hecho lo que soy ahora. Por ahora esa historia sigue en ingles, algún rato la traduciré!

Que viva la infancia! Que vivan las buenas memorias!!

Atlanta – Primera semana

Hay algo del sur que me recuerda al tiempo de los abuelos, aquí nadie te agradece, sino que bendice tu corazón (bless your heart, honey); son lo bastante religiosos para mostrar real asombro por que ahora ‘Louis’ está trabajando en lugar de cuidar de la casa, “Dios no lo permita” (God forbid!); son todos muy educados, piden disculpas de todo, de cosas que ni siquiera me doy cuenta: ahí es cuando me pregunto si estaré pidiendo disculpas lo suficiente…

Se admiran porque hablo Inglés y les entiendo (a los de la Universidad y el hotel si les entiendo!).  Y todo esto pasa con una musicalidad en su hablar y lentitud al caminar.

Cabe mencionar que nadie camina aquí y cuando lo hacen parece que se estuvieran derritiendo en las veredas; la verdad es que si hace calor, es como un día de playa sin playa.  Y aunque a mí nunca me ha encantado el calor, cuando es hora de mi break salgo cual bala del iglú donde recibo el curso y empiezo a quitarme la chompa y la bufanda, me siento como lagartija en las mesitas de afuera del comedor con una sensación de felicidad única! Hay una chica de Costa Rica, otra del Salvador y la gringuita que ya vive en el Ecuador por diez años que entienden esto y hacen lo mismo conmigo.  Me imagino que la gente aquí se queja del frio en invierno y pone la calefacción a mil, para que parezca que están en un día de playa, sin playa…

Estoy en la tierra de la Coca-cola, pero imaginarse un menú de 160 bebidas de Coca-cola es impensable. El otro día fuimos a comer a un restaurante típico de Georgia. Lo primero que vi fue que tienes que esperar hasta que te sienten (como en muchos lugares en gringolandia) pero esperas en unas sillas mecedoras, que divertido! A tu lado te sonríe un señor que parece de unos 185 años, pelo blanco y largo, barba, aretes y solo dos dientes. Intentas sonreir de vuelta, pero te sale algo asi como una mueca, mejor ves rapidamente para el otro lado.

Aunque la esclavitud acabo hace rato aquí, todavía se siente la distinción, son muy sutiles cuando hablan de la gente negra.  Me entere, que no les entiendo porque hablan “the Black English”- busque en el internet y encontré el término supuestamente correcto: ‘Ebonics’ que viene de dos palabras ‘Ebony’(Ébano) y ‘Phonics’ (sonidos del habla)- en realidad no cambia mucho la intención.
 
El sábado fuimos a ver un juego de baseball y de pura pereza no me cambie los jeans a algo más fresco, como buena ecuatoriana que vive en la capital, tenía un paraguas en la cartera y un saco. Hace como 90 grados me dijeron! (eso es 32 grados en nuestro idioma).  Aja!! Les dije cuando cayó la tempestad del siglo en el estadio, una tormenta de rayos y vientos terribles, toda la gente corría en todas las direcciones -aunque no sabiamos a donde iban- corrimos también, porque la locura es contagiosa!
Finalmente nos fuimos. Vimos el juego en un bar :)