I hadn’t made it to my house when I saw a familiar face on the corner.
She was holding a young hand, the eldest of Doña Cecilia and I couldn’t remember the father’s name.
“Y mi wachajil?” I shouted (and my husband?)
“Ya se casó. Y busca amante!” (He’s married now. And he’s looking for a lover!)
Like we both woke up this day knowing we’d say these lines to each other.
I bristled at the joke. It’s a typical joke.
I kept walking. I was eager to put my bags down and not worry over them. I drove them across the border to Mexico, then flew them from Mexico to Guatemala, took three buses and was then carrying them up a steep incline to the home plate.
Except- “Natalia!” gasped Clara – I kept seeing people I knew. (Clara the eldest cousin. This is Santa Clara La Laguna. Everyone is named Clara. She is not my Clara, but the cousin of my Clara). Clara La Colocha is holding a young girl’s hand. She is beautiful. I recognize her from the pictures, but she was born a month after I left. She is 4 turning 5.
Wasn’t this the point? To see people I knew?
“Hola Adriana” and she was instructed to give me a kiss. I forgot about kisses on cheeks (my mind hadn’t forgotten, but my cheeks had).
Anyway, I wanted to see my host family most of all. Abuelita (Clara) would not be there, she passed away 2 years before. I anticipated this void the most.
The first thing I noticed as I approached was that the house was repainted. It was white when I lived there, Pinterest white. Now a maroon border lined the edge and a peach color filled the rest. It looked really nice. It looked.. different.
My host sister (Clara) opened the door. There was her face, 5 years later. Time does this funny thing where she points out new wrinkles and shadows on skin, even if you aren’t looking for them. I noticed a few changes, but mostly, no changes at all.
She looked stressed, or overwhelmed, or something. She had to attend to her “mozo,” a country word for paid labor. I left her to it of and set my things down. I already felt the pressure to be quiet while he was there, because I knew. I knew my voice and my presence caused problems for my host family.
I was anxious to see my host mom, worried about her health from what Clara had told me. (I call her my Clara because she is the one I consider a part of my Guatemalan family, not because I think I own her in any way! I need to clarify).
When I first moved here, Doña Rosario (host mom) had greeted me first but Clara (daughter) was not home. Now, it was reverse. I paused to take a selfie because I wanted to remember how happy I felt. I felt relief that they had rearranged the bed that Abuelita used to sleep in. They had moved it to butt up against the other wall. A slight change, but it felt better. She was not here to greet me, or laugh, or cry, and then keep working like she always had. She was gone.
The next thing I had to do was meet my replacement (AKA la competencia). I joked to Clara and Doña Rosario. She was blonde, straight hair, nice teeth. Different. She came down to kiss my cheek “a la orden” she said and went upstairs to my old apartment. I felt incredibly grateful that she lived there to help over expenses, and I also didn’t like it. Nope. But what can you do?
Now the threshold of memory had been pierced. The familiar rushed in.
1- Covering everything with a trapo. Everything. Even things in bags already.
2- Worrying over the health of the fire, gently shifting the firewood from the stick’s legs protruding from the pile.
3- Gawking over the rising price of tomatoes and onions.
4- Switching from K’iche’ to Spanish depending on the visitor.
5- Explaining (then re-explaining) that I don’t live with my parents. Actually, I don’t even live near my parents. My parents live on the other side of the country. But they are well, thank you for asking. Why don’t I live with them? I know, it’s sad. But I don’t. It’s the custom in my country, for many.
6- Wondering, per their comments, if men actually are better in the USA. Conclusion: I think culture is different but men are the same everywhere. Call me sexist, I’ve heard worse.
7- Trying (and failing) to convey the implications of being lower-middle class in a rich country.
8- All colors look good on me because I am pale (I am told).
9- Offering a bandaid to Clara. She commented: “everything from the USA is nicer, right?”
10- Hearing that everything (theft and corruption) is the fault of the drunks and the robbers.
11- Folding my used toilet paper thoughtfully and dispensing of it in the trashcan, not the toilet.
12- the pila.. I missed you, pila. The concrete basin that stores water when it’s not running anymore.
This familiar trickle of culture and conversation rolled in over the next 4 days.
Oh! and
13- Health issues are usually caused by stress. I am prediabetic (I informed them), so it’s probably due to work stress. And because I live far away from my family. Ay ay ay.
But I, too, had forgotten something that I am ashamed to admit out loud.
Life was so, very boring.
How had I done this for two + years? And without internet for most of it? Well, I remember that I ate a lot of tortillas with hot sauce and listened to a lot of podcasts. But I think I was overwhelmed for at least half of those months until I learned the language (and the culture, which was more challenging). This time, I spoke Spanish better than ever before. And I already knew about the culture, but was constantly reminded.
I thought of my teacher bestie who helped me learn Mexican Spanish when I was new to Arizona. What would she think of this place? The pila, the plancha, the everything? I wanted to take her eyes with me here. I did not know her when I lived here. She was such a big part of my life now. I did not know public education in the USA, the parent emails, the meetings-oh-god-the-meetings. And the isolation. The hours I spent alone in my apartment, hunched over the counter picking at my dinner because I bought a table but didn’t sit at it.
The next day, Tuesday, was market day.
If the whole town hadn’t heard already, they would know by tomorrow that I was back. Pazapik awi (messy head).
