Bodies in Movement: Developing a Latin American Feminist Identity Through Family, Memory, and Geographical and Inter-lingual Spaces
“What we talk about when we talk about love…”Herminio Carballo
Don Herminio Carballo
I never met Don Herminio, but I have seen pictures of him. The dusty photographs have yellow, frayed edges and smell as if they have been forgotten. No matter how many years pass, Don Herminio always looks the same: ferociously attractive. I see where my father inherited his good looks.
My paternal grandparents never married. Don Herminio married another woman, Emma Villacourta, the same year that my Abuelita María Luisa, the mother of his first child, passed away. Their story is complicated. Through the years, people have forgotten the truth; or maybe, it is out of respect for my paternal aunts and uncles that my mother, brother, sisters and I avoid Don Herminio’s and Abuelita María Luisa’s story.
While growing up I heard a story in which Don Herminio told my Abuelita Jesús that he regretted not marrying María Luisa. He waited 35 years, to express his regret during my mother and father’s wedding. Don Herminio professed his love for María Luisa to María de Jesús as their children were cutting the wedding cake. I believe this story because I have seen the photograph of Abuelita Jesús and Don Herminio standing side by side, while my parents hold each others hands and press the silver knife into their wedding cake. My Abuelita Jesús says that Don Herminio confessed, “Hice mal en casar me con mi esposa. Yo pudiera haber sido un hombre feliz si me hubiera casado con María Luisa. Pero ésta se metió, y ya no pude.”[1]
I grew up too scared to ask Don Herminio’s sons and daughters about their father. I believed that I had no right to ask. Somehow, his story never belonged to me. This changed however, when I could no longer avoid talking about Don Herminio. At 25 years-old, I realized that Don Herminio, my Abuelito,[2] was an amazing man. He is a part of me. He lives somewhere inside of me. So, I began to ask questions, dig a little deeper and search for answers.
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In search of economic prosperity, my Abuelito Herminio and Emma Villacourta raised their children in the Honduran country side. My grandfather was a tender-hearted, loving father. He worked several jobs to pay for a private education and ensure a safe learning environment for his two daughters. And no matter how hard he tried to resemble a figure of authority, he could not help but demonstrate his own child-like nature to his three sons… he would bribe the boys with chocolate and movie tickets, as long as they reminded their grandparents how much their father loved his children. He did everything in his power to provide for his children. Abuelito Herminio loved all his children… regardless of what his mistakes may suggest.
I stayed up late at night looking through old family photographs the night before Tío Mario, Tía Ana and Tía Mabel shared your life with me. I cannot wait to know more about you, and bring you back to my brothers and sisters. I have missed you all my life.
