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…”Lydia Carballo
Abuelita Lydia was Buried in Strawberry Fields Forever
You are one woman I wish I would have loved more. I wish I would have cried, but I was too young, and I did not know how.
The first question Nancy, Marilee, Eddie and I would ask our mother, as we passed the Mercedes Umaña sign on our way to San Miguel was, “¿cuando vamos a visitar a mi Abuelita Lydia?”[i]
None of us knew the name of the street where you lived, but we knew we had arrived at your home once we saw the tall, red iron doors. Before the car engine stopped, we would push each other out of the car in a race to see who would hug and kiss you first. Nancita, Marilee, Claudia, Edward… como se parece a René,[ii] you would say, peacefully sitting on your wicker rocking chair. Your frail, café con leche[iii] legs would dangle off the chair, as neighbors would stop by to say hola[iv] and try to sell you French bread from their canastos.[v] I remember a pig sneaking into the house the last time we visited you. Piggies were always running around the cobblestone streets of Mercedes Umaña.
Your house was built in a U-shape. All nine rooms were dark and empty, with doors built of either wood or iron, and the floors finished in either red tile or a grayish concrete. The house always scared Nancy, Marilee, Eddie and me. Mom refused to visit unless Tío Salva and Ernesto stayed with us because we could hear the guerilleros[vi] passing through during the middle of the night.
We slept in a room full of cots, and I would pretend that we lived in an orphanage. In between the bedroom and the shower-room was your hiding place for all the gifts that your son had given you. I remember seeing chests full of silk fabrics and silverware. Next to your hiding place was the room where we all showered. Marilee and I always keep each other company while we bathed. Someone once told us that one of our father’s friends dared him to dig up a cadaver, and that it lay hidden in the shower-room. I think the confessional room come’s next…a senile, elderly woman lives there now. Then come’s another empty, grayish room. Hidden behind these two bare rooms was where you raised half a dozen chickens, a turkey and a black duck. Next come’s the bathroom. It was far away…all the way at the far left corner of the house, tucked behind pink hibiscus flowers, and next to the mango trees. Nancy, Marilee and I would accompany each other up to the dark bathroom with no light and a big wooden door. We always laughed when we saw your laminated toilet seat cover. We were convinced that you were dainty. Along the back of the house were more fruit trees, and to the back right side of the house were two large iron doors. More unadorned rooms followed the iron gates. The first room reminded me of an ancient Egyptian tomb. It held treasures of a cántaro[vii] filled with juice, and a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Marilee and I would hold our hands up against the light, then begin to laugh with our Tío Mario because we swore we could see each other’s bones. There was another room that I think should have been the kitchen. You didn’t have a refrigerator because someone stole it… people would continue to steal from you even after your death. And finally, was the dining room, where as a family, we shared many home-cooked meals. I remember eating salty scrambled eggs, queso duro-viejo[viii], black refried beans, fresh French bread and fried plantains for dinner.
I miss those loving meals. I miss running through the center courtyard, looking at old family photographs, and laughing because my great-grandfather looked like Popeye the Sailor Man. I miss the mysterious sensations that took over my body every time I set foot into your one-hundred year-old house.
But what I miss most these days is your laugh, your long, dark, black hair, the way you closed your eyes every time you spoke, and the way you called us las niñas.[ix] I remember a joke that Nancy taught us about using toilet paper and an index finger. You always asked us to tell you the joke, but we never found out why it made you laugh. That summer, we introduced you to the Beatles. Our favorite song was Strawberry Fields Forever.
Very good writing. The historical background of your family is very interesting especially through how you detail it.