MAYA
As my grandmother Esmeralda drove me back to her house she mentioned how overjoyed she was about my visiting her for a little while. Spending more time with all of her grandchildren was very important to her. When I was a little girl I was always at her house listening to her drone on about stories and events that I didn’t particularly care about at the time. She took me and my siblings to church on Sunday and often signed us up for activities there. She had me in everything from performing Mexican folk dances at the church to Bible study for children. However, when I turned thirteen and was able to have a little more say in how I spent my time, the first thing I wanted to do was stop hanging out with my grandmother and relax with my friends. Sunday afternoons at the mall replaced Sundays at church, and it was easy to get out of seeing her on Saturday because all I had to say was, “I’ve got homework to do,” and that pretty much guaranteed that I didn’t have to go visit. I wasn’t lying a majority of the time. I did have homework to do, but not as much as I led my mother to believe. When I wasn’t in school, I got out of spending time with my grandmother by attending summer school or getting involved in some other community activity near my home. Once I’d turned sixteen and was able to work, my job with Keysha at the swimming pool was another perfect reason to keep from visiting.
It’s not that I don’t like my grandmother. I really do love her, it’s just that she is so old-fashioned and loves tradition. I’ve heard her and my mother more often than not fussing about why my mom doesn’t come around very often. My mother would always point out how hectic things were at the office, and how tiring it was to raise three children. Of course my grandmother Esmeralda felt that there was always time for familia. Speaking of family, my grandmother had two movies that she could watch over and over again and never tire of. Those films were My Family, starring Jimmy Smits, Edward James Olmos and Esai Morales, and Forrest Gump. The movie My Family came out in 1995 when I was only a year old and Forrest Gump came out in 1994, the year I was born. I once asked Keysha if her grandmother or mother had a movie that they watched all of the time.
“I don’t know about my grandmother Rubylee,” Keysha had said. “But my mother, Justine, watched Purple Rain to the point that she knew all of the actors’ lines.” I remembered laughing at that.
My grandmother Esmeralda wasn’t a very tall woman, but she wasn’t too short, either. She had long black hair that cascaded down her back, and skin as soft as rose petals. Deeper and more pronounced age lines had formed around her eyes, nose and lips since I’d last seen her. Her wisdom lines made her appear a little more Native American than Mexican American. She was sixty-three and for the most part had stayed in decent shape. Although, my mother told me, after my grandfather’s sudden passing it took a long time for Grandmother Esmeralda to get over his death, and she ended up losing too much weight. My grandfather passed away when I was just two years old, so I don’t really remember him. I do recall hearing stories about him, but it had been so long that I didn’t really remember any of them.
“Did you know that your grandfather was as handsome as Jimmy Smits?” asked my grandmother as we exited the highway. I knew she wanted me to act as if I was unfamiliar with the actor, so she could bring up the movie My Family.
“Jimmy who?” I just played along with her.
“Jimmy Smits. Oh, let me tell you. Your grandfather was the best husband and father in the world. When I met him in the 1960s, all the girls in the neighborhood were after him. They would do such silly things to get his attention. They’d walk past him when he came out onto the front porch of his home and blow kisses at him. When I’d see him at our high school dances, all of my girlfriends would argue over who was going to make him their guy. My friends and I were only sophomores at the time and he was a junior. So for us to be able to snag an upperclassman was big stuff.” I knew I’d heard this story before, but for some reason I was so much more interested in it now than I’d ever been before.
“So, how did you get him?” I asked, because I truly didn’t remember.
“Oh, come on, Maya. I know I’ve told you this story a thousand times, at least.” Grandmother Esmeralda smiled. The deep lines around the corners of her eyes were really pronounced when she smiled.
“Well, you need to tell it to me one thousand and one times,” I said.
“Well, while all of my girlfriends were busy chasing him, I completely ignored him,” she explained. “It wasn’t like I was ugly or anything, and in fact I had plenty of young fellas interested in dating me. But my father and your great-grandfather was very, very strict. There was no way that his daughter was going to get mixed up with some smooth-talking boy.” Grandmother Esmeralda laughed before she continued on with her story. “Anyway, when I was in my third year of high school and your grandfather was in his last year, he started paying attention to me. He tried to make me swoon with his pretty hair and dreamy eyes, but I fought him off. But believe me, it wasn’t easy.”
“So why did you hold back? Why didn’t you just go for it? I’ve always heard that the 1960s were when kids were saying stuff like, ‘Make love and don’t drop bombs,’” I said.
“True, there were a lot of things going on, but I respected my father. There was no way that I was going to go against his wishes. I was a good Catholic girl,” she explained.
“I’m so glad I wasn’t dating back then. I would’ve just died,” I said jokingly.
“You would’ve survived just fine. You’d have good morals and values,” Grandmother Esmeralda said. In the back of my mind I was like, Whatever! I thought she was done telling her story, but she continued.
“So I ignored him as much as I could. Then he graduated from high school and I was heartbroken.”
“Heartbroken?” I laughed. “You weren’t even dating the guy,” I said, wondering how she could’ve been so upset.
“He and I had our moments, Maya,” she whispered.
“What?” I asked because I didn’t hear her.
“We held hands and kissed a few times, in secret, of course,” she reluctantly admitted. “So you did go against your father?” I asked, looking for clarification.
“Holding someone’s hand and kissing them under a tree in the park is hardly criminal,” she said, downplaying those early intimate moments. My intuition told me that much more than a kiss and a hug happened between them, but I wasn’t about to go there with my grandmother.
“Okay, so there was some type of spark between you two,” I said.
“Yes there was, and when he graduated I felt as if my world had fallen apart. I cried for days.”
“Why? He still lived in the neighborhood, right?” I asked.
“No. You really don’t remember me telling you this story, do you?” She glanced over at me just before she made another turn.
“No, I don’t.”
“Your grandfather was drafted into the army and sent off to the war in Vietnam in 1965.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that,” I said, recalling several old photos I’d seen of him in uniform.
“He asked me to write to him and I did. I wrote him letters every day when he was in training at a military base in North Carolina. He’d write back just as often telling me that the training was actually sort of fun and that he was looking forward to serving his country. He was eighteen and young. He didn’t really know what he was in for, and neither did the other men. When they shipped him off to Vietnam I didn’t get a letter from him until he’d arrived over there. He asked me to send a photo of myself so he could think about me when all hell was breaking loose. By that point he hadn’t seen any combat yet and his letters were still rather cheery and upbeat. However, here at home all we saw were horrible images from the war. I sent him a nice picture and my crucifix, which I got from the priest at Our Lady of Guadalupe Church when I was a little girl. The priest had blessed it and told me it would protect me always. I felt that it would help protect your grandfather, Miguel, so I sent it to him.”
“Was it this one?” I asked, noticing the crucifix dangling from her rearview mirror.
“No. I buried it with your grandfather.” Grandmother Esmeralda’s voice trailed off, and I knew immediately that even after all of the years that had come to pass she still missed my grandfather.
“You don’t have to talk about this anymore if you don’t want to,” I said, offering her a way out of the conversation.
“No. I need to tell you these stories as many times as necessary so that you remember them. It is the history of your family and it is very important and you must never forget it. Think about it, Maya. Had your grandfather not survived that war, your mother would’ve never been born and you wouldn’t be sitting here with me.”
I took a hard swallow. I hadn’t thought about it like that.
“I received a letter from him one day and, anyway, in one of his letters he told me when he returned he wanted to get married and settle down.”
“How romantic,” I said as I allowed myself to get completely lost in the story.
“Oh, Maya, my dear child, just listen to me. It is true—getting letters in the mail from your grandfather had a certain romantic touch. In fact, as soon as a letter would arrive I’d rush up to my bedroom, shut the door and read it. I truly fell in love with him through the letters he wrote.”
“What did he say in them?” I asked.
“He talked about some of everything. His childhood, his deepest feelings, his hopes, his dreams. You name it. At least that’s what he wrote about in the beginning, but the longer he stayed the more convinced he became that America wasn’t doing anyone any good.”
“Why? From what I’ve learned in my history classes, whenever America goes to war the history books say that we’re justified.”
“That’s the problem with history books. You don’t get to talk to the people who lived through it.” My grandmother sighed. “Miguel hated being over there because he had to go from village to village burning down the homes of people who were very poor. He said to me in one of his letters,
Esmeralda, you should see the sad look in their eyes. They’ve lost all hope. They’re mostly simple farmers who have homes made out of grass and mud. I’ve seen and done horrible things. It is as if hell has risen up from beneath the earth and has chosen to go on a killing spree.
“When I think about those letters and those times, I get sad.”
“Wow,” I said solemnly.
“One letter in particular really made me angry and I loved him, all at the same time. He said,
My Dear Esmeralda, Today I cried like a motherless child. My unit had to go into a village after an air strike and saw horrible things. I saw things that I can’t even put into words, but I will do my best to try to tell you why I am so incredibly heartbroken. Today I saw a little Vietnamese girl who was about nine years old. The skin on her torso had melted off from the heat of the explosions. She was running down the road toward me wearing only her underwear. Other men in my unit acted as if they didn’t see the child. I guess it’s the training we go through. We’re not supposed to really get too involved. Our job is to find the enemy and take them out. But this little girl was frightened by everything that was going on. The only thing she wanted to do was flee from the noise. Something in my heart shattered when I saw her. I put down my weapons and got on my knees and held my arms out to her. When she ran to me and wrapped her arms around my neck, she refused to let me go. Finally she just cried and I cried with her. This damn war doesn’t care about innocent children. I feel as if I’m killing my own brothers and it’s not right.
“Miguel carried the little girl to the medic and forced him to help her,” Grandmother Esmeralda said.
“Oh, my God! What did you say to him after that?” I asked, feeling very sad.
“When I wrote him back I told him that he was a good man and would be a good father because of his caring heart. I also told him that I loved him and would be waiting for him whenever he came home.” We finally arrived at Grandmother Esmeralda’s gray-stone styled home. Her home was old, but similar in style to the one I’d seen on reruns of The Cosby Show.
“Come on, let’s go inside and I’ll tell you more over a glass of sun tea,” said my grandmother. I gathered my belongings from the trunk and made my way up the concrete steps, through two sets of doors, and finally dropped my bags in the vestibule. To my immediate left there was a staircase that led to the upper level. To my right was the living room with a beautiful fireplace, and directly in front of me were the kitchen and the back porch.
“You can run those upstairs and place them inside your mother’s old bedroom. I’ll go pour us some tea. Come sit with me on the back porch when you’re done.”
About fifteen minutes later, I was sitting next to my grandmother, drinking some of the most delicious tea I’d ever tasted. She’d also sliced a piece of her upside-down pineapple cake on a small saucer for me.
“Oh, my God! I haven’t had a slice of your pineapple cake in ages,” I said, cutting into it with my fork. As soon as the morsel was in my mouth I felt my toes curling up.
“You should visit more often,” she said, taking a sip of her tea.
“Okay, so what happened next?” I asked.
“I graduated from high school and got a job as a clerk for the city,” she said.
“Where was Grandpa? Was he still at war?” I asked.
“Yes. He finally came home in the winter of 1967. He’d been wounded. He lost the lower half of his left leg. They gave him a prosthetic leg and physical therapy, and when he was well enough he was released.”
“That sucks!” I said, looking down at my own leg and wondering what it would look like if half of it was missing.
“Yes, it did, but your grandfather was a very strong man. Even though he walked with a limp for the rest of his life, he didn’t allow the loss of the leg to slow him down.”
“So, were you happy to see him when he came back messed up like that?” I asked.
“Of course I was, although at first I didn’t even know he was back home. You see, your grandfather arrived home during the worst blizzard in Chicago’s history. Everything was shut down, sidewalks and roads were completely impassable. But your grandfather arrived in Chicago by train. It was snowing so hard people were told to stay indoors. Your grandfather didn’t want to be stuck at the train station, so he convinced a cab driver to take him as far as he could. Your grandfather got within two miles of my house and walked the rest of the way.”
“He walked two miles in a blizzard with one leg?” I asked for clarification.
“Yes, he did. He walked through over two feet of snow just to ring my doorbell. He didn’t even stop to see his parents. He came to see me first. When my father, Don, answered the door, your grandfather Miguel was standing there dressed in his uniform, with his hat tucked under his arm and a green army bag filled with his belongings. He was covered from head to toe with snow. I was standing behind my father and heard him say, “Sir, my name is Miguel and I’ve just returned home from the war. Your daughter and I have been writing each other for a long time, and I’d like to know if it is okay with you if I were to sit and visit with her.”
“Ohhh,” I said, feeling my heart melt. “What happened then?”
“Well, my father didn’t know what to make of his crazy stunt. He couldn’t believe that Miguel had walked through a snowstorm just to see me. He respected Miguel’s courage and the honorable way that he asked if he could spend time with me. It also helped that my father was a military man and understood how important it was to see people you cared about when you’ve been away for so long. He allowed Miguel in. My mother was in the middle of making tamales and asked Miguel to stay for dinner. He said he’d loved to, because he missed eating home-cooked meals. Miguel and I sat on the sofa and he unclasped the crucifix I’d sent to him. He placed it in my hand and said that it was truly blessed because he should’ve died, but he believed that it had protected him. I told him to keep it because I wanted it to protect him forever. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
“So you didn’t care about his leg being messed up?” I asked, thinking of how she might have been embarrassed to be seen with a guy who limped.
“Heavens no, child. When you truly love someone you see past things like that. I wasn’t in love with the man’s body. I was in love with what’s right here.” My grandmother placed her hand over my heart. I took a moment to think about what she’d said.
“So, then you started dating Grandpa?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. We dated for a year. We had so much fun together. I remember one time he came and asked my father if it was okay if he kept me out all night. I was almost twenty years old and he was still asking my father for permission, and my father loved him for it.”
“Where did you guys go?” I cautiously asked, hoping that my question wasn’t too personal.
“We went to see Carlos Santana. That was a great concert,” she said, reminiscing on the moment.
“I actually like his music,” I said.
“He is one of the best musicians in the world. I love Santana. I also loved your grandfather. We got married in 1968 and in 1969 your mother, Raven, was born. The following year in 1970, your aunt Salena was born. He loved his two girls and spoiled them rotten,” she said, laughing.
Grandmother Esmeralda and I spent the rest of the day talking. When I was first told that I had to come visit her I thought for sure I’d be bored out of my mind, but I actually found visiting with her to be enjoyable. I don’t know; maybe because I was a little older, but whatever the reason I was happy I’d come.
The following day Grandmother Esmeralda and I ran errands together. We rode around the Pilsen community visiting local shops that had been family-owned for generations. We visited a bookstore, a grocery store that made fresh tortillas, and even took time to visit the National Museum of Mexican Art. I walked around looking at the artifacts, but to me they didn’t mean much.
“Maya, do you remember any of our family history that I’ve told you about?” she asked as we causally glanced at a display that chronicled the Afro-Mexican slave trade.
“Not really,” I said as I read something that caught my eye. “‘In 1492 King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella expelled the Islamic Moors out of Spain and back to Africa and started the exploration of the new lands to expand their growing empire.’ Hmm, I never knew that,” I said.
“Knew what?” Esmeralda asked.
“That people from Africa lived in Spain.”
“Yes, this is true,” said Grandmother Esmeralda. “Spaniards brought slaves to Mexico as well as the United States. That is why some Mexicans have features that look more African than Aztec, but we are all from the same country, just different parts of it.”
“So the Aztec Indians were in Mexico before the Spanish and the Africans got there,” I said as more of a question than a statement.
“Yes. See, look right here. In 1519 a man named Hernán Cortés from Spain seized the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan. There is so much history that you can learn in a place like this,” Grandmother Esmeralda said.
“I see,” I said as I continued on. I came across information about revolts due to the combined efforts of the Mexican and African people that I’d never known about. “They don’t teach this stuff in my high school history class,” I said.
“Of course not, this is the history of Mexico.”
“But, Mexico was once the United States.” I found myself engaging in an intellectual conversation with my grandmother. This was something that was really weird.
“Oh, honey, you can tell people that until you’re blue, but people always downplay it as if it is something that should be forgotten. This is why I like to bring my grandchildren to places like this, so that you can learn. These are important things to know, but sadly many Mexican people don’t understand their own history.”
“But why?” I asked.
“For a lot of reasons,” Grandmother Esmeralda said as we made our way out the door. We stepped into the sunshine and I reached into my purse and pulled out my sunglasses. The warm sun felt great against my skin, but it wouldn’t be long before I got thirsty.
“Come on, let’s walk this way,” she said. I walked alongside her. By the time we made it back to her car, my entire back felt sticky with sweat.
“If feels like it’s one hundred degrees out here today,” Grandmother Esmeralda complained as she turned on the air conditioner.
“Tell me about it. I feel like I’m melting.” We made a few more stops before we finally headed back home. After I took a shower and freshened up, I joined my grandmother in her bedroom. I know that I shouldn’t have been surprised, but she’d popped in the movie My Family for us to watch.
“This is such a fantastic movie.” She smiled at me.
“Uhm, don’t you have cable? We could probably find another movie to watch,” I suggested.
“I just have basic cable and nothing good is ever on. But this movie here is excellent.” As much as I didn’t want to watch the film, I crawled into the bed beside her and watched it.
At some point I fell asleep and awoke later that evening to the sound of a blender. I took a long stretch and relaxed just a little longer. I then heard the faint sound of music echoing from the kitchen. I finally got up and walked toward the sound and realized that Grandmother Esmeralda was listening to a song called “Maria Maria” by Carlos Santana.
“What are you doing listening to that song?” I asked, completely surprised because I thought for sure the only music my grandmother liked was from the 1960s and ’70s.
“Hey, once a Carlos Santana fan you’re a fan for life.” My grandmother did a little dance where she worked her hips. I almost had to slap myself because I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Okay,” I said long and slowly. “Have you been drinking?”
“No.” My grandmother seemed offended by the comment. She poured whatever she was mixing up in the blender through a strainer and into a bowl.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Gazpacho, and it’s very delicious,” she said and offered me a spoonful. I took a taste and loved it. “You like?”
“Yeah, that’s very good,” I said as she lifted up another spoonful to my mouth. “What’s in it?”
“You mean to tell me that your mother has never made this for you guys?”
“No, not that I remember,” I said.
“Well, that’s what grandmothers are for. I’ll teach you how to make it,” she said. “Go wash your hands and come on back.”
While I learned how to make gazpacho, I listened to music with my grandmother. We then sat down at her kitchen table and she shared more of her knowledge with me.
“Did you know that our family left Mexico in 1914? Your great-great-grandfather Phil came from Aguascalientes, Mexico. He came across the border to El Paso, Texas. He had to pay five cents to enter into the United States.”
“Really?” I said, not caring too much about it because I was busy eating.
“Yes, he left to find work. He was young and single. He got a job working in the sugar beet fields. It was hard labor, but something was better than nothing. By 1918 he married a woman named Aurora Gomez and had your great-grandfather Don. Aurora insisted that Don learn how to become more American. She pushed him to learn how to speak English and forget about the old Mexican ways. His father, Phil, didn’t like this, but Aurora won. In 1941 Don was twenty-three years old and hated working in the fields. So he signed up for the military and went off to serve in World War II. He served both in Europe and the Pacific. When he came back he told his parents that he wasn’t going to go back to doing fieldwork. Instead he came to Chicago and got a job working at the steel mill. He worked very hard and made much more money than a fieldworker. By 1946, Don had met and married Caroline Lopez. In 1948 I was born. My mother, Caroline, came from a family who believed in the American dream and way of life and wanted to make sure that I had every advantage possible.”
“Do you have pictures?” I asked. Because now I was very interested in the story.
“I thought you’d never ask,” she said. “Hang on, they’re in a box under my bed.” Grandmother Esmeralda got up to go retrieve the photos. As I waited, I heard the doorbell ring.
“Do you want me to get it?” I called out to my grandmother.
“Hang on. I don’t know who it could be. I’m not expecting any company,” she said as she entered into the kitchen again. The doorbell chimed once again. I followed her toward the front door.
“Hang on, I’m coming!” she yelled out. Grandmother Esmeralda peeped through the viewfinder and gasped. “Oh, my goodness!” she said as she hurriedly opened the door. When the door opened up, there stood my aunt Salena. Her face was bruised and swollen. Her lip was busted and the dark sunglasses she was wearing were clearly hiding more battle scars. Standing beside her was my cousin Viviana. Her hair was pulled back from her face and braided into a long ponytail. Viviana looked rough. Her lips were dry and chapped; her skin was filled with blemishes and pimples that stretched across her forehead and along her jawline. The white-and-red bumps looked disgusting, and I suppose my facial expression said things that my mouth wasn’t brave enough to. I opened my mouth to try and speak, but words escaped me. My eyes darted back and forth between Salena and Viviana. I was trying to process what had happened to them. Finally, Viviana said, “Maya! Would you move out of the way!”
“Oh,” I said, as I flinched before stepping aside to allow them to enter.