9 posts tagged “family”
A friend told me about American Chica earlier this year, just before I went to see my abuelita. Intrigued by the fact that the author, like me, had an American mother and Peruvian father, I put it on my birthday wish list. I should have known that my hermanito, the only other mitad mitad on the list of people who buy me presents, would be the one to give me this particular book.
Last week, I finally had the opportunity to to lose myself in it. Not surprisingly, I found myself fascinated by the author's observations of the differences between U.S. and Peruvian cultures. Of course, my experiences did not always coincide with hers, but when I came upon this passage, I recognized myself instantly:
There is a trait I recognize now in the child I was then, an obsession bordering on fever. Perhaps that inquisitiveness is common to children of mixed parents. You till, you dig, you paw, searching for bits, scrabbling at roots, eager to learn to which tribe you belong. Are you more like one or more like the other? Are you one way when you're in one country, but another when you're not? You dangle from that precipice, wondering where to drop.
It is exhausting work, that transit between worlds, that two-way vertigo.
I couldn't have said it better myself. Nor could I have picked a more fitting place to read it: suspended high in the air, en route from Houston to Lima.
They're burying my abuelita today. I won't be there, but fortunately my dad was able to fly out soon after we got the news on Thursday. Although in Peru it's customary to bury a person the day after she passes away, the family chose to delay my abuelita's funeral long enough for my dad, her firstborn, to arrive. I am glad he will be there.
It will be strange to visit Peru next week with my abuelita gone. The family revolved around her. And despite the fact that thousands of miles separated us from her, she was a strong presence even in my nuclear family. I am certain that her steadfast Christian example shaped the way my dad treats my mom, as well as the way my parents raised me and my brother. Every single time I talked with my abuelita, she told me how much she loved me and that she was praying for me.
She and my abuelito, both of whom devoted their lives to the ministry, made a lot of sacrifices to provide for their family of nine. My dad remembers how his mother's hands used to bleed from doing housework. And she was always trying to find a way to make things last a little longer. When she could still see, she would tear plastic bags into strips and then crochet them into rugs. I didn't appreciate the beauty of these recycled treasures until I was older, so I got rid of most of them years ago. But I still have a lovely purse that she crocheted for me out of clear plastic bags, and I cherish it.
My abuelita was the family historian. She loved to talk and, if you let her, she could go on for hours, usually telling stories about about people long dead. She had such a soft voice that I sometimes could not even hear what she was saying, but she did not seem to mind. She just wanted to reminisce. I was the first grandchild and I was born on my dad's birthday, so September 3rd was like a national holiday for my abuelita. She would send us beautiful birthday cards decorated with traditional Peruvian scenes, and inside she would write: "¡Viva el 3 de setiembre!" For a long time, she would even kill two turkeys on our birthday, and the family in Peru would feast in our honor.
My abuelita could also be quite cheeky. In Peru, we would say that she had a chispa, a spark. She retained it even when she was so sick that she could barely speak. In fact, when we thought she was near death in May, I mentioned to her that I was growing my hair to donate it, and she immediately said, "Te regalo mis trenzas" ("I will my braids to you"). We all just had to laugh through our tears. I am sure that next week I will hear many more stories about all the funny things my abuelita did and said during her long and blessed life.
Everyone who knew my abuelita will miss her terribly. But even as I mourn, I am reminded that this is also a time to rejoice. Her pain and suffering are over, and she is finally home. ¡Gloria a Dios!
This morning, Mr. Guycita and I attended a baby dedication for my cousin's little girl. After the service, members of the extended family were invited to lunch at a delicious, country cookin' buffet in the middle of nowhere.
When Mr. Guycita got up to pay, my cousin's grandpa (whom I have often seen but never really talked to) spotted me and walked over to say hello. As he approached me, he held out his hand, and I politely took it.
To my surprise, he pulled me in close. "You know you're breaking the law, don't you?" he asked in a playfully conspiratorial tone.
I chuckled and replied, "No, what do you mean?"
He leaned in closer, looked me in the eye, and very slowly declared, "You are walking around looking better than any body has a right to!"
His eyes twinkled, and I couldn't believe what I was hearing! I laughed quite heartily and thanked him for what I considered a very nice piropo.
When I got home, I called my cousin and told her what her grandpa said to me. She apologized for his his friskiness, but I assured her that I was not offended. I haven't been hit on in a long time, so I'll take whatever I can get!
My grandma in Peru was admitted to the hospital again last week. It turned out that her hemoglobin was low, and the doctors had to pump her with two units of blood. The weird thing is that the hospital required the family to replace that blood within 24 hours! I asked one of my cousins whether she or anyone else in the family planned to be one of the donors, and she said that she'd convinced two of her friends to donate instead.
I was disappointed that my family members declined to give their own blood to replenish the supplies my abuelita used. But I was also not that surprised—my family in Peru has some strange ideas about blood donation. For example, one of my aunts has assured me that I won't be able to bear children if I donate blood. (I hope to prove her wrong someday!) Another aunt told my cousins that they aren't eligible to donate because, basically, they have allergies. (Again, not true!)
The whole situation made me want to go out and give a unit of my blood in protest, so today I did just that. I'm now on my way to earning my 2-gallon pin, and I don't regret a single pint.
If you meet the eligibility requirements and aren't already a blood donor, please consider becoming one. For the price of a tiny pinprick, you have the potential to save someone's life. And if you ever find yourself on the receiving end of donated blood, be thankful that you live in a country that doesn't require you to give back that blood!
Over the weekend, Peru marked 186 years of independence from Spain. To commemorate the occasion, Mr. Guycita and I observed our quaint tradition of stuffing ourselves at the local Peruvian restaurant.
One of my cousins is doing much more than that to celebrate Peru's rich history. He lives in the beautiful mountain town of Cajamarca, and for the past four years he has been a part of the Asociacion Cultural Origenes. The aim of this nonprofit organization is to educate young people about Peru's folkloric tradition. They do this by putting on demonstrations of traditional dance and music throughout Peru and abroad (including Ecuador, Chile, and soon Spain).
My cousin's roles in the ACO include organizing events, arranging the music, and playing bass for the dancers. I couldn't be more proud of the work he is doing. Watch as his group performs the beautiful marinera, a dance typical of northern Peru:
And here is a (rather long, but very interesting) dance they did at the Mitad del Mundo. My cousin says it's their best act:
A week ago today, I attended a funeral. The person in the casket was not my ailing grandmother in Peru, nor was it my aging grandpa here in the States. It was my 21-year-old cousin.
When my mom called to tell me the terrible news of his death, I could not believe my ears. How could such a young, seemingly healthy man go to bed one night and never wake up? I knew he was a good kid, so drugs or violence were out of the question. A dozen scenarios swirled through my head, and it wasn't until after the funeral was over that I learned he'd apparently died of sepsis. No one had had any idea that he was sick.
I feel bad that I did not know my cousin very well. He was nearly a decade younger than I, and most of my life our families had lived hundreds, if not thousands, of miles apart. When I did see him at family gatherings, he was quiet and kept to himself. My attempts to draw him out of his shell were met with a shy smile and a twinkle in his eye, but our interactions never went far beyond "Hi" and "How are you?" I didn't know that my cousin had a girlfriend of five years, whom he planned to marry. I didn't know that he had so many friends who looked up to him and whom he ministered to. And I didn't know that he was a poet and a songwriter, or that he was a gifted guitarist and a talented vocalist, or that he had a band that had just finished recording its first demos.
At the visitation, his family wanted to give a CD of his band's demos to everyone who came to pay their respects, but so many people showed up that they ran out. Mr. Guycita and I were lucky enough to snag the last one, and I'm sharing my favorite track here.
Each time I listen to this song, I marvel anew that this quiet kid was capable of emitting such a powerful sound. It turns out that my cousin was a pretty cool guy, and I wish I'd known him better.
Thirty-six years ago today, my parents were married in a small church in southern Indiana. Mom planned the wedding on a shoestring budget, with little notice (they'd been waiting day-to-day for Dad's visa to be approved). Dad knew almost no English and had left behind everything he'd ever known to come marry Mom.
Yet, despite the sacrifices both Mom and Dad were making in order to be married, many people here thought it was wrong for a white American woman to marry a mestizo from Peru. Crazy!
To their credit, Mom and Dad chose to become rebels of a sort, following God's will for their lives in spite of the obstacles—the ones they faced then and the ones they'd encounter in the years ahead. Looking back, it is clear to me that God has consistently rewarded their faithfulness, in big and small ways.
Mom and Dad, I am so blessed to be your daughter. Thank you for giving me a wonderful example of a loving marriage!
Linguists assert that most families have a private language, or "familylect." Words in a familylect are usually (1) made up and (2) understood only by that family's members.
Someone asked me today what the meaning is behind my screen name. "Guycita" comes from "guycitos," which is a word my dad came up with at some point during my childhood. The root word is—yep—the English noun "guys." The Spanish suffix -ito (or -cito) indicates small size and/or affection. Therefore, "guycitos" is Spanglish for "little guys"—or even "little guys whom I love." It was my dad's special word for me and my brother when we were kids.
When I left home, I realized that the word "guycitos" was probably unique to my family. Perhaps it will be the special word I use for my children someday—or maybe we'll come up with our own familylect.
My father is Peruvian, and my mother is a native Hoosier. I am at once both and neither.
A friend recently referred to me as "mixed." This term does not offend me in the least, but I prefer to think of myself as "mitad mitad" (which is Spanish for "half and half"). That's because the concept of "mitad mitad" is about more than race or ethnicity: In my mind, it evokes the experience of having each foot in a different culture, in a different world.
The people who study these things would call me a "TCK" (third culture kid). The idea is that kids who grow up with the daily influence of two cultures create a third, hybrid culture of their own. I reject the label "TCK" for myself, however, because I grew up as a missionary kid in Uruguay, meaning that I had the daily influence of three cultures. The culture of my own making would then, logically, be my fourth culture. But I think being known as an "FCK" would sound (and definitely look) borderline vulgar.
So I'll just stick with "mitad mitad."
