7 posts tagged “peru”

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!

The first time my brother and I flew to Peru without our parents, I forgot to take my passport to the airport. It didn't even occur to me to grab it before leaving my house—which happened to be 1,200 miles away. Needless to say, we did not get to board our scheduled flight that day. I had to ask a friend to break into my house, find my passport, and overnight it to my parents' house so that we could catch the next day's flight to Peru. Humiliating—especially considering that I've been flying internationally my whole life.

Still, I had to laugh when my mom called this morning to tell me to put my passport in my purse right now, two days before she and I are scheduled to travel to Peru. I was way ahead of her, though, thanks in part to the wonderful travel checklists from JCPenney (of all places). My mom stumbled across them a few years ago, and Mr. Guycita and I have come to rely on them every time we travel. Using them is much faster than making up a new list for each trip (which is what I used to do). And now I'll never again forget to pack my passport ... or a toothbrush ... or deodorant ... or anything else important!

 

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 few days ago, Mr. Guycita and I returned from an impromptu trip to Peru to see my ailing, 91-year-old grandmother. She is in bad shape, and it was a difficult trip, but I'm glad I got to see her one last time.

My grandma was hospitalized for the first few days of our visit. On the day they sent her home, she asked that a bouquet of white roses be placed in her bedroom. She loves flowers, and when she was younger, she would spend a lot of time caring for the ones in her garden. Their vivid colors were a bright spot in my grandparents' yard, which was (and is) always covered with a layer of dust from the desert.

On that particular morning, only a couple of white roses were in bloom, so my mom filled out the bouquet with different colored roses. My abuelita, who is now blind, did not know the difference, and the fragrance made her happy. Later that day, my grandma's younger sister went to the market to buy more white roses for her bouquet. It's funny what people will do for the ones they love, even when it doesn't make sense.

On the last day of our visit, my abuelito went outside to cut some more roses for my grandma. I went out back with him and took the opportunity to snap some photos of the beautiful plants in their yard. I thought other people might like to see them, too. It's amazing what lush beauty can emerge from the desert coast of northern Peru (in winter!).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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."