A Story of a Liminal Space

Como la Flor

I recently found a postcard my father sent my mother, buried within old photos still in the photo holder they gave you when you picked up your film at the one-hour photo. It is an image of the Brooklyn Bridge, with rounded edges. On the back it reads, "Esta es mi vista favorita en todo Nueva York. Lo paso todos los días pensando en ti. Te quiero mi amor." I think about this moment, about how enamored my father was with this city as he was with my mother, about how my parents must have felt leaving their loved ones behind, and what they have accomplished. "All those sacrifices have been for you," is what they say to this day, and I wonder, was it all worth it?

We lived in the basement, as my dad was the super to the building, just off Dyckman Street. The room my brother and I shared, our playroom where we would often throw parties, the management offices in the back where we would make photocopies of things, creating our own coloring books. My father was always in the building. My mother always had us at her side, even when she went to work at my godmother's party supply store. They wanted to give us the best life they could, for Alvaro and me. The reason as to why they left their family. No one else would follow them to America, but I guess my parents didn't care. They wanted a life their country could not give them. I only wish Dyckman had given them the life they so desired, as it is the only time in my life that I had a sense of home.

Every year we would go to Uruguay to visit our family. Abuela and Abuelo, Tia Marita and Susana, and all my other Tias and Tios. There were so many of them that when we arrived, we were always greeted at the airport with a crowd so big I felt like Selena arriving to her homeland. Hugs so tight my little body was engulfed by theirs, so many kisses my cheeks turned pink from all the lipstick. There was so much happiness. We would then go to Tia Marita's house, the house my father's parents (who had passed before I was born) had bought for their future grandchildren to acquire - a house I now know I will never have. Everyone would follow. The driveway fit three cars max, everyone else took over the street. Alvaro and I would play with our cousins, as the adults drank and laughed away. My cousins, all boys, have always had this sense to act as my personal bodyguards. Laurita, la prima mas linda. This is where I was supposed to be born, this is where I was supposed to live my life. Why would my parents leave? I wanted to feel this love for more than just 14 days out of the year. What was so important for us to have in America that we could not be here with our family?

We left Dyckman when I was five. My parents decided this was not the life they wanted. But I always remember Dyckman: the playground where we played on the chained swings that creaked in each direction, Fuin, Fuan; the small man that pushed his flavored ice cart around, yelling "Piragua, Piragua." Mami always got one for Alvaro and me, either the rainbow, mango, or cherry - anything but the white one. My godfather's music store, that had a huge speaker out front playing either freestyle or merengue, where Padrino's father would hang out and dance all day on the street. I remember the day Selena died. This was tragic. Everyone was on the block, tents set up, selling all kinds of Selena memorabilia - posters, t-shirts, keychains, bootleg copies of her albums - blasting Como la Flor as people walked through the street, crying hysterically.

Como la flor con tanto amor

Me diste tú, se marchitó

Me marcho hoy, yo sé perder

Pero, ah-ah-ay, ¡cómo me duele!

Ah-ah-ay, ¡cómo me duele!

Shortly after Selena died, we left Dyckman. It feels as if a part of me died along with her. My parents love for this city died along with her. Como la flor… se marchitó. These words repeat in my head, hearing Selena's voice, feeling her pain, as I replay the crying faces I saw that day. It was as if they were mourning for me. The life my parents had given me, with all the love they gave, wilted away. Wilted away in their desire to relocate once again.

The Nail Clippers

Somehow my parents managed to buy a home in the Catskills. It was a small A-frame home, with a large yard and a pool. It was here, the first day of 1st grade, that I became aware of how I was received, of my hybridity. We were greeted at the entrance by several teachers. These are the kids who have just moved here from the city, is how we were introduced, as we were passed on to a woman who spoke to us in Spanish - Hola! I spoke English fluently. In fact, my Spanish was so terrible that my parents enforced a Spanish-only rule in the house to help us speak it better. That first week it was just me, Alvaro, and this teacher locked in a room for the entire day, as she held up cards with different animals, colors, and numbers, saying "Elefante en inglés es Elephant. Pueden decir Elephant?"

There are things that happen inside our home, certain customs my parents try to instill, that I couldn't relate to the outside world. I am living in a liminal space. I began to take notice of all the little things in my home, that I may not find outside. The nail clippers. We have them; my family in Uruguay have them, but when I go to play at a friend's house, I never see them. I check their medicine cabinets in the bathroom, the drawers, and cabinets under the sink. Nail Clippers nowhere in sight. Is this something that only my family uses because we are different? What do Americans use to cut their nails, I often wondered as a child. I missed Dyckman. Nail Clippers. Marisol. Marisol, the Dominican woman who lived upstairs. I loved Marisol. I missed being in her low-lit bedroom, sitting at her vanity table that had a beautiful Victorian style mirror, filled with elegant perfumes and makeup, and delicate boxes full of jewelry. Here, she would brush my hair, put blush on my cheeks with her big fluffy brush and lipstick on my lips. I can still hear the poppysmic that would come from my lips as she guided me, "Here, place this tissue between your lips and smack them to get rid of any extra lipstick. That way it won't get in your teeth." Nail Clippers. She would take the nail clippers, trim my nails, and paint them. As they dried, she would sort through her jewelry for the perfect match. I still have a pair of earrings she gave me. Gold, tiny hoop earrings with a flower made of small white diamonds as the petals, and a big black one for the center. Perhaps she saw something in me to show me so much love: a child of hybridity who has yet to become aware of the journey ahead. A child who she saw herself in. I longed to be with Marisol, to be Marisol. To find a way to thrive in the liminal. "Que bella! Now go downstairs and show Mami how beautiful you are!"

Mami and Papi weren't around anymore. They had to work, but this time we couldn't come. Was this the life they wanted? We left our family in Uruguay for a better life; We left Dyckman for a better life. But a house is not a home without comfort, without love, without stability. After four years in the Catskills, my parents broke the news - "We are moving." I remember going numb. An empty trance I would not wake myself from for years to come.

Numb

Cortlandt Manor. It took me until High School to be able to spell Cortlandt without having to reference it to any mailing lying around. The house we moved into was much bigger with a massive yard - one acre to be exact. It was a huge accomplishment for my parents. Our neighbors to the right of us welcomed our family by building a large fence in between our properties. It was a white couple with two small children. They would drag the children back into the house once they saw any one from my family come outside. They moved shortly after. At my new school, I was an outcast, the girl they did not know; the girl they did not go to kindergarten with; the girl that was not in their Girl Scout Troop, or whatever other after-school activity they were involved in. In my numbness to changing environments, in my emotional displacement, I kept to myself. If they won't talk to me, I won't talk to them. I knew I was different.

Our trips to Uruguay became more difficult. My cousins' accents were heavier and spoke much faster than I could understand. Sometimes when something was said, I would laugh thinking they were trying to tell me something funny until I see by their reaction that it was not. I had no idea how to express my thoughts or feelings. The only words I knew were words I would hear my parents use, and my parents were never emotionally open people. There was still love, lots of it, it never went away - still lots of hugs and kisses. But to them, I was different. I was Gringa. One day, my cousin Oscar asked me about our life in America, thinking we were rich. I told him of the sacrifices my parents have made, the sacrifices they still make by working overtime to pay for whatever life it is that they seek. Why would they leave their family for that? Hearing these words from my cousin penetrated into the depths of my soul. A reminiscence of feelings I have learned to ignore - learned to forget to survive. All my life I wondered why. I longed to be with my family, longed to feel like one of them. I longed for their stability.

Life in Cortlandt was uneventful. I looked forward to the days we would drive 45 minutes to visit Dyckman. At least on Dyckman, I didn’t have to think of my dual life to which I belonged to neither. On Dyckman, I wasn't an outsider, I was Laura. A hybrid, just like the rest. It really wasn't until 10th grade that my classmates began to take notice of me, and it's only because they found out I was smoking weed. They began to invite me to after-school hang outs, where my mom would call asking where I was. "Hola Mami. Si, sali con unas amigas. Ya voy para casa ahora." Mouths dropped.

"Were you just speaking Spanish?!"

"Yes, yes I was."

"You're Spanish?!"

"Yes, yes I am."

"I thought you were white!"

"My last name is Gonzalez."

"Are you Puerto Rican. You don't look Puerto Rican."

"I'm from Uruguay."

"Oh, what part of Mexico is that?"