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​​SOMOS EN ESCRITO
The Latino Literary Online Magazine

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I am very good at leaving

4/16/2019

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Una Cuadra Al Lago Del Silencio

By Tania Romero
​
I am very good at leaving.
Leaving this place, that place, no place; myself.
I leave things behind. There. Here. Nowhere.
I only come back to you, Silencio.​
Every week, my memory turns to a place called Silencio. I first visited the place growing up in Managua, the same day my stepdad was late picking me up from preschool. I waited on the curb, watching snobby older kids with their chauffeurs; silver lunchboxes swung blissfully into air-conditioned Mercedes-Benz. The delicate, blue-eyed blonde girl with an unpronounceable name held her Chacha’s hand as she climbed the backseat. Nicknamed Vaquita despite her thin frame, she always brought an imported can of condensed milk for lunch; the kind only certain families could buy with a military carnet at La Diplotienda.

I sat on top of a rock near the gated entrance, sipping the remnants of orange juice in my yellow plastic thermos. My mother squeezed fresh oranges every morning, because my family could not afford a live-in Chacha like the other kids. The liquid was still refreshingly cold on that sweltering midday. By the time I finished, everyone but the faded hero cartoon sticker on top of my lunchbox and I, was gone.

Cars zoomed by and I longed to hear the engine roar inside the rattling red hood of my stepdad’s Lada. But it never arrived. In the adventurous spirit of characters like Red Riding Hood from the folktales teachers read before naptime at school, I decided to walk in the direction of Abue’s house all the way across town. Teachers always raved about the heroism of Caperucita Roja when she defeated the Big Bad Wolf with her wit; she was an intrepid pata de perro who didn’t sit nor stay.

By car, Abue’s house was probably thirty minutes away from school. By bus, if one could find an empty seat among the mercaderas with heavy straw baskets heading to El Huembes (the local city market), it was a comfortable hour and a half. But measured in the steps of a five-year-old girl? Abue’s house was a sweat-drenching eternity in the scorching midday heat. As I walked down the unpaved side of the highway, the draft from the speeding cars occasionally lifted my pleated blue skirt, and nearly ripped the insignia from the left pocket of my buttoned-down white shirt. Dressed in blue-white, I probably looked like a miniature Nicaraguan flag in a windstorm.

At a busy light intersection, I sat down under the shade of a mango tree. The skinny branches with long leaves ran for miles into the sky. Suddenly a blue-black Toyota pickup truck screeched to a halt before me. As the cloud of dust settled, I could discern it was La Guardia in disguise: The Big Bad Wolf from the cautionary tales Tío Miguel told me.

When he was a child, La Guardia raided people’s homes like in the Three Little Pigs, huffing and puffing bullets into concrete walls to check which houses crumbled. They didn’t look for chimneys to climb because Managuan homes at the time, no matter the material, didn’t even have doors. Abue would force Tío Miguel to wear a dress before hiding him under the bed so La Guardia wouldn’t take him to a place called Guerra. It seemed no one in my family wanted to go to that place, and I was no different.
Driving around the city disguised as a new wolf breed, La Guardia had a new namesake: La Contra. A Morena with curly black hair tied in a bun, dressed in an olive-green uniform and military boots, stepped out of the front passenger side. Sunglasses, the man at the wheel, wore a similar uniform except for a camouflage cap shading his face. For a slight second, Morena resembled my aunt Ligia who also had a flawless blend of Miskito cinnamon skin. She had the kind of skin shade that chelas like me wanted to have, even after enduring chancletasos from our mothers for standing in the sun too long.

“Mirá vos,” she called for Sunglasses. “¿Dónde vas, chavalita?” she turned to me. I didn’t answer.

“¿A dónde vas, Amor?” she reached out for my hand. When I touched her frosty skin from riding in the air-conditioned cabin, my whole body went numb. I had never been in the presence of a cadaver, but I imagined she felt like one. Del susto, sentí un soplo en el corazón.
​

“Donde mi Abue,” I murmured.
“¿Y dónde queda eso?”
“Por El Huembes,” I replied.

There was no turning back. She knew where I was going. My trembling legs synchronized to the offbeat patterns of my emergent heart murmur. Surprisingly, I felt like a grownup in that moment, referring to landmarks like a real city slicker. No one in Managua actually uses a number address; our postal codes are defined by the most accurate subjective orientation to places and things. We navigate the city by referring to markets, old buildings, monuments, lakes, or trees: “del Arbolito, una cuadra al lago,” we say. Abue had the habit of asking if a place existed before or after the earthquake, just in case.

Morena opened the door and boosted me up to the backseat, placing my faded lunchbox next to me. As I scooted to the center, my overheated legs squealed as they rubbed against the plastic seats. The door closed behind me and Morena got back inside the passenger side; one last gust of hot air filled the truck, and I knew I had found Silencio. The air difference inside the cabin was palpable; the dead-cold breeze from the vents sent chills to the back of my neck. My mind went blank.

I once heard that all girls should cross their legs when they enter Silencio, specially when La Contra is in the front seat. But that cold breeze would occasionally lift my skirt and feel satisfying as it dried my sweaty thighs. Every now and then Sunglasses would turn his head toward the front mirror. I could tell he wanted to be like the cold air penetrating my pores. Morena gave him some side-eye, but never said a thing. I kept pointing in the direction of Abue’s house, but Sunglasses drove slower. Slower, until time stopped.


I wish I could recall more details about Silencio. But every time my memory roams in that direction, all I can remember is the smell. From a certain smell, una cuadra al lago de la memoria; that is the postal code of Silencio. Sometimes when I return, there is an overwhelming scent of burning plastic, mixed with the coolant from the air vents at full blast. Sometimes there is a pervasive smell of sweat and male cologne infused in the upholstery. At times the smell is a combination of gasoline fumes and burning tires. What I do know is that there is always a smell in Silencio.


The next thing I knew, we turned left at the red-black prism memorial for the militant-poet Leonel Rugama, who never came back from Guerra. As we headed down the street, I could see the outside of my Abue’s house in the distance. The pickup truck pulled up to the front. Abue, in her embroidered green bata, dropped her transistor radio and jolted from her mesedora on the porch. Morena got out first and opened the door for me. I jumped out and ran as fast as I could out of Silencio. Abue’s eyes widened when she scooped me into her arms. Instinctively, she lifted my skirt to check between my thighs. Heart racing, eyes sealed, I squeezed tightly; my legs were shamefully frozen-dry but I was unharmed.


Morena chuckled at how firmly I latched on to my Abue’s body. She gave Abue a warm nod and handed her my lunchbox. She returned to the front seat and rolled down her window. I watched her pull out a concealed red scarf under the neckline of her olive-green uniform, an identifying marker of bold volunteers who went to Guerra. She was not La Contra at all; she was a Cachorra. A Caperucita Rojawho prevented Sunglasses from turning into the cold air between my thighs with her silent wit. I never saw either of them again ever though they knew how to get to Abue’s. I figured like many others, they got lost coming back from Guerra.


Thirty years later, during my weekly talk-therapy sessions, I try to deconstruct why I return to Silencio. Why I sit on rocks for hours. Why orange juice tastes better when served in a thermos. Why I sit under trees to purposely obstruct my view of the sky. Why I gravitate toward any body of water to find my place in the world. Why my nickname is pata de perro. And why I nod in silent gratitude at women who wear red scarves.
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Tania Romero, born and raised in Nicaragua, moved to the United States with her parents at the age of nine, but never lost touch with her cultural roots. A poet, filmmaker, and media instructor, Tania is working toward her MFA in Creative Writing from UT-El Paso. Her award-winning short documentary film, “Hasta con las Uñas,” featured interviews with Nicaraguan women filmmakers, a poem of hers was recently published inSin Fronteras journal, and her photography will be featured in an anthology of Latina writers titled, Latina Outsiders. This short story is her first published short fiction.

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An  Abuela's Love

3/6/2018

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​
​Birthday Cards

​By Sofia Resendiz
After two full days of driving, I can finally see the sign.
BIENVENIDOS A EL NIDO, GTO
As we drive into my dad’s hometown, I’m actually surprised at how normal it looks. I had been listening to my dad go on and on about growing up in Mexico my whole life, and this was not the dying, poverty-struck place he told me about.
The cobblestone roads and tall palm trees are like something off the front of a postcard. The churches are tall and accented with large bell towers. All of the houses we pass are either made from brick or adobe, and the adobe houses are painted crazy colors like yellow or pink or orange. This place isn't dying out. It's colorful, like something out of my old books from kindergarten. I’m just about to tell dad this, but then he pulls the van over by a little orange house that looks like it’s made out of clay.
“We’re here,” he says shortly.
I actually have to hold in a cringe. My dad never talks in short, simple sentences like that unless something’s up. If this were a normal day, I’d get a goofy, “All right, m’ija, the bus is letting off now.” or something cheesy about how he and his brothers built this house “with our bare hands.” But this is not a normal day. This is the day before my grandma’s funeral, and my dad is understandably off. The entire drive from Texas, I think he said ten words to me in total. “Hey, you want to take the next rest stop, or no?”
 Part of me gets that he just lost his mom, but the other part just really wants my normal dad back. I was trying to feel sad about what was going on, I really was. I just didn’t have it in me. I never got to meet Abuela. While she was alive, she never even sent so much as a birthday card or anything, so to me, she wasn’t really more than a wallet-sized photo hanging on our refrigerator. It’s kind of hard to grieve a picture.
I hop out of the van and help unload our stuff from the back while Dad sort of stands and stares at the house. Then I realize he hasn’t been back here in over 15 years. I try and imagine how it would feel if I left our town in Texas, and came back 15 years later. Would it even feel like home anymore?
     The front door of the house opens and a petite, dark-skinned lady steps out, sees us, then walks over and hugs my dad. They look enough alike that I can tell this is my aunt, Tía Paulina. She and my dad talk for a minute, then she comes my way.
“Anna-Rosa,” she smiles. “Mi sobrina nueva.” My new niece. Then she breaks into rapid Spanish I can’t catch. I look at dad for help.
“She says you’re tall and beautiful, like your mom was,” he translates, locking the trunk of the van.
“Oh,” I say. “Um…gracias.”
“Pásenle,” she says, pointing towards the front door. And I know that’s an invite to come in, because my dad says it to everybody who comes over to our house. “Pásenle, pásenle…”
I head into the house, suitcase in hand, and it’s a lot roomier than it looks from the outside. From the front door, we walk right into the kitchen, the floor covered with large, green tiles. A hallway leads to four bedrooms. I know they’re all bedrooms, because they have no doors, just open arches covered with blankets. A girl walks out of one of them, says something in Spanish to my dad, then they hug.
“Anna-Rosa,” dad says. “This is your cousin Lupita. She just turned 16, like you.”
“Hallo,” Lupita says, flashing a pretty smile. Then she stutters through accented English. “I’m so happy to finally put a face on the mysterious American cousin.”
“Hey, that’s pretty good! Did you take English in school or something?”
“Oh, yes. Around here, we start English lessons in laprimaria.”
“That’s elementary school,” dad says.
A few minutes later, Lupita shows me her room, and tells me to leave my stuff there. Since she has a bunkbed, I’ll be staying with her the next two weeks. Then she shows me around the rest of the house.
“This is my parent’s room,” she says. “And this one is my brother Mario’s room, but he’s not home. He works in Mexico City. You meet him at the funeral.”
“Is the bathroom over by the family room or something?” I ask, realizing that I haven’t seen one anywhere in the house.
Lupita grins and points out a window that looks out into the backyard.
“You see that little thing out there that looks like a tool shed?”
“Um…yea?”
“That is the bathroom.”
“Oh.”
“Any more questions?”
“Yea,” I point to the empty bedroom at the end of the hall. “Whose room is that?”
Lupita’s face falls as she suddenly gets really interested in a spot on the tile floor.
“That was Abuela’s room,” she says.
     She looks so sad, I feel like I should apologize and say something like “Sorry for your loss”, but that wouldn’t make any sense. I’m just as much Abuela’s granddaughter as she is. Technically, it’s my loss, too. But when I try to match Lupita’s grief, I come up empty. The next few seconds are long and silent, until they’re interrupted by yelling from the kitchen. It’s my dad and Tía Paulina screaming at full volume in rapid Spanish. I haven’t heard dad like that since the time Bryan from across the street pushed me off the monkey bars in second grade. Lupita’s eyes go big as two grapefruits before she grabs hold of my arm. 

     “Vamonos. Let’s go out the back.” And in one swift move, she rushes us out of the house.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask once we’re outside. “What are my dad and your mom arguing about?”
She throws me a confused look.
“You dun’t know? They be arguing on the phone like that for two weeks. Ever since Abuela got sick.”
I think back and it hits me how lately dad’s been hanging up the phone just as I walk into the room.
“Whatever it is, my dad must be hiding it from me. What’s the problem?”
“Your father forgot us, that’s what’s the problem,” Lupita says. “He bought that ticket to America and never looked back. Not even when his own mother was on her death bed.”
“Now hold on just a minute. We wanted to come back sooner, but my dad has a job. If we had come down while Abuela was sick and stayed for the funeral, that would have come out to a month away from work, and we couldn’t afford that! Plus, I had finals at school. We do have lives up there in Texas, you know.”
“Well, I understand,” Lupita says. “But my mother migh' need to be a little more convince before she forgives your father for missing his last chance to say goodbye to Abuela.”
     I’ve barely met Tía Paulina, and already she was already rubbing me the wrong way. What did she expect? For us to just drop everything and−
“May I ask one question?” Lupita asks suddenly.
“What?”
“Texas really isn’t so far away. How come you and your father never come to visit?”
“And what about you guys down here?” I ask. “The phone works both ways. You guys don’t exactly call us up every Christmas. You guys never write. My mom’s mom calls me on my birthday every single year. I never got so much as a birthday card from Abuela!”
I regret that last part as soon as I say it. My dad’s voice rings through my head. “Anna-Rosa, you should never speak ill of the dead.”
“Birthday cards?” Lupita asks. She thinks for a long minute then says: “Wait right here.”
She ducks back into the house, and as I stand there by myself I think--Great. Dad and I haven’t even unpacked our bags yet and we’ve already pissed off two family members. But when Lupita comes back, she doesn’t look mad. Just…tired. She walks out of the house holding a stack of envelopes, all different sizes and colors.
“Here,” she says, putting them in my hand. “For you.”
“What are these?”
“Birthday cards. Abuela went down to the market and bought you one every year.”
I open the top envelope and out comes a glittery little card that says: HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY, 2002. My heart drops into my stomach.
“She would go all the way to San Miguel de Allende,”Lupita goes on. “Just to find you cards in English. That’s a one-hour trip, you know.”
“But I don’t get it. If she went through all that trouble, why did she never send any of these?”
“Because,” Lupita says. “Every year, your father would call, saying he was bringing you to meet the family, but every year something would come up. Abuela was waiting. She was waiting to give you these cards in person.”
​
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​Sofia Resendiz is an English student at San Joaquin Delta College in Stockton, California. Two of her short stories, “A Term of Respect” and “Tick Tock,” were selected for publication in the college’s literary magazine, Artifact Nouveau. Upon completing her studies, she plans to continue writing as well as teach literature at the middle or high school levels. She lives in the Stockton, California, area.

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