katJune 26, my family and I left for a trip to El Salvador. I was nervous because we had no itinerary. Even though I suggested we make one my mom said that wasn’t necessary, “We’ll just wing it!” Of course, we were gonna visit our family in the San Miguel department (they’re called departments in El Salvador apparently but I guess it’s like a city?) We left Houston around 5 pm and drove to the Airport. I tried to minimize my feelings of anxiety and excitement as I watched our final sunrise in Houston from the backseat. We drove past the downtown skyline with my sister going at 70 miles per hour in her Kona, as usual; at one point a car swerved into our lane and my sister had to swerve into the next lane, thankfully there were no cars. Those seconds carried all the anxiety and fears we’d face throughout our trip; I knew we might face many near death moments amidst the pandemic in a new space. It felt like going to war and my family and I were more united than ever as we drove, walked, and flew closer to familiar yet unfamiliar territory.
Finally, we got to the airport and hauled about eight suitcases filled with clothes and gifts for our family. The parking spot shuttle driver who helped us with our suitcases asked us if we were moving out of town and we laughed. Clearly, he doesn’t know what Salvadorans do. For the previous two months, every weekend, we shopped on a tight budget looking for clothes to bring our family. Thanks to God’s grace we were able to buy gifts for everyone.
Our plane left at ten in the morning and we made it to El Salvador in two and a half hours and arrived around eleven thirty because El Salvador’s time zone is one hour behind. Together with the money my sister made working as a Doordash driver for two months-in addition to working her full time job-and with the money I had saved we rented a car. We were worried if the rental car company was legit and when we sat inside the car together with the rental car worker to sign the contract he asked us where we were going and my mom lied.
“Where are you headed to?”
“Santa Ana”
“Do you have a reference point or address in Santa Ana?”
“No…We’re meeting someone somewhere halfway and we’re gonna follow them from there.”
“Mhm okay”
I don’t think she’d convinced him.
Driving from the airport to San Miguel was quite the ordeal because nobody cared about signal lights, or respected any of the rules we follow in America, and I live in Houston-one of the most diverse cities in the world where everyone seems to have a different driving style. You might think Houstonians drive above the speed limit, but Salvadorans beat them. Watching my mom and sister drive in the streets of El Salvador from the backseat was funny, frightening, and quite the adrenaline inducing experience-to say the least.
On the car ride to El Salvador I cried for about the whole 2-3 hours because I missed my dog and regretted leaving him behind. I imagined his sad little face waiting for me every day and thought about what must be going through his mind; he must not understand that I was going to come back in 2 weeks. I worried whether my mom’s partner and my sister’s friend, who we’d left in charge of caring for him, would fulfill his needs. I wasn’t sure if my dog would even get along with them, since he tends to be aggressive with people he doesn’t really know. Two weeks was the longest I’d ever be apart from Max, like ever. I mean we sleep together so he’s like my child. I really was having a crisis in the car but the only thing I could do was tell God my worries and pray. I cried and worried for nothing because in the end he did get along with his caretakers and he ended up being ok. Thank you, God.
Once we got to San Miguel I pushed my feelings to the back of my mind and became occupied with settling down. Around 3 pm we made it to our white, square, cute rental house. We rested a bit and then met our family for dinner.
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Now I will go on to talk about day 2 of our trip.
We woke up extra early to make the most of our time and stopped by a fruit stand near the place where we were staying so we could take some for our grandpa, my mom’s dad.
We headed to my grandpa’s house, in the rural neighborhood where my mom grew up, and she narrated as we drove through. She told us about the fields our grandpa worked when he was younger, pointed out her neighborhood friend’s houses, her aunt’s house (grandpa’s sister), and told us about the spot my grandpa’s step daughter was raped in by some unknown man who they say appeared to be drugged and speculate was from another neighborhood.
My grandpa’s parents worked in what I would call an hacienda, a really nice home owned by people with a lot of money, land, and animals. He did farm work like his dad, and I think my grandpa’s mom worked cleaning, taking care of children, and she was a partera or a midwife . My grandparents lived in this neighborhood all their lives until their deaths and my grandpa continued to live there, but eventually he was kicked out from the hacienda (the owners passed away and their children no longer allowed the workers to live there for free) which forced him to cross the border to the U.S. when I was between the age of 5 to 9 years old. I can’t remember how old I was.
He worked as a trash collector for a couple of years so he could make enough money to buy himself a terreno (land lot) and build his own home for himself and his wife’s family. After saving enough money he took a one way flight back to El Salvador. His wife would die a few years after, and he would remarry. One of his wife’s children, who was a young man about my age back then, was murdered nearby. They don’t know who did it but they suspect gang members mistook him for somebody else, or tried recruiting him and he refused so they killed him. I was in high school when this happened and even though I didn’t know him I could feel my grandpa’s desperate sense of injustice at such a heinous, unnecessary act. It was really sad.
After struggling to find my grandpa’s house from straight memory, we finally found it.
We didn’t tell him we’d be coming that day, we just kind of sneaked up on him, though in the past months he’d called my mom often asking when she’d come visit him. He especially asked when he was sick so he could hold on and she always gave him words of hope, so he wouldn’t give up. “Soon,” she’d say.
This is his humble abode. Though it’s simple and traditional, it’s beautiful.
He’s got chickens and roosters in a pen.
When we got there my grandpa looked really happy. We just sat there and talked about mundane things but it wasn’t awkward. It was mostly my mom talking to him. My sister hadn’t seen him since he left the U.S. which was probably over a decade ago, but he was the only male figure she’d had growing up who didn’t hurt her. I had visited my grandpa a few years ago, my sister stayed home with my dog because she had to work, but we never really talk to him on the phone other than the occasional happy birthday or “hello” because it’s hard to know what to talk about on the phone with someone you’re so far away from. He’s also quite the simple country man. Sometimes my grandpa is more of a story; I can only wonder about the missing puzzle pieces and I can only ask my mom to share her stories of him. I can only listen but I’ll never truly know everything.
I don’t remember much about growing up with him. But I do remember my sister and I would teach him English. We taught him how to say common phrases for the white ladies who’d come out in their pink robes early in the morning desperate for the trash collectors to pick up their last minute trash. Getting too close to the truck was dangerous so he’d ask us, “How do I tell them not to get close to the truck?” and so we taught him.
We also taught him small, basic phrases like thank you, you’re welcome, hello, have a good day, and goodbye. He still remembers and talks about that. I remember us crying so much when he left because we knew we weren’t going to see him again until, well… nobody knew. I remember he’d give me money: a dollar or two to take to school. I vaguely remember meeting him and hugging his leg cause I was so tiny and he was so tall-maybe this is a picture. I remember going to the chinese buffet with him every Sunday; my mom always talks about that and the huge plates of seafood he’d ingest. I remember sharing my food with him, often, because sharing means caring and I guess it felt good to share. I’d learned it was a thing people praised, for they still reference this story. It was sweet. I remember the time he came home early because he got in a car accident. He accidentally hit a yellow school bus close to his work. The cop, despite the fact or maybe because he had no papers, let him go. It must’ve been God.
I guess I remember a lot more than I think I do. I’m sure it’s the same for you.
I noticed his guitar and asked if he could really play and so he grabbed his guitar and played songs for us. He sang two alabanzas (worship/praise songs) and my mom and my sister cried. I wanted to be strong, so I didn’t cry, but also it felt inadequate for me to cry in a moment like that. I couldn’t cry because he was singing to God and praising him. I couldn’t cry because he was alive both spiritually and physically, and there was too much joy and hope in that moment. I couldn’t cry because though I knew this moment was special enough to record- that when my grandpa passes we might revisit videos like this and reminisce- I knew then and I know now that there is hope in the afterlife. So why should I cry when God is with me and will always be with us.
My grandpa was drafted in the Salvadoran Civil War and served for a couple of years. I always wonder what happened, or what he did, but I’ve always been too afraid to ask. He also seems to quickly take over when we bring it up, and talks about God like he knows war is not the answer. I remember my mom saying when he lived with us here in the U.S. she’d often have to wake him up from nightmares cause he made noises in his sleep. I’m not sure if his nightmares were caused by the war, but I can’t think of anything else more traumatizing. My mom says when he came home from war they asked him and he mentioned being in situations where they had to shoot to stay alive, but it was dark so he doesn’t know if he ever did shoot anyone.
He’s a fervent Christian now. I think my grandpa is really cool because he learned how to read in America by learning how to read the bible; it was his motivation. I think he probably knew how to read and write a little, but he really mastered reading here in the U.S.. My mom always says he learned by reading the bible. I do remember him reading the bible and us going to church from time to time when he was here. My grandpa goes to church often, every other day and every week. He doesn’t miss. On our trip, he was always talking about the Lord and emphasized the need for us to go to church and obtain salvation. He talked a lot about the end times and the temporary nature of life. It was then I realized that my grandpa and grandma, my mom’s parents, set the foundation for my faith even in small ways through the conditions they set on their own. My grandma too is a fervent christian, never misses a week of service, reads the bible often, and always talks about God. I used to think it was weird but now I get it. Still in my youth, I’ve become more like them.
Then we visited my mom’s aunt, who I will call my aunt, and we met her granddaughters who have about ten dogs and a pet squirrel they keep in a cage. The dogs were stray dogs they found and took in. The more talkative girl, about 8 or 9 years old, said people from other neighborhoods abandon their dogs and leave them there to be forgotten or after they’ve been abused; some have wounds, clipped tails, or ears. But thank goodness the girls take them in; their mom said she only allows it because they’re good guard dogs. As for the squirrel, they definitely captured it with their own two hands.
Exhibit a.
Their rural house looked so beautiful and the girls were so friendly. They were a little shy at first but very talkative and slowly we gained their trust. They’d hug us everytime we visited, compliment us, and wanted to get to know us. One of the girls was especially talkative and talked about anything and everything, sometimes naively saying more than she needed to share. She complimented my shirt and said, “Isn’t that character from a TV show? What’s it called?…” and I told her it was tweety. She said she wanted a shirt like ours too. The other girl was younger and spoke with a slur so it was a little difficult to understand her but she was chubby, silly, and energetic little girl with long brown hair; she reminded me of my older sister and everyone else said she looked like her too, even my grandpa said every time she visits my aunt the little girl reminds him of my sister. The girls didn’t wear shoes, and ran without them even, but when I tried that it hurt.
I’d never met such humble and kind girls. I realized the poverty they lived in and think that’s how my mom grew up, probably in even worse conditions. I realized my privilege once again and how fortunate I am to live in the U.S. though I don’t want to pity them because there is a beauty and value in their experience that I will never know. Also, poverty doesn’t always equal unhappiness. But I know what my mom came from, the sacrifices she made so I could have a higher quality life: the ability to choose, to dream, to prosper financially, so I could have a vision of the world greater than the one she had at my age. Though I’d like to say her side of the world, her view is pretty great too. I don’t know what my life would be like if I didn’t know about a tiny country with green plains; I can’t say my life would feel empty because I’d probably fill up the void with other things, as we do, but I sure know I’d be missing out.
Maybe this is melodramatic, but now that I’ve experienced El Salvador I don’t want to know a life where I don’t speak Spanish, or a life without pupusas, corn tamales, and heat like you’ve never known. El Salvador is the kind of place where you wonder if there’s any use in showering because you’re always sweating. But what I would trade for the sunset I witnessed at my Tia Ana’s house, the clouded view of the volcano, the afar image of their clothes hanging as we drove past their house, the green unending crop fields that made me feel safe and seen, or the little lake nearby where my mom would play and bathe as a child. All these memories and images came together to form an experience I never want to forget. I don’t want to know a world without El Salvador now that I’ve seen it.
The girls told me (excitedly) that their school would be providing a laptop for the new school year. I hope that really does happen for them. I really liked the girls and after getting to know them was resolute to buy gifts for them before we left.
As we drove back home I felt whole. I felt connected to the world again. I felt new, different, unbound. The knots in my heart, untied.
