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I am alone. Truly. Utterly. What-if-it’s-forever alone. My mother and father…dead. No. Murdered. I heard them screaming, calling for help, calling out to God and…
I am alone. Truly. Utterly. What-if-it’s-forever alone. My mother and father…dead. No. Murdered. I heard them screaming, calling for help, calling out to God and then…their screams were silenced. Probably with a machete. Everyone feared the rebels because they wielded machetes. Then I heard the short, barking commands of the rebel, directing his soldiers to drag the bodies of the dead to the center of our village and set them on fire. I whisper a prayer from my hiding place in our village’s outhouse, a prayer that I will not be able to see my parents’ bodies burn from where I am hiding. Thankfully, I cannot. I stand quietly in bodily waste up to my knees. The thick, rancid soup does not matter. The hot stench does not matter. I am ten years old, a girl, and perhaps the only survivor of the massacre of my little village of Arellano.
How much time has passed, I do not know. Long after the dusty green trucks of the rebels, Los Muertos, have sped away, I wait to move. I cannot be captured. I hear my mother’s frantically-whispered words as she shoved me down into the recesses of the outhouse. Her fingers had pushed hard into the flesh of my upper arms. It was the last time she would touch me.
“Do not let them find you, my darling,” she warned with a quick touch to my cheek. “They will hurt you; you are a girl.” And then she was gone.
Had these bad men done to my mother what she had tried to protect me from? Defiled. It was the word my father had used once when I had walked home from school alone instead of waiting on my older brother Mateo to accompany me.
“It is not safe for you, Raquel. Los Muertos grows in power every day,” he had warned. “If they catch you alone, they will defile you.”
Was my mother defiled?
I begin climbing out of my hiding place, digging my hands into the soft earth to pull myself up to a standing position above ground. My village looks very different from this vantage point. Smaller, somehow. No buildings are unharmed. Most are knocked over while some-including my home and my cousins’ homes- are still smoldering.
Burrowed trails in the dark soil can be seen running in all directions. The bodies were dragged…All of the trails converge where I see thick black smoke rising. I slowly pick my way through the ruins of my village. Here and there are reminders of what was: a few worn school books lying open and face down, someone’s brown laced shoe on its side next to a collection of tarnished silverware, a half-eaten plantain and rice in an overturned bowl. Someone’s breakfast. The rebels came early before the sun was fully visible in the sky.
The sun was higher in the sky now. I would be in school now, I think as I step over the shattered remains of Serafina’s bicycle. Serafina has been my friend since I was two and we played dolls together by the river. She was my friend…Did she have time to hide as I did? Will I find her in that burning pile of the dead?
Who are these people? I know they are my friends, my neighbors…my family. But they are all a mingled, blackened mound now. There is an occasional singed shoe protruding from the mound, the tip of a finger, a spray of hair. I stand several feet back. I want to approach, to dig through the pile for any evidence that my mother and father are there. I can’t. The heat coming from the burning pile is still enough to feel from where I am standing seven or more paces away. Besides, my parents are there. My mind locks onto these words, this truth. My knees buckle, and I collapse as the tears make their way down my face.
I don’t know how long I laid there crying. I dug my fingers into the trampled soil of my village, curled into a ball, and just mourned. Everything was lost! Whimpers and strangled cries escaped my lips as I remembered all those who were now dead. Those cried became prayers as I cried out to my God for help. I knew He heard me. My father had always said that ‘God hears all things.’ I begged Him for guidance. A slow, warm peace grew over me. My fingers relaxed, and my body uncoiled. I pushed myself up to my feet. A powerful conviction overtook me. My brother. I have to get to my brother. From the tire tracks they left, Los Muertos left in the direction my brother always takes to catch his bus back to his job in the next town. What if my brother’s town is next for their attack?
Pedaling hard up the dusty, rutted road away from my village. I am struggling to keep the green duffel bag centered on the back of my bike. With each bump in the road, it slides a little one way or the other. Every time I grab at it to right it, I lose my balance and veer into thick brush at the side of the road. Frustrated, I finally dismount and pull my bike to the side of the road. I unknot the rope I had initially tied the bag with, reposition the bag (stuffed with some food I found scattered around my village and a mismatched change of clothing), and retie the knot more tightly than before.
Once again, I stop and look both ways down this road and wonder, Am I safe riding alone? My parents always travel this road with my brother and I or friends, but alone…? Never. I could ditch the bike, stay off the road, and trek through the fields to get to my brother. I would be safer for sure. But it would take much longer to get there. The rebels were in vehicles. Maybe they had already reached my brother’s town. Maybe he…No! I will not allow that thought to continue!
Decidedly, I steer the bike back onto the road and begin pedaling again. The bag shifts a little at my back, but is definitely more secure now. I top the first of many small hills and begin sailing to the bottom, allowing my legs to rest. The breeze feels nice-especially on my legs that are still wet from my quick dip in the village creek to get the sludge from the outhouse off of me. The dust kicking up from the road is already depositing a layer of brown soil on my wet legs. No matter. I keep pedaling.
I have been riding for hours. How many, I do not know. I do know the sun is no longer above me but sinking steadily in front of me now. I have stopped only once to go to the bathroom. I gulp water from a water bottle as I read. I think No wonder my brother was willing to spend the money to ride the bus!
Along the way, I see many ordinary sights. Men of all ages are bent over working in fields, colorful bandanas wrapped around their heads to protect them from the sun’s heat. Women and young girls carrying containers of water to their villages. The occasional dog laying asleep by the side of the road. Life is normal here. I wonder if my life will ever be normal again.
Rumbling. I hear rumbling- like trucks, big trucks. I quickly scan the fields to my right and left. There is a stand of trees ahead to my left. I dart across the road, lay my bike flat behind some bushes, and move myself behind the trees. I press my body flat against a thicker tree and position my head behind some leaves, but where I can still watch the road. I was right to hide. The trucks are like the ones that carried Los Muertos to my village. They hurry down the road in the direction of my village again. Why would they go back? Maybe they were going beyond our village to the other villages closer to the sea. I feel sorry for whatever village they choose. After waiting for awhile for more trucks, I creep back to my bike and begin my trip again to see my brother. The rest of the trip goes without event. No more trucks.
Only minutes from my brother’s town ( I know because I can see the tops of buildings in the distance.), I come upon a dead dog in the road. It has been hit by a vehicle and from the looks of the damage, a very large vehicle. It is a mongrel. No recognizable breed. Maybe somebody’s pet. I want to move the dog to the side of the road, but my father always said that you should never touch dead things. They carry disease. I ride away from the dead dog reluctantly. Sad, he gets no proper burial. Like my mother and father…the tears flow as I continue to pedal.
Though I have practiced in mind what I will say to my brother when I see him, I am not at all prepared for my reaction when I see him. I am pushing my bike down the main street of town when I see his familiar frame. He sees me and his face animates into a broad smile. He breaks into a run as he approaches me and envelopes me in a huge hug. I smell my brother, feel his soft warm arms against mine, and vaguely hear him talking to me- some kind of greeting. I don’t answer him. I just keep hugging him.
Mateo suddenly stops hugging me and pushes me gently away from him. His smile has turned to a worried expression. He is looking at me intently. I can’t seem to focus on anything. He has asked me something. He is waiting on my response. How do I tell my brother? Our parents are dead? This is Mateo. My kind, gentle-hearted brother. He is known in our village as a healer, the one to whom to take sick or injured animals for help. He is working as an apprentice to a veterinarian here. He will be devastated. He can’t heal this hurt. Mateo is shaking me. My mouth opens to respond and nothing comes out. He shakes me again, and I finally push out the word, “Dead.”
Mateo and I have been sitting on the sidewalk side by side, not talking, for what seems like hours. After I told him about the massacre of our village, he crumpled to the sidewalk. He curled his knees in and buried his face in them. I could see his body shaking as he cried. I put my arm around his back and laid my head on his shoulder. I didn’t know what else to do to comfort him! After awhile, he raised his head. He dried his tears absentmindedly with his shirt. Now he is just sitting next to me, staring into the space in front of him. Occasionally he picks up little pebbles from the ground and tosses them into the roadway. His expression is changing. At first he looked lost, even heartbroken. Now…he looks resolute. Angry.
Suddenly, Mateo stands up. He moves to stand directly in front of me with his hand outstretched to me. “Come on,” he orders. He pulls me to my feet and I realize how stiff my leg muscles are. I kick my feet out a few times to get the blood flowing. Mateo is already walking. I skip to catch up to him. He takes my hand as we walk. The soft squeeze of his hand assures me that we will be alright.
My brother lives in a one room apartment with three other teenaged boys. When Mateo visits home, he always tells funny stories about he and his roommates tripping over each other in the tiny apartment. I can understand why now that I have seen the apartment! My brother and Stefan, his favorite roommate, keep their side of the room tidy. The other two boys, Ricardo and Juan…well…I just avoid that side of the room! There is no bathroom and no running water. Mateo apologizes when I ask where the bathroom is. I have to use the neighborhood outhouse located around the corner behind a group of businesses. Mateo walks me there and stands watch outside. He tells me that girls are not always safe in town if they are alone. Just like at home. I wonder if girls are safe anywhere.
My brother and I do not agree. He thinks I should move into his tiny apartment, get a job here in town, and go on with my life. He keeps saying, “What more can we do?” I want justice for my parents whose bodies are laying unrecognizable in a pile of ash in our village! I still hear their screams…Going on with my life as though nothing happened does not honor them. I want to go to the capital. I want our government officials to hear what happened to our people. Surely, they will do something. Our government will help us; that is their job! My brother shakes his head when I say that. He argues that I am naïve. The government will not help us. We are nothing to them. Just some poor kids from the country. I want to scream at him Why does everyone keep insisting that I am no one?! I am poor. I am a girl. I am nobody? NO!!! I am Raquel Anesa Fiero-Vasquez, daughter of Ernesto and Lupita. Los Muertos tried to make us into nothing by killing us. Now my brother wants to just accept it! NO!!!
I rise angrily, snatch up my duffle bag, and burst through the door. I stomp to my bike and begin tying my bag to the back again. I am ignoring my brother. He is following me, trying to convince me, grabbing at my arms to stop me. I jerk my arms out of his grip and whip around to face him.
“No, Mateo! I am leaving! I am going to the capital. Our government will hear what happened to our people! They will help us!”
Stunned silence greets my tirade. I have never raised my voice to my brother, or really anyone before.
“Mateo,” I continue in a more controlled voice, “you were not there. I have to do this.”
We hugged for a long time afterwards. When we had finished our goodbyes, Mateo insisted that I take the bus to the capital instead of riding the bike there. I know the bus is expensive and will use a lot of my brother’s work money. I try to argue, but this time my brother won’t budge. He unties my bag from the bike and tells me I can follow him to the bus station. On the way, he stops at a street vendor and buys me a couple pieces of fruit for my journey. My brother is acting like my father now. He tells me to listen carefully to the driver to know where and when to get off the bus. I should sit near the driver and near women, especially ones with children. If we stop anywhere along the way, I can get off the bus to go to the bathroom or fill up my water bottle, but I can go nowhere alone. I can’t be mad at my brother for not going with me. He has the responsibility of a job. My father always talked of the importance of a good job to a man. My father would be so proud of the man Mateo is becoming. I know I am.
I wave at Mateo as the bus pulls away. I wonder when I will see him again. I have no money to pay for a bus ride back. I have no bike now either. I shake those troubling thoughts away. I have to focus on the here and now. I smile as I remember my mother’s chiding reminder, “Raquel, honey, you worry too much about tomorrow. Today is enough.”
“Oh mama, I miss you,” I whisper as I stare out the bus window.
The landscape has already changed from buildings, roads, and people to fields, grass, and livestock. The bus shakes and rattles constantly. I am sitting pressed against the window with a friendly young mother and her toddler sitting next to me. The toddler sits on her lap, bounces on her lap, and crawls all over in his endless quest to escape his mother’s arms. Periodically, he grabs at my arms and giggles when I look at him. His mother blushes and whispers apologies. I assure her with a polite smile that I don’t mind. To pass the time, I play peek-a-boo with the little one. Every time I uncover my face, he squeals and claps his hands. I can see his mother visibly relax. I feel better instantly. There is still goodness in the world. I can be part of that.
By the time we reach the capital city, I am holding little Arman and bouncing him on my lap. His mother, Julieta, is rousing from her nap. I point out the window as we pass interesting sights, and Arman pats his hands on the glass of the window in joy. Julieta shared earlier that she and Arman are visiting her pregnant sister here. Julieta will serve as midwife. I don’t explain my reason for coming to the capital. What do I tell her? Besides, I don’t want to trouble my new friend with my sad story. We disembark from the bus after the driver sets the brake. Julieta gives me a hug as she takes Arman back into her arms. She tearfully thanks me for keeping him occupied during the trip. Then, she collects her bag and rushes off the bus towards her awaiting sister. The sister is very pregnant from the looks of her. Julieta has arrived just in time.
After thanking the driver, I step off of the bus onto this busy city street. I see a police officer at the next corner. I approach him and ask politely where I can find the capital building. He points me in the direction of the tallest, whitest building in the northern skyline. He also tells me where the bus station is. This is a big city; to walk to the capital complex will take more than an hour. I thank him politely for his help. I don’t tell him that I have no money for a bus.
I have walked for more than an hour at a very brisk pace to reach the capital complex. The streets here are paved and swept clean. Pretty plants and flowers line the streets. The buildings here look new, expensive. All of the people walking around here are dressed nicely in store-bought clothing and new shoes. I am suddenly self-conscious about my appearance. I come from a poor village. Even our church-day clothes do not compare here. I see shop keepers selling flowers or food dressed in finer clothes and shoes than anyone in our village could hope to afford. I brush some dirt off of my shorts and shirt. I approach a glass window of a shop to better see my appearance. I cannot go before important government people looking like this!
I lean forward to peer into the shop. The lady behind the counter smiles at me so I venture in cautiously. Thankfully, I am the only other person in the shop. I quickly explain that I have business at the capital and need to clean up. She cannot leave the register area or her supervisor will be angry. She motions with her hand to the back of the store where I will find an employee bathroom with a mirror. Once in the bathroom, I wash my face, neck, arms and legs with a paper towel wetted in the sink. I run my wet hands over my hair to smooth it, and then quickly re-braid my hair down my back. I am presentable at best. My mother would be proud that I had thought to try. “Oh God, let me make my parents proud. Please,” I whisper as I exit the bathroom. I thank the shop keeper for allowing me to use the employee bathroom and leave the shop. Walking toward the capital complex, I notice a few street lights flickering on. The sun is sinking low in the sky now. Biting my lip nervously, I begin to wonder what time the government offices close for the day. I speed my pace.
I see the white sign with the thick black letters clearly as I round the corner:
GOVERNMENT OFFICES CLOSED
Open 9 am tomorrow
I stop in the street and stare at the sign, dejected. Now what? I have no money. No family here. Where do I go until 9 am tomorrow? I scan my surroundings carefully. Surely, I can think of something. Yes! I see the cupola of a Catholic church rising in the sky behind some buildings to my left. From the looks of it, the church is only a street or two away. I walk in the direction of the church, watching my surroundings carefully as the night approaches.
As expected, the front door to the church is open. I enter, dip my fingers into the bowl of holy water at the entrance. I cross myself three times: once for me and once for each of my now-dead parents. There are six people in the church that I can see, five are sitting in the pews to the left and right of me and one is kneeling at the front lighting a candle at the prayer altar. I wait respectfully for the candle-lighter to move away. My grandmother always said to allow people time and space to pray. At least grandma received a blessing by dying in her sleep several years ago. I light three candles, whispering my prayers as I do so. My first candle prayer is for my father, my second for my mother, and the third for my whole village. No tears come. I feel a pang of guilt. What kind of person cannot shed tears for her murdered parents and friends? I don’t feel anything anymore but weariness. Walking. I feel as though I have walked a thousand miles. My legs are aching, my feet numb. I lower myself into the closest pew. I slump forward slowly and lay my head on my knees. I slow my breathing and allow sleep to come.
A hand on my shoulder. I hand is applying soft pressure to my shoulder. Now a man’s voice makes its way into my consciousness.
“Mi hija…?”
I sit up slowly, my back making small popping sounds as I straighten myself. My eyes open begrudgingly. I wipe at them to clear my vision only to discover that my face is wet. My face is wet with tears!
Again the voice, “Hija, adonde esta sus padres?” The priest is patting me gently on the shoulder as he waits for my response.
Lifting my eyes to meet his, I respond simply that my parents are dead. His eyes widen in response. I let the story pour out of me: the trucks, being shoved into the village outhouse ditch by my mother, the pile of burning bodies, my reunion with my brother, the long bus ride here, and finally the white sign at the door of the capital that sent me away until tomorrow. I don’t remember ever talking so much, and certainly not to a stranger! Maybe because I felt comfortable talking to the priest…? Maybe because of the earnest look of compassion in his kind face…? I don’t remember at what point in my story he sat down, but I was appreciative of the fact that he held my hand the whole time.
When I could speak no more, he began to pray aloud. He still held my hand, but he lifted the other and placed it lightly on my head. He prayed for the souls of my parents, then he prayed for the other villagers. He prayed for my brother. He prayed for my safety and for the ears and hearts of the government official I would speak to tomorrow. He prayed for my peace as I grieved my family.
He must have prayed for a while because my eyes were heavy when I opened them again. I looked around and saw that all the others who had been there in the pews praying were gone. I quickly wiped my tear-drenched face and rose to leave. I thanked the priest for listening to me and for his prayers. I grabbed my bag and turned to leave.
“Where will you go,” came his soft, knowing question.
“I will sit outside the church on the curb until morning, Father,” I answered.
“No,” he returned, “not safe, not warm. You stay here.” He patted the pew with his hand and disappeared through a door off to the side of the room. Just as I sat back down in the pew, the priest reappeared with a worn, rough blanket. He picked up my duffel bag and arranged it into a makeshift pillow on one end of the pew. He motioned for me to lie down and then gently covered me with the blanket. He whispered as he turned back to the sideroom- his bedroom I presumed- “Sleep in God’s peace, child.”
I cannot sleep yet. I am in an unfamiliar place, yes. There are strange sounds periodically from this old church building as it settles for the night. I am laying on a worn wooden pew for a bed. My thoughst are too disturbing to allow me to close my eyes. A question keeps forcing its way into my mind-a question that has plagued me since I first put my foot on the bike pedal to begin my journey.
What if my government won’t help me?
“They must,” I mutter as I roll over to face the back of the pew. Tomorrow, I will tell my story and the story of my village. I will convince whoever I talk to to act. An entire village full of people cannot be massacred and nothing be done about it! Such evil cannot prevail. I resolve in my heart to represent my people well tomorrow. I drift off to sleep.
“Thank you, Father,” I whisper as I hug the priest who has shown me such kindness. He waves and smiles as I exit the church and march across the street in the direction of the capital building.
The sign from last night is gone, replaced by a smiling man in a blue and white suit with shiny gold buttons. He opens the door for me as I approach. I thank him and step inside a large room with gleaming tiled floors. There are many paintings along every wall, all of them framed in what looks like gold. I do not recognize any of the men honored in these paintings. They must be very important people to be framed in gold in our capital for all to see. I notice for the first time a marble-topped desk with a lady standing behind it just a few steps away from me. I approach the desk tentatively. The lady wears a name tag clipped to her blouse that reads “Esme.” Esme asks what my business is there and who I have come to see. How do I answer her? I know no one here. I cannot put my business here into simple words. Do I want revenge for my murdered family and village? Do I want a new safe place to call home? What do I want? I have been looking down at my worn shoes contemplating my possible answers when I hear Esme clear her voice. I look up at her to realize she is still waiting for an answer to her initial question. Esme is an important person-obviously-to have this job at the capital. I am wasting her valuable time. I can feel the words forcing their way out of my throat. Finally, I stammer, “Los Muertos. I need help.”
I am taken immediately to an elevator by Esme who pushes a button for the third floor. We do not talk. We exit the elevator to the right and pass three dark, wooden doors. At the fourth door, we stop. She motions with her hand for me to enter. I walk past Esme into a surprisingly colorful room. Dragons. There are multi-colored paper dragons hanging from the ceiling. The dragon’s heads are exaggeratedly large and very detailed with gnarled horns like a goat, staring angry eyes, rows of pointed teeth, and flared mustache and beard. The accordion-style bodies are long and snake-like with splashes of muted color. Why are there dragons hanging from the ceiling? I feel as though I have stepped into a strange dream. The sound of the door closing behind me startles me back to reality.
I whip my head around to see the closed door. Esme has left. I turn back around to see a woman with hair the color of a sunrise walking toward me from behind her desk. She is smiling at me as she extends her hand to me. She is wearing a bright red, green, and orange dress. She must have picked the dragons, I decide. She has on lots of big jewelry, earrings that are thick and gold dangle from her ears, a flashy gold necklace shaped like sea shells and a matching gold watch with sea shells all around the band. This lady has money. I am again aware of my torn shoes and worn, dusty clothes. I am poor. Will this lady even listen to me? As I am losing my confidence, the lady takes my hand in hers and is patting my hand gently with her other hand. She is speaking to me, but I can’t understand her. This lady is not even Mexican; she is speaking a language I do not know. She has stopped talking and is looking at me now. I shrug my shoulders and look down at the floor. How can I tell my story is this wealthy lady can’t understand me?
Suddenly, the lady is speaking my language. And fluently, not like a foreigner at all. I smile and look up. Her smile is still there and her eyes…full of understanding. Her name is Bonnie Simpson, and she is an American. She assures me that I can call her Bonnie or Bonita since they mean the same thing. She motions me to sit on a very soft couch positioned against the wall by the door I had entered from. The couch makes sense in this room that is full of paper dragons and a wealthy lady dressed in expensive brightly-colored clothes; the couch is the color of a ripe pumpkin! She plops down beside me as she keeps talking. She works for the American State Department and her job is to assist Mexico in dealing with its terrorist problem. She names Los Muertos immediately as the main terrorist group in my country. I flinch upon hearing the name spoken aloud. Bonita pats my knee.
“Tell me your story, sweet one,” she invites. She scoots forward on the couch waiting to hear my account. She asks if it is alright if she records my story, and I agree with a nod.
It seems like years that I have waited to speak! Replaying those terrible moments in my village…wondering if anyone will care to hear my story. I begin with the grinding sound of those trucks that suddenly arrived at my village that day. Everyone was confused by their arrival. Confusion quickly turned to horror when scores of angry-faced men poured from those trucks wielding machetes and wooden bats. My story from there shifted to my experiences from the filthy hole in the ground after my mother shoved me in. The long wait for those trucks to roar back out again. Listening to the voices of family and friends scream and beg for mercy. I obeyed my mother and remained hidden, but I felt like a coward. I hid while others died.
I pause in my story long enough to accept the tissue Bonita has brought me (and her!) from her desk. I am touched by her tears. She does not speak, just waits patiently for me to continue.
I describe the sights and smells of my village after Los Muertos finally left. The still-burning pile of people who had once been my entire world…being reduced to meaningless ash. I detailed my bike trip to tell my brother and the decision to come to the capital for help. Why I am sharing the particulars of my trip to the capital, I do not know. It feels essential that this important lady from America understand my commitment. I am just a girl from a village with no running water or electricity. Many of my people do no read or write. They live their lives in our village never having seen a city with brick buildings and streetlights. I am just a girl, but look at all I have done to get here and ensure that my people receive justice! If I can do all this as a girl, what can the greatest, richest, most powerful nation on Earth do to help?
After I finish talking, I feel instantly relieved but so so exhausted! Bonita is just looking at me with a worried expression on her face. Does she think I am lying? Making all of this up? Now my expression changes to mirror hers. It had never occurred to me that after telling my story in such detail I would not be believed.
“If you don’t believe me,” I begin, “I could take you to my village and…”
“No, no, dear one, “she interrupts me gently. “I believe you! Of course, I believe you!” She reaches forward and hugs me to her. She smells like fruit, like citrus and strawberry. She releases me abruptly and bounces up from the couch. She dashes to the phone at her desk and immediately begins speaking quickly in what I now recognize as English. She gestures with her hands a lot as she talks. At one point, her expression changes to angry and her voice raises. After ten minutes or so, she hangs up the phone and returns to stand in front of me at the couch. She is speaking again in Spanish, telling me she can help me. A wide, joyful smile fills my face. Bonita sits down beside me again on the couch and is talking almost more quickly than I can listen!
I am surrounded by unfamiliar, mechanical noises. I am firmly buckled into my seat aboard this enormous airplane. Never having flown, I am deeply afraid. I have ridden on a bus only once in my life and never in a car until today. Bonita drove us to the airport herself. Now, I am going to be thousands of kilometers in the air - flying! I am wearing a new store-bought dress that Bonita bought for me. I have shiny new shoes that match my dress! The unsettling noises continue and now the whole plane is shaking. Bonita who is seated next to me pats my hand soothingly and assures me that all of this is normal as we take off. She tells me she has flown dozens of times. I will love it, she says. I am not so sure.
Bonita insists that I sit next to the window so I can see everything. At first, all I see is the grass by the runway whizzing by. The airport terminal. Then the runway itself seems to shrink and…blue skies and puffs of clouds! Amazing! After the crushing pressure in my ears subsides, I can relax and look around outside my window with the thick glass. I am surprised. Mexico, my home, is so small and far away! I feel my chest tighten and the tears come as I realize that I am leaving Mexico behind.
“Have courage, Raquel,” I whisper fiercely to myself. Home will be right there waiting for me when I return. Mateo, my brother, is there waiting. I go now into this unknown experience so that when I return home, home will be safer for everyone. I will tell my story to important people – even more important than Bonita – in America. America is a great nation and can do great things. Bonita says my story will serve as a catalyst for change in the world. I know nothing of the world, or whether or not I can change it. I will be content to do my part for my people.
A woman’s voice comes across a loud speaker on the plane. She speaks first in English and then in Spanish. We will land in Washington, D.C. in forty-five minutes.
“America,” I whisper and can’t hold back my smile.
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