My Life in Argentina and Beyond

The woman had found the pink Victoria’s Secret robe on the street. She had taken to her boss’s house and washed it along with the other dirty laundry. Now she was sitting in front of the old TV with the robe wrapped around her. Cinderella was dancing with the Prince. The Disney movie was one of her childhood favorites and she had remembered it with fondness all these years. Sometimes dreams do come true, she thought. Sometimes girls (and women) get what they want and nothing bad happens to them afterwards. She shrugged her shoulders. At least some women get good things. When Cinderella’s stepmother broke the glass slipper, the woman cheered as Cinderella took the other slipper out of her apron pocket. She is no wishy washy heroine. The words were spoken out loud to her cat.

When I was a little girl, he used to buy me 18 Kt. pieces of jewelry. The pieces were studded with rubies. I remember a beautiful small-faced watch from the late 50s and a cross with 3 rubies. Then there was a lovely gold and ruby ring. Once I asked him why and he said that he wanted me to have the best. He had gone through hardships in Europe and now things were going well for him; he wanted to celebrate his success. My father was anti-communist, and the rubies were bright red. The color must have had another meaning for him because he once bought me a thick velvet jacket. Red again.

Tomorrow, September 18th, is the 24th anniversary of my father’s death in San Francisco. He died at around 3 A.M. My brother Alex woke me up and told me: Dad loved you very much. I jumped out of bed and went to my father’s room. After making the sign of the cross, I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

riday, July 10, 2009: She wore black moccasin shoes and thick opaque stockings. Her skirt was an old hounds tooth. The lime green top with the large white buttons kept her warm in the winter. Her black and white hair was cut short. The dark brown eyes had wrinkles everywhere, as did her face. But I loved her and I felt protected when I embraced my aunt's thin little body.

Thursday, July 9, 2009: I lost my mother on July 10, 1994. it is incredible that almost 15 years have gone by--15 hard years. My mother was a good woman, a woman who never forgot her own mother, my grandmother Ana. She lived 54 years without her and I believe that they are together up there in Heaven. My mother is probably smiling, the way she smiled that afternoon in Burbank when we went to the ice cream parlor to have an ice cream sundae and the chocolate syrup ran down her chin. That is my favorite memory of her. She was happy that day. She was not in any kind of pain, not emotional or physical or anything. She just was herself,the self she wanted to be.

Carmen, my first old lady after my beloved Tia, would have been 102 years old today. I met her in Vicente Lopez, when I was doing errands. She lived in a filthy, cockroach-filled apt. The apt. belonged to her niece. One day the neighbors alerted Carmen’s niece to the fact that sometimes Carmen forgot to turn off the gas. That’s when she was taken to a nursing home. Carmen’s retirement check paid for her room and board there. I would go visit her once a week. She looked forward to my visits and I liked going to the neighborhood of Floresta in Buenos Aires. There were some beautiful houses from the late 19th and early 20th century that I enjoyed looking at. Carmen was so thin that when I hugged her I was afraid I would break her bones by accident. She had come to Argentina from Northern Spain in 1930 and when I knew her she still spoke with a thick Spanish accent—as if she had just gotten off the boat. Soon she was working as a maid for a wealthy family who had made money in the jewelry business.
I grew to care for her. When her niece put her in another nursing home, I followed her there. I ate dinner with her and the other nursing home residents. In 1993, we had a party to celebrate her birthday. She was happy and smiled for the camera.
One thing I am sad about is that I couldn’t be with her at the end. It was necessary for me to travel back to the US. They told me that she asked to see me. I am very sorry that I wasn’t able to hold her hand and kiss her goodbye. She was a feisty, smart old lady.

February 20, 2008: There once was a place named Beccar. It was sunny and bright and happy (most of the time). Beccar was my fairy tale, but since it was also part of real life, a few drops of rain fell once in a while and I had to take better care of myself.
Beccar was my introduction to the real world.I felt things pulling me towards it, things pulling me in another direction.My heart told me that was where I wanted to be and I paid attention. I had a hunch that the experience could not be repeated.

February 11, 2008:The not so old woman got nervous and said: Coming! Coming! in a loud, nervous voice. Why am I getting so nervous, she thought. This is how Nadia acted just before she died. I want to go there! I don't want to miss anything. Hurry! Hurry! She tripped and fell.

Emotional abuse was an unheard of thing in those days. It must have existed, but nobody talked about it. How many little girls my age and younger got the same type of emotional beating I did? How many hated to go back home when their school day was over? My classmates all seemed happy, well-adjusted little girls with parents who loved each other.
I think that being abused emotionally can be worse (or just as bad) as having somebody beat you up because you did something naughty. It hurts your soul and ruins your self-esteem.

Friday, December 7, 2007: He would have been 100 years old today. The man who used to pamper and spoil me so long ago would have celebrated his first humdred years. And he would have probably done it in Miami, in the land of fish and water and Collins Avenue. May he Rest in Peace! May he have a Miami up there in Heaven.