I remember worrying about losing my Abuelita shortly after the concept of death really sunk in. I would wake up crying after a nightmare, with fear and rage storming inside my little body. I must have been 5 or 6 years old. I think Bambi did the trick. I figured I still had a ways till my parents died, given our age differences; knock on wood. But me and my Abuelita, there was a 67-year age difference between us! What chance did we have of sharing a long life together?! But how could I live in a world without my Abuelita?
I know now. I have been without my great-grandmother since the night of April 20, 2007; one day and a month after her 95th birthday. And now every day seems surreal.
I knew the day would come, and comforted myself over the years with the thought that I would be old enough to handle it when it did. I now know that I never believed I would have to lose her. I somehow truly believed my Abuelita could beat death. She was Maria Zuniga after all, a woman bigger than death. Didn't death know that?
My Abuelita was born March 19, 1912, in Majes, Arequipa, Peru shortly before her mother died giving birth to her. Her mother was my Abuelita's father's mistress. Quickly abandoned by her father, my Abuelita was adopted by his mother--her grandmother--a woman she called Mama Sonaida. Mama Sonaida had my Abuelita working since the day she could walk; farming the plantation, killing livestock, cooking for herself and the other workers. She also taught my Abuelita how to be a midwife, a profession she would carry on as a young woman. Mama Sonaida sounded like a drill sergeant to me, but to my Abuelita, she was the love of her life. There wasn't a day when her eyes didn't instantly sparkle the moment the name Mama Sonaida left her mouth.
Like Mama Sonaida, my Abuelita was unexpectedly called to raise children later in life; she had already reared plenty of her cousins and mothered three children of her own. My Abuelita came to the U.S. in 1962 at the age of 50. At that time in the U.S., racial segregation was rampant, and no one had a clue where Peru was on the map. (Many still don't.) My mom remembers being looked upon as a child with great disdain because many of her neighbors and classmates thought her and her family were from God-awful Vietnam, or that other hell, Cambodia.
And yet, 1962 was the year my Abuelita decided to leave her family and friends in Peru behind to live in the U.S. She had been on a plane once before to help her oldest son, Isaias, start his new life in Hartford, Conn. with his wife America, and their three small children; my mom was the youngest at 3. Two years later, their marriage dissolved, and my grandfather called on his mother for help. As soon as Maria Zuniga's strong foot stepped off that plane in Hartford, she became Abuelita for generations to come.
With Abuelita by their side, they together faced the everyday challenges that so many immigrants face. Like eating a can of cat food when they really wanted a can of tuna fish, or learning a language that did not sound anything like their own and being ridiculed when trying to speak it in school or on the street. Through it all, Abuelita would keep their spirits up with her barrel laughs and her wide-brimmed smile, cooking their favorite Peruvian dishes--and killing chickens and ducks in their kitchen--a tradition her grandchildren did not appreciate nor want replicated in their new country.
Through it all, Abuelita stayed true to her love for her nietos [grandchildren], and housed their friends when they were cast out by their own families for various social taboos. She loved them like her own, without airs or condescension.
There was something powerful and magical about her, yet so equalizing. Like everyone suddenly became naked in any room my Abuelita entered. I often wondered about her resilience, how she kept going even when she had every reason not to many times in her life. She definitely had that "It" quality Oprah talks so much about.
She also loved to swear; her favorite word was mierda--shit in Spanish. I remember her having a nip or two, usually midday and before her evening novellas. Her favorite non-alcoholic drinks were Sunny D and Coca Cola. She slyly let on that she didn't understand English so she could hear people's true colors.
One of my favorite days with my Abuelita is the only day I remember going to the beach with her. I can still feel my glowing pride while sitting by her side on the sand. I wanted the day to last and last. My Abuelita looked so sturdy and strong in the sun and against the waves. I wanted to be just like her at that moment, and hoped I would be when I grew up.
It's funny, the day of her funeral, family members kept coming up to me telling me how much I reminded them of Abuelita. If one ounce of that is true, all I can say is that I was lucky to have that woman in my life.
Abuelita, I never thought I'd say this, but there better be a heaven. If not, mierda, I'm going to be eternally pissed!
