by Debra Diaz
El Dia de las Madres
Mother's Day
It is Mother’s Day and Rita, Laura and I are
taking Mom out to brunch. I invite Tía Mercy, who,
after thirty-eight years of marriage is going through
a divorce. She seems lonely and sad. Tía’s two sons,
Hector, thirty-six, and Rubén, thirty-four, are not
around. I don’t ask where they are, because for most
of their adult lives they have been in and out of
prison. I’ve heard talk of possession, burglary and
attempted murder. I think it’s mostly about drugs.
It’s hard to believe my two closest cousins are living
their lives in jail. I still see Rubén, who is my age, in
his First Communion clothes: short and shiny-faced
with his ears sticking out and his front teeth missing.
I look at old family pictures and try to see their
present lives in their young faces. I see nothing.
Mom and I drive together to pick up Tía Mercy.
With her settlement money she has moved to a
mobile home in a trailer park which, ironically, sits
on the same hill where El Campo Colorado was
located. I want to ask her if she realizes this, but I
can’t, because I’m afraid what her reaction will be. I
bring her a bouquet of flowers. She starts to cry. I
look at my mother, but she looks uncomfortable, and
so we both say nothing. Tía thanks me, wipes her
tears and we pile into my Toyota.
At the restaurant we order the Mother’s Day
Champagne Brunch. As we eat overdone omelettes,
the conversation is about jobs, husbands and children.
Rita talks about her oldest child, Rachelle,
who is now making college plans. Laura has just
had her second baby. Gloria, who lives in San Diego
with her husband and three daughters, is not present.
All this talk about babies and children makes
me feel out of place, like I always felt as a child.
Maybe my sisters were right: maybe I was adopted.
I look over at Tía and she is quiet. She picks at
her omelette. I remember how distraught Mom had
been when her own marriage broke up, so distraught
that her nervous breakdown lasted two
years. And now fifteen years later, it is happening to
her little sister. Divorce, family breakups and children
in jail are a reality that my mother’s Latina
generation had been completely unprepared for.
After brunch we drive to the Brea Mall. My
mother and Tía, although they will accept gifts purchased
from pricey mall stores, will never buy anything
from them.
“You pay too much money for the clothes here.
They have better prices at Mervyn’s.”
They sit in the center of the mall and quietly
wait for us to finish our shopping.
My sisters go home, and my mother and I drive
Tía Mercy back to her house. She invites us in and,
as she’s serving coffee, Hector’s name comes up.
“He’s back in jail, you know?” she asks me,
knowing that of course I do know.
I answer no, no I didn’t know.
“I don’t know what it is this time. I think it’s
drugs, but I don’t ask anymore. I don’t want to
know,” she adds.
I look at my mother.
“Ay, Mercy, when they get out, don’t take them
back in. You take care of them, cook, clean, give
them money and they only use you. Kick them out,”
my mother says, her voice rising.
“Yeah, I should,” Tía answers, but her heart is
not in it. Neither my mother nor I believe she will
do it. Both my mother and Tía could never say no to
their children if their lives depended on it.
“Do you like your new home?” I ask her. The
mobile home is comfortable and spacious.
“It’s okay,” she answers, “but it gets very cold.”
She is quiet for a moment. “Emily,” she says.
I look at her. “Yes?”
“Do you ever get lonely?”
“Umm, yeah, I do,” I answer casually, trying not
to reveal how desperately alone I sometimes feel.
“When you moved out by yourself, how long did
it take you to get used to being alone?” she quietly
asks.
I pause. “Not very long. You get used to it. . . . It
takes some time but you get used to it. . . . But I’m
sure it’s not going to take you very long. . . .”
“Oh,” she replies.
My mother switches topics, and I sit there feeling
like a liar. There’s a part of me that will never
get used to living alone. I’ve lived alone now for
years, and although I treasure my chosen solitude,
there’s still something about Sunday sunsets and
autumn mornings that make me melancholy.
We chat, finish our coffee and then say our
goodbyes. I drive Mom back to Rita’s house, where
she now lives. As I head back into Los Angeles, I
remember the crowded colorful holidays spent at my
tía’s house in El Campo Colorado and how many
times her home was a refuge from the angry
silences of my parents. Taking the Melrose exit off
the 101, I pass through the bustling Thai and Latino
neighborhoods before finally reaching the more
sedate West Hollywood district. I park, enter my
dark apartment and listen to the answering
machine. No messages. I feel sad. Sad because I
can’t give my tía back that same feeling of safety
she gave to me many times during my childhood.
Sad because she may never become accustomed to
an aloneness she never wanted. And sad because it
is Sunday and the sun is slowly setting.
(THE RED CAMP is reprinted with permission from the publisher of The Red Camp by Debra Diaz (University of Houston – Arte Público Press, 1996) to buy a copy of THE RED CAMP, go to their website at http://www.arte.uh.edu/view_book.aspx?isbn=1558851690)