I never travelled out of my country’s borders.
This trip with my grandmother and younger sister was my first, to the country of Guatemala.
In the 1970s, El Salvador didn’t have diplomatic representation from Canada, hence the trip to the nearest embassy, and where our immigration documents awaited for pickup. My grandmother was already advanced in age but that didn’t detract her from achieving a long and tiring trip. No one better than her to take us there. At only four-foot-six in stature she walked confidently tall, had a positive attitude and plenty of charisma.
For her there were no obstacles, her prospect in life was: look up and ahead, God will do the rest. We followed her diligently.
Grandmother was prepared with food, long trips were her specialty, it seemed she always carried a small pantry in her purse. That is the kind of grandma she was, super at everything. Between home made treats and street food, we made tracks, content to make the journey by her side. It took several hours by bus to get us there, by evening we had finally reached our destination. Exhausted and slightly disoriented we searched for a small family run lodging establishment that grandmother knew of. This was the longest trip I had ever made, and the farthest from home.
Young, alert and fast walkers, we were more than able to mobilize, yet we depended on our clever, astute, and aging grandmother for absolute control. She negotiated everything; from accommodations to taxi rides, obtaining the offers that best suited her. Her bargaining skills left me dumbfounded, she was a respectful hustler. From gaining fast access into the secured embassy building, to the lesser waiting time at the immigration office desk- preceding the priority number stubs- she got us in without difficulty.
Grandmother was not obnoxious or impulsive, she spoke to people as if she knew their parents. Never did she act pretentious to the ability to negotiate with high diplomacy, and was never intimidated by her circumstances however challenging they were. She had travelled alone more than once to Europe where her actual diplomat son was stationed in Madrid, she knew how to fend for herself.
I had been going places with her since I was very young. In the early 1960s before my elementary years, I spent time at her small adobe house that doubled as a rural school, the place looked old and decayed with white dusty exterior walls that needed repair. A teacher by trade, profession, and vocation, yes, all of that, she taught at the remote village for many years. It was only grandma and I accommodated in a small room adjacent to the singular classroom where students of different ages learned together. The exterior must have looked distressed but indoors was a place with renewed hope, students were eager to learn.
She was teacher, janitor, custodian, principal, and entire school body, all in one. I observed as she wrote on the board illegible things I could not yet understand. I was mesmerized with her knowledge, and the ability to glide the chalk with ease and poise. Her students, some old enough to be in high school were mixed with small children, all learning same subjects. She gave me pencil and paper to scribble on, I felt important, treated with equal respect. From her I learned magnificent penmanship skills which in my advanced years have gone back to scribbles.
I wished some of my teachers would have been as kind as my grandmother. My grade 4 teacher was an abusive elderly woman, her ability to instruct was directly connected to a large wooden ruler she carried, no one escaped her beatings. In grade 6, my teacher showed distinctive preference to particular students, I felt invisible no matter how hard I tried.
Years later, in grade 9, I suffered relentless bullying, both teacher, and school principal looked the other way, bullies thrived and were given power. I was thrown rocks at, harassed, humiliated, laughed at, degraded, spat at. Most of the awful things bullies excel at, I experienced them. Purposely hurt, just to figure what kind of person I was, my reaction was always the same, I didn’t fend for myself, cowardly hid behind my books. Incidentally, that school had high standards, regarded as one of the best in the city, none standards applied to me. Undoubtedly, grade 9 was the worst school year in my life. I understood that teachers held a noble and honourable position, but not all did it to the best of their abilities, my grandmother did. For years her students visited long after her retirement. She genuinely advocated for them, to know more, to know better. Her legacy lasted in those she taught.
During my preschool visits to the village, we travelled by horse to the nearest town through bushes, pristine shallow rivers, hills, and narrow trails with prickly shrubs. Grandmother securely tucked me on her horse, a beautiful docile creature. Her neighbour David was our guide, he lived across the street and owned the horses. His wife was my grandmother’s dear friend, their children her students, they all adopted each other as family.
The embassy trip was successful, grandmother kept the documents safe in her oversized purse. We were getting closer to migrating to Canada, those papers were the last requisite. Riding the bus back from Guatemala I had time to consider what had transpired in the last couple of days. My eyes were fixed on the road, absorbing the landscape, mostly quiet, anticipating my departure, evoking thoughts of the changes about to come. I contemplated on the last several years spent without my parents, and the many times I needed my mother, her counsel and guidance. I knew I would need to start from scratch.
We had lived under our grandmother’s care before when my parents first migrated to the U.S., I was in grade 4. It was a palpable altering experience, I went through severe distress from the effects of separation. I didn’t understand why they had to leave, and was too young to make sense of it. The sadness from missing my parents was deep, unbearable. My grade 4 teacher’s physical abuse added tension to my already anxious self.
One particular day my homework was incomplete, I knew what to expect at school that morning, I was terrified of both, the teacher and her ruler. Without thought, instead of the road to school, I took a detour to the market. I spent hours camouflaged amongst customers, I walked in circles, keeping track of time.
I was nine years old, more terrified of my teacher than of being alone on the streets. Finally I made it home, my grandmother did not punish me, instead she made me comfortable and counselled me, she also aided in completing my homework. I understood numbers better when no one knuckled me on the head.
I didn’t know when or even if my parents were coming back. The unforeseen separation had caused me trauma. I had no idea how to cope with my sadness and was constantly nervous, my stomach perennially upset. I often felt gloomy as if grey clouds followed me everywhere. A new day was just another one filled with same emotions. Traumas can manifest in various ways, the effects of it transformed my personality, I became an anxious child, constantly overthinking, contemplating the next catastrophe. Every night I fantasized being reunited with my parents and cried constantly over my pillow. It hadn’t been that long when I was a happy carefree girl, our family was together.
My parents eventually returned 100 years later according to my young calculations but it wasn’t long lived.
Around 1970, they met a Canadian man travelling the continent in a Volkswagen van, they formed a friendship with him that lasted throughout their lives. Upon returning to Canada, he invited my parents to visit. Back to grandmothers house we went. Their visit became a permanent stay, a couple of years later my parents were granted PR status, which mobilized them to start our migration process. I was in no rush to leave. I was older, my sisters and I were accustomed to not having parents around and became resilient without them. Our older sister who was our protector and substitute little mother had already reunited with them the previous year.
No matter how loving our grandmother was, being without my mother was traumatic at such crucial age. Teenage years were rough, circumstances no longer accommodated for child like behaviour. Although my younger sister and I policed ourselves the best we could, I was constantly aware of the lack of structure and stern guidance that in my opinion, only my parents could have provided. Nonetheless, I had reached conformity; I found confidence as I started high school and saw myself stable, settled. The thought of migrating caused me a great deal of stress.
I loved my beautiful country, there was no other place I would rather be. I want to be left alone, be me, I don’t want changes anymore, I am very happy here, changes cause chaos and confusion. Those were the sentiments that permeated in my head. I felt anxiety started to set again, I knew the feeling from before and knew the symptoms well. I understood their sacrifices and the desire to reunite with us, for years they longed to make that happen. Undoubtedly my parents loved me, from a distance I loved them back.
This wholesome change about to materialize was tearing me apart. I don’t know how my sister felt, we never spoke about it, as if by not discussing the obvious the trip would not come to be. Others would have been thrilled at the good fortune, a once in a lifetime opportunity. I failed to see it that way. From past experience I knew what it took to adapt and the thought of doing it again, especially in a new country had brought the same scary feelings I dealt with as a young child. It didn’t matter that I was about to reunite with my parents, it was the thought of re-structuring my life that had me upset. Years before, my innocence had been tainted by skepticism and mistrust. I didn’t believe I had to leave my territory of comfort in order to have a better life. I was abandoning my stability, guilt started to form within my already exasperated feelings.
I thought of "what ifs" scenarios; they kept me from the reality of what was actually happening. What if I never return? what if my new life is horrible? What if I never learn to speak English? What if…what if…I expected nothing but tragedy, after all I had it coded in my mind since the age of nine when my parents first migrated, that’s how I identified. There was no going back, the sight of my suitcase plagued me with uncontrollable anxiety. I had turned 19 that summer, old enough to decide for myself, I thought. My father reinstated I had no say.
Departure day arrived, with mixed feelings and heavy hearts we boarded. It was a clear day in November of 1979. I sat on aisle, front of the plane, windows much too small, tears much too many, the view had gotten blurry. We ascended over the clouds and into the emptiness of an infinite sky. Besides agitated emotions, we went through significant turbulence. People were undisturbed, reading their newspaper, smoking, seasoned travellers I imagined. Forty-five years later the sound of rattling dishes evokes memories from my flight, airlines still used crockery china. Every sound was alarming, especially the first bell marking 10,000 feet of altitude. I liked it when the belt light stayed off.
If travelling with every possible bag was not stressful, or heavy enough, I confess without shame that my sister and I helped each other carry a large bag filled with plantains. Our parents specifically asked for some, grandmother loaded us with more than some. How did we cross them over Customs and Immigration? A question I still ask. If I mention the times those darn plantains fell off the bag I wouldn’t sound believable, we picked them up every time as if they were crabs trying to escape the water tank. It wouldn’t surprise me if we left some under our seats. We got plenty of strange looks and quite the amount of giggles. It was an embarrassing situation we dismissed since we didn’t understand what people said. My mother fried them, boiled them, souped them, froze them. Also, I confess that our suitcases were saturated with kidney beans, cheese, and tamales. We couldn’t say no to my persistent grandmother who did the packing.
Migrants are undoubtedly special people. For anyone that was uprooted and left everything behind, the only home they ever knew, I guarantee it was not easy. What is worth bringing with you? What do you leave behind? What happens to favourite keepsakes? Will my friends remember me years from now? I was plagued with questions. The conditioning to a new society is brutal and life altering. A loss is a loss, and losing the very core of one’s identity is nothing short of traumatic. The conformity of the old felt altered, erased. Plenty of new obstacles to overcome.
I comfortably travelled aboard a jumbo jet, admiring the beauty of earth below. I entered North America with memories of a warm, tropical environment, into freezing snow, wearing open toe heels. Though all our documents were in order, my body shook uncontrollably in small tremors. Before facing Customs and Immigration, I went through bouts of fear and anxiety, I didn’t understand a word the officer said. Where was my diplomatic grandmother when we needed her? Everything felt strange, my beautiful language had been sucked into the twilight zone. I worried that the plantains, beans, cheese and tamales might not make it through Customs, we all did.
By reuniting with my parents I recognized my abandoned inner child and somewhat recovered part of the life I had lost, but I fought emotions in order to win battles within, and still came out feeling short. I often felt incomplete, unstable, profoundly sad and extremely insecure. Denying my wishes to stay back home felt I had no voice, I didn’t matter. Some emotions I buried without resolve. There was an emotional fence on which my immigrant mind sat contemplating both sides.
Where do I belong? How do I identify? When can I go back? How could I answer without feeling guilty?
My migration didn’t involve walking through scorching deserts, or swimming across rivers, never experienced hunger or violence. I was given an opportunity denied to many, for that I am extremely grateful.
My parents long anticipated family reunion made us whole again; by them migrating, my own children born in this beautiful country never had to deal with the trauma of separation.
This is home.
- Gloria Parihar, Coquitlam
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