Flores and Miss Paula: A Peruvian Immigrant Family Story – Mother and Daughter Bridging Two Worlds in Brooklyn

by Melissa Rivero

I always believed that if someone laughed it was because they were laughing at me. If they wanted to be my friend, it was because they wanted something from me. Better to keep everyone at a distance.

What would Martín say if he saw me now? “Que vergüenza,” probably.

Would a place like that ever really hire someone like me? ¿Una viuda, vieja y gorda? Even I have to laugh at how ridiculous it sounds.

he clung to his Mexican identity in a way that made me feel like I could claim my Peruvian one. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t been to Peru in years, or that I wasn’t particularly close to my family there, or that I wasn’t as familiar with its history and politics as I could be. None of that eroded my identity. Perhaps I needed his reassurance because I knew very few Peruvians outside my parents’ circle, and certainly none in places like the Bowl.

They wanted me to learn the language as a way for their only child to keep some part of the identity they thought we might lose here. I used to think those other parents knew better because I never did feel confident in my Spanish, let alone in my Peruvianness, whatever that actually means.

She’s lucky she has me to look out for her. Who do I got? Me, and that’s fine, but I sometimes wish she’d see that.

My parents. They’re always there, in the back of my mind, propelling just about every move I make.

“So you finally remembered your mother,” I say. “I was busy,” you mumble.

that touch has the same effect as a spoon-tip of ají on my tongue. My body rises. My mouth is afire.

kept me from thinking of the end—my end—and all the lives I did not live and the one I had, and how frightening the future seemed.

I wonder if any of us will ever really be satisfied with what we have. If we truly wanted what we have in the first place.

I cringe every time a form attempts to reduce me to a simple category. How easy would it be if I could just put myself into a box? Black or white, they say. American Indian. Hispanic or Latino. But my Spanish is not great. I check “other,”

When we part ways, we do so quietly, mumbling a cuídate and tu también before we go. But each time, almost as soon as I turn away, I ask a God I’m not sure I know anymore to please, at the very least, let our beloveds lie in peace.

“Girl, we don’t need to have a conversation about it. Just answer the question.” He calls me girl even though he’s only a few years older than me. Even though he’s my boss and should know better. He’d never call Steve or Carl boy, but that’s the patriarchy for you.

But that is your truth. It is not mine to share.

wish I could protect you from that. I wish you’d want my comfort, because I long to kiss you, to hold you. To say, You’ll be okay, hija. We are going to be okay. That’s what a mother is supposed to do, I think. That’s also what I want to hear.

“But I can understand if she wants to be home, with her mother. Not all of us can do that. Or want that.”

“Don’t come to me with tonterías!”

papa a la huancaína, arroz verde, tamales de plátano and yuca, bags of canchita, cups of mazamorra morada and arroz con leche.

YUM BITCH

Coolers filled with cans of Inca Kola, water bottles, Doña Pepas, and Sublime chocolates are hauled through the crowds, a dollar apiece. Then there’s the chicha morada and cremolada, chicha de jora, and freshly pressed juices made right at the stand. There’s even ponche, whipped on the spot, with dark rum, beer, or pisco, your choice.

“¿Y la dieta?” my mother asks. “What diet?” I say, savoring the smoky cuts of meat.

realize that in my sixty-three years, my source of happiness has been defined by relationships: marriage, motherhood, friendships. In other words, my joy depended on others. That, I confess, is a fear of mine: that I won’t be able to find my own joy and purpose.