This is a story I wrote earlier this year for a contest that I never heard back from. I think it is one of my favorites so I wanted to share it with you here - though I believe some of you have already read it.
Just a Thought
“Is today already tomorrow?’’
I always ask this question because my mommy is always saying,
“Tomorrow, Monkey.”
It seems like a perfectly normal question to me. But for some reason, whenever I ask it,
everyone laughs. At four years old, every day is today, tomorrow, and
yesterday.
I don’t want to confuse you, my name isn't Monkey, that is
just what my mommy calls me.
My name is really Juani, short for Juan Nicolás Cariker
Pellegrino.
My mommy and papi named me after both of my granddads. John, or ‘Juan’-- like his friends call him--
is my mommy’s daddy. He has extremely
big hands and a squishy round belly that he uses as a TV tray. I once asked him if he was going to have a
baby but he just laughed really loud and told me it was from too much
beer. I don’t understand what the two of
those things have to do with each other but I laughed really loud anyway.
People like to see other people laugh.
It makes them laugh too, so I always try to laugh good and loud, even if
I don’t understand.
The ‘ni’ in Jua- ni is short for Nicolás, after my papi’s
papi. No one calls me Nicolás, and no
one ever called him that either.
Everyone called him Cacho. I
never met him because he went to live in the stars before I was even a
thought. My papi says he looks down on
us; so I think about him every time it gets dark and this helps me to never get
afraid when the lights go off.
According to my papi, I am all Pellegrino in appearance, big dark eyes with long lashes,
chunky little cheeks of creamy coffee colored skin, framed by golden curls that
will likely turn black with time, and stocky legs that are perfect for playing
football. No, not American football. World football, like papi, the game where you
kick the black and white ball around with your foot to make a goal. But I am all
Cariker in character. Or at least my
mommy says so; strong willed and fearless, uninhibited by challenges, and
determined to buy your love with my smile-- just like she is.
I was born in Argentina but my mommy says I am also a United
States American by birthright. That means I can go there without having to ask
the president for permission and the police can’t say no because I have two
passports. She is not from Argentina,
not like me and my papi. Her flag is red
white and blue with stars on it for each state.
She was born in California, where my grandpa John lives.
Sometimes she talks a little funny in Spanish, and I
sometimes laugh but I know she tries. Papi doesn't speak much English so he
can’t laugh ever or mommy gets mad and says she will stop speaking Spanish
altogether and he will finally be forced to learn English. I understand when she talks to me in English
but I don’t like to speak it, just in case I make a mistake like she does.
I don’t know how most families are, but our family is
nice. Mommy mostly works and Papi mostly
takes care of me and the house. Oh, and
he spends a lot of time watching old world football goals on the computer. But every night, Mommy makes sure she arrives
in time for dinner and Papi makes sure dinner is healthy just the way Mommy
likes it.
Sometimes I think Papi might even love Mommy more than I
do.
Which is pretty hard to do because I love her to the moon and
back and back and back again!
Every night after dinner, when it is time for bed, Mommy
always crawls into my bed with me. She pulls my car covers up to my neck, and
says the same thing; “If you close your eyes, I will tell you a story.”
I always ask for the same story. Because I always fall asleep before Mommy
finishes and I want to know how it ends I say, “Mommy, tell me again about when
you met Papi.”
She smiles knowing I am going to ask for that story, and
says, “Okay, are your eyes closed?”
Even though I keep them open just a bit to help me stay awake
so I can listen, I say yes. After she
checks to make sure, she starts.
“One day, in 2006...”
“How long ago is 2006, Mommy?” I ask, interrupting.
“8 years ago.” she says, “That is double your age.”
“Am I going to be 8 some day?”
“Yes of course you will,” she assures.
“Should I continue?”
“Yes please,” I say, as I reach up to touch her cheek. I can’t sleep without touching her cheek,
it’s so soft.
“Ok, so, I was living in San Francisco, studying Sociology
and working as a bartender in a a fancy restaurant bar. One night, after a long
shift, Jill and I were talking about taking
a trip together.” “Do you remember Jill?” she asks.
“Yes” I say, confident that I know which of my mommy’s
friends has that name.
“Well, I had always dreamed of hiking the Inca trail, so Jill
and I decided to spend 22 days backpacking through Peru, making Machu Picchu
our main destination. We arrived on the
third of January, greeted by the warm Lima night and were eager to discover
everything. Little did I know that your
daddy had arrived just one day earlier, in a different part of the same city
with your uncle Walter and the very same plans in mind.”
“Where was I?,” I ask.
“You weren't even a thought yet” she says.
“Oh,” I say, disappointed.
“After a few days, Jill and I decided to take a flight to
Cuzco where we spent 2 days adjusting to the altitude before heading off to the
Inca trail. All that time the stars were
aligning so that your daddy and I would cross paths.”
“Was it abuelo Cacho’s star?” I ask.
“Perhaps it was,” she says, as she continues.
I am certain it was, but don’t insist.
“The trail was breathtaking, both figuratively and
literally.”
“What does that mean?” I ask
“It means that the landscape was so beautiful that it was
hard to take it all in and at the same time, the air was very thin due to the
altitude, so it was hard to breathe.”
“Oh,” I say.
“The first day was short and sweet. We slept warmly in our tents
and awoke with the sun. But the second
day was strenuous. We hiked for 6 hours
in a mostly upward direction, climbing twelve hundred meters along the way.
It was then that I saw your daddy
for the first time, though he didn't see me until a bit later. We had stopped at a rest site along the trail and everyone was laid out on the ground,
exhausted by the first leg of that day’s tour.
He, on the other hand, was like the last man
standing in a battlefield of backpackers turned fallen soldiers. He was kicking around a beat up plastic
bottle-- a poor excuse for a ball-- with a little indigenous girl, who
had followed her mother to work that day.
All along the trail Quechua men and women are making a slight living off
the industry of tourism, selling things like Chicha, a beer made of fermented
corn, Gatorade, batteries and snickers bars.
I was awestruck by the beauty of him and began contemplating
his origin, where he was from, whether or not we spoke the same language.
Instantly I remembered the campfire story from the night
before.
Legend has it that the native people of this land would climb
the most difficult part of the hike with a rock clutched tightly in their
grasp. Upon arriving to the highest
point, four thousand two hundred meters, they would make a wish and present it
to the sun god as an offering.”
“And what did you wish for Mommy?” I say, already knowing the
answer.
“I wished for your daddy to talk to me,” she smiles.
And just like that,
he passed me as we made our descent towards base camp.
I said, “Hola.” He
said, “¿Hablás Español?” with a sort of surprised look on his face,
finally seeing me for the first time.
And so it was.
We walked along the
path, stumbling on our words rather than the trail, rusty verb tenses slipping
and sliding to communicate the things our bodies and minds were already
connecting the dots to.”
Usually around now, my eyes start to feel heavy with sleep so
I try to ask one more question-- hoping to stay awake for the ending-- but it
comes out only half way,
“Mommy, was I...”
“Yes, baby. That is
when you became a thought,” she responds, kissing my head.
She lets me caress her cheeks until my hands falls away, then
she gets up to turn off the light. But before she does, she always whispers the
same thing, “I love you more,” she says, only I don’t hear her because I am
already dreaming.
When you think about the things that make Christmas feel like Christmas, you must first imagine that none of it exists here. There are no slay bells jingling. No here comes Santa Clause in a one horse open sleigh wishing for a White Christmas blaring from ever store front. There are not Candy Cane Lanes to be strolled down. There are few decorations hung in the streets, a straggling bell or two, a holly branch here or there, maybe even a tree but that is as far as it goes. 
On the day of the 24th, the Eve of Christmas, we prepare food and buy last minute gifts. In Argentina Papa Noel arrives at midnight and every little kid in the nation stays up late to see his arrival. Wait, SEE his arrival? Yep. There is typically a large spectacle of fire works announcing his landing and someone in the family often dresses up as good ole Saint Nick to cause a bit of commotion inside the house while everyone is conveniently in the street staring at the sky. Suddenly he appears on a rooftop or you see the traces of his fleeting red coat as you race to catch a glimpse, which of course, happens either from a distance or not at all. 
Finally, there is a distribution of gifts, but all gifts given on this day are from Santa - 1 per person - so one must be careful not to talk to much about who gave who what and where they purchased said what. 
