On Leaving…(Part 1)
1994-1997
When I was five, my family and I lived in McAllen, a little border town on the southern tip of Texas. Even with its high minority population, McAllen was known for being conservative. My family and I lived in a small house with a big backyard and a lime tree in the front yard. My mom was an independent car saleswoman. She would buy broken-down cars in the US, go to Mexico to get them fixed and sell them for a higher price. It was a flexible gig, unfortunately, it didn’t render a consistent paycheck, but we got by. Every Friday, my mom would pick up my brother and me from school and take us to The Golden Corral, a well-known Buffett chain, where the selections seemed limitless. My dad worked as a cook’s assistant in a restaurant in Manhattan and would often visit us, bringing gifts to spoil us with. I’d like to think I was happy, which is why when my mother told me we were moving back to New York, I was devastated.
Before Texas, we had lived in The Bronx. The Bronx was not only the birthplace of hip-hop but also my birthplace. I don’t remember much of that time. My first memories were of a dining table in our little McAllen house, my pink tricycle, and Poppis, my little dog–so it made no sense why we were leaving. When you’re a child, certain moments of your life leave a lasting impact, getting your teeth pulled out or burning your hand on a stove–for me, it was leaving McAllen, my home. It was 4 am when we left the house for the bus station. I thought the move hadn’t affected my mother, but it did. As we were leaving, she spoke to the house in Spanish, gracias casita, por cuidarnos, te quiero mucho “Thank you, little house, for taking care of us. I love you” and followed it with a kiss to the wall. Even though it was Texas, I think in some way she was proud of owning a house in the US it was a small piece of the American dream. She didn’t know it at the time, but it was the only home she would ever own in the US.
Leaving a place is a haunting process–it isn’t simply leaving–it changes your identity and leaves you grasping in the dark for a new one. We took a cab to the local bus station and booked a one-way trip to New York City. My father had found a one-bedroom apartment in Woodside, Queens.
I remember waking up as we arrived at the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Times Square. I hated it immediately. The brown brick walls and shiny brown floor of the station left me with an uneasy feeling. My mother was carrying most of the luggage and holding onto us. We left the station. It was a rainy and cold night. Why would we leave the warmth of McAllen and move here? I thought to myself as I began to cry. My mom hailed a cab, gave the driver the address to our new home, and we drove off to Queens.
