Stories From El Salvador
I never realized until I went to El Salvador for the first time what pedir de fiado was. It was like a mix of asking for a favor, a credit, and sometimes a paying it forward sort of thing.
The homeland knows pain/it knows anger/and frustration/and hunger
My parents believed that when we came to the United States, it was better if I didn’t speak Spanish outside the house.
Our apartment in Queens, New York, was adorned by at least 10 rosaries, five portraits of the Virgin Mary and seven crosses.
“My right to hearing sounds and noises was taken from me during a war that I will never understand.”
I’ve come to realize that maybe that’s why the pain visits us yearly, leaving us with the worse emotional hangover of the year.
I was an immigrant child, confused, unaware of why we had traveled so far from the world I knew.
Who doesn’t like pupusas, who doesn’t dance cumbias, who refused to have a quinceañera because I always disliked dresses and pink shit.
I’ve never understood my mother’s paranoia when she hears certain words.
I had been deprived from speaking Spanish because I was in an only-English mode.
We celebrate the universal legacy of a man whose actions have left most Salvadorans knowing that love is real and is worth fighting for.
Just because your parents are from a place it does not mean that you can also claim it fully as yours.
“I felt fear, anger, sadness, and the urge to hide under my bed that my grandmother had kept after all these years.”