por Andy Galván
Our family mythology starts with my great grandfather rescuing my orphaned great-grandmother from somewhere in the vast foothills of the Sierra Madres. As my grandmother tells it, they were poor moving from town to town, but very loved and very happy. Like my grandmother, and father before me I have memories of sitting in my bisabuela’s kitchen watching her smile as she meticulously slaps tiny balls of masa in her hands into dozens of perfect tortillas. The adults gather in the kitchen trying to help, but she swats them away like flies. We, children, all scurry around the courtyard like birds scrambling amongst the rocks watching her smile at us through the kitchen window waiting for her to drop us scraps of imperfect tortillas before it is time to eat. By the time I met her in her nineties, she still sprung around as agile as a mountain goat. Even at seven years old I towered over her tiny figure. When the end of her life neared, I harkened the call with my grandmother to return to Mexico to say goodbye to our matriarch. When they asked me to carry her, I feared I might hurt the tiny, fragile woman whose strength passed to future generations of women in her family to seek out education, travel the world, and fulfill our dreams. She started life alone in the hills, but left this world surrounded by generations of loved ones.
Time is such a strange thing. Life has not changed in those many years, but now I stand in my own Abuelita’s kitchen, the adult, being swatted away from helping her. I look around at her kitchen, also strewn full of stone tools, clay earthenware, and Catholic saints serving as a loose replacement for ancient gods. This kitchen though has a smart refrigerator and an oven with so many options I wonder if it might be a suitable upgrade to my iPhone. I browse on my laptop while my grandmother chatters to me about the upcoming recall election and reminds me that the Santa Maria flowers dried and burned will keep the mosquitos away.
I cannot imagine she could have ever guessed this is how her life would end up. My Abuelita left Michoacán with a third-grade education and two babies in tow in the 1960s. She followed my grandfather across the frontera to California. She never learned English well. She never worked outside of the home. She lived in a small world, where only Michoacán and Southern California existed, both connected by a singular long road. After my grandfather passed away, she was bedridden with arthritis and sorrow. I feared her world would grow even smaller.
My grandmother is a sheep herder’s daughter. She knew the world was big and there was more she wanted to see. And so, my cousin Jess and I obliged. We explored the world with her, we went to museums, and restaurants, and even to Rome to see the Pope. She chastised us for being more interested in the bones in churches than the masses, but she also pointed to especially gruesome details quietly. She delighted in every new place, experience, and food. She laughed uncontrollably when Roman waiters flirted with her, and she was in awe of the strength of the espresso in their tiny cups. My grandmother always frets that she might exhaust my cousin and me pushing her around in a wheelchair, but even if she were capable of being a burden, we would not feel it.
I moved home this summer after almost a decade away. I asked my grandmother to go with me to Santa Fe for my birthday. She dutifully crosses herself every time I start the engine as we journey across the deserts through indigenous lands and I can’t help, but hope it is a prayer of thanks too. She smiles in awe at the painted deserts, and we watch the sands shift into wildflowers, and then impenetrable forests. We visit churches and national parks. As we journey on, she shares our history via miraculous stories. She recalls words in Purépecha and Huichol to me. She laments disorder on sacred lands tying it to stories of angry spirits. We visit museums and dine at trendy restaurants. She rubs leaves between her fingers, holds them to her nose and tells me what the plant can be used to cure. She recounts recipes and her own journeys into the world. I partake in an ancient ceremony of learning our oral history while Spotify plays Choosey in the background.
My grandmother asks very little of her fourteen grandchildren, to celebrate our lives with us, to be taken to mass on Sunday, and that we twist-off caps for her arthritic hands. I would do anything for her though, I adore my Abuelita, but of me, she asks nothing. When she turned to me and asked if I could do her a favor, I almost screamed.
I nap through the afternoon at the hotel, to rest for our journey. I helped her clamber into the truck then shut the door behind her. I look up which direction to go on the map and head east out of Santa Fe. We meander through the hills that grow darker and darker. Chavela Vargas plays, her deep, echoey voice guiding us higher still. My grandmother assures me if it does not work it will be ok, and when we stop, she sighs in disappointment. I ignore her confusion and open the passenger side door.
Before her she sees the Milky Way, shooting stars, the endless blur of the universe, all waiting for her. My Abuelita who wants for nothing had only one wish – to see the skies from her childhood one more time. And for one moment the ancient light of distant stars accidentally reveals another time, and in that moment, I see my bisabuela standing in ancient hills beneath the starry skies with her daughter. I learned my Abuelita’s world was never small.
Andy Galván earned an MA degree in Violence, Terrorism, and Security from Queen’s University of Belfast in Northern Ireland and her BA in International Relations and Global Politics from The American University of Rome. Andy stands one foot taller than her beloved Abuelita. This year they have visited three national parks and five national forests together. She is especially thankful for dark sky preserves. Instagram: @andyleegee
