Prose
Traveling
Maria Lambert
Traveling alone with two young boys, feeling my heart heavy, with the weight of my sins.
It was Christmas of 1985. I was going to visit my husbands’ family in San Pedro, Coahuila, north of Mexico. I was traveling alone. I was moving on. I was moving forward. My new home was in Oakland, California, with my new boyfriend, my new lover. I moved in with him in July. I had left my husband of nine years in San Francisco and my two sons.
I was now living with a white man, the American, the conquistador, or would that make me the conquistadora? He was Hernan Cortes; I was La Malinche. History repeats itself. One cannot escape one’s fate. Indian woman conquers White man. White man conquers Indian woman. White man sees riches in the hearts of Indian women. Indians see God in the face of the white man. Rescuer, liberator, conquistador. Betterment, money, revenge. In the end, they both see the same things.
I was on my way to San Pedro to remove my remorse for having abandoned my children with their father, while I pursued a different and better life. In one last effort to be a good mother, I offered to take them to their paternal grandparents’ to spend what I knew would be our last Christmas together with the Perales’ family.
It was the least I could do. They were very good to us, and they did not know that I had already left their son. I had abandoned the nest. I had betrayed the family, my values, my church, my culture, and my traditions. I had done all this to become the lover of a white man. How disgusting, how putrid, how would I be judged by God when I appear before him? I would pay dearly for my sins.
These thoughts haunted me the entire trip. I felt dirty and cheap. I was a bad mother; I was a bad wife. I was, as my mother always feared, a bad woman!
We arrived in Torreon in the early hours of the morning. It was cold and dusty; grey fog floating through everything, enveloping my heart. I tasted my soul in my mouth. A relative took us to San Pedro, a windy, dry, and ugly town. A fine dark dust covered everything. Arriving in San Pedro took me back to when I was a young and different woman. Innocent, inexperienced, naïve, dependent, and afraid. I thought about the first time I had come here as a newlywed full of hope and fantasies. How little did that last! How foolish and how little did I know about love, about men and about myself! I took a deep breath and thought about my cozy and warm home in Oakland. It was the house that Bill had bought for us. It was the house I always wanted, with the life I always dreamed of. The life I used to read in books when I was living back in Acala, Chiapas. Reading lying in my hammock was my favorite pastime. Agatha Christie was one of my favorite authors, but I also read the Bronte sisters, Dostoyevsky’s, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Rosario Castellanos, Juan Rulfo, Jorge Isaac and others. Every time I read, I transported myself to those “other worlds,” those other places to where I would escape some time in the future. I began to weave a web with my dreams. My endless curiosity became the incentive to seek, to search, to find. I did not know what, but I knew there was something else behind those big mountains that surrounded my little village. I knew that someday I was going to fly away and leave behind that town that had become too small for my dreams and too oppressive for my thoughts.
My legs shook when we entered my in-law’s house. This was it! Reality hit me. It was going to be a miserable Christmas and all I could think of was my house in Oakland and my daughter being abandoned in another part of the Country, in Chiapas. She was living with my sister in San Cristobal where she had moved back when she realized I was moving in with the “gringo,” a man she did not know, a new stepfather, a new life, a new man. A spasm of guilt shook my soul and my heart felt heavier with the weight of more sins.
Pain and sorrow accompanied me on my way back home. I had had a horrible time. The lies! The pretenses! The cheating and the betrayal were written all over me. I had missed Bill tremendously and my guilt and remorse did not allow me to enjoy anything. I hated everything. I just wanted to go home. I hung in there for my boys. They were having a good time. They were so innocent. They were happy to be with mom. They did not know what was happening. What was really happening inside their mother’s heart. Guilt tried to come into my soul and sit there, but I did not let it. I had to be strong if I wanted to go home and be reunited with my white knight. I had to swallow this last pill for my sons only. I had to take this trip for them. It was over now.
Life can start now.
It was Christmas of 1985. I was going to visit my husbands’ family in San Pedro, Coahuila, north of Mexico. I was traveling alone. I was moving on. I was moving forward. My new home was in Oakland, California, with my new boyfriend, my new lover. I moved in with him in July. I had left my husband of nine years in San Francisco and my two sons.
I was now living with a white man, the American, the conquistador, or would that make me the conquistadora? He was Hernan Cortes; I was La Malinche. History repeats itself. One cannot escape one’s fate. Indian woman conquers White man. White man conquers Indian woman. White man sees riches in the hearts of Indian women. Indians see God in the face of the white man. Rescuer, liberator, conquistador. Betterment, money, revenge. In the end, they both see the same things.
I was on my way to San Pedro to remove my remorse for having abandoned my children with their father, while I pursued a different and better life. In one last effort to be a good mother, I offered to take them to their paternal grandparents’ to spend what I knew would be our last Christmas together with the Perales’ family.
It was the least I could do. They were very good to us, and they did not know that I had already left their son. I had abandoned the nest. I had betrayed the family, my values, my church, my culture, and my traditions. I had done all this to become the lover of a white man. How disgusting, how putrid, how would I be judged by God when I appear before him? I would pay dearly for my sins.
These thoughts haunted me the entire trip. I felt dirty and cheap. I was a bad mother; I was a bad wife. I was, as my mother always feared, a bad woman!
We arrived in Torreon in the early hours of the morning. It was cold and dusty; grey fog floating through everything, enveloping my heart. I tasted my soul in my mouth. A relative took us to San Pedro, a windy, dry, and ugly town. A fine dark dust covered everything. Arriving in San Pedro took me back to when I was a young and different woman. Innocent, inexperienced, naïve, dependent, and afraid. I thought about the first time I had come here as a newlywed full of hope and fantasies. How little did that last! How foolish and how little did I know about love, about men and about myself! I took a deep breath and thought about my cozy and warm home in Oakland. It was the house that Bill had bought for us. It was the house I always wanted, with the life I always dreamed of. The life I used to read in books when I was living back in Acala, Chiapas. Reading lying in my hammock was my favorite pastime. Agatha Christie was one of my favorite authors, but I also read the Bronte sisters, Dostoyevsky’s, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Rosario Castellanos, Juan Rulfo, Jorge Isaac and others. Every time I read, I transported myself to those “other worlds,” those other places to where I would escape some time in the future. I began to weave a web with my dreams. My endless curiosity became the incentive to seek, to search, to find. I did not know what, but I knew there was something else behind those big mountains that surrounded my little village. I knew that someday I was going to fly away and leave behind that town that had become too small for my dreams and too oppressive for my thoughts.
My legs shook when we entered my in-law’s house. This was it! Reality hit me. It was going to be a miserable Christmas and all I could think of was my house in Oakland and my daughter being abandoned in another part of the Country, in Chiapas. She was living with my sister in San Cristobal where she had moved back when she realized I was moving in with the “gringo,” a man she did not know, a new stepfather, a new life, a new man. A spasm of guilt shook my soul and my heart felt heavier with the weight of more sins.
Pain and sorrow accompanied me on my way back home. I had had a horrible time. The lies! The pretenses! The cheating and the betrayal were written all over me. I had missed Bill tremendously and my guilt and remorse did not allow me to enjoy anything. I hated everything. I just wanted to go home. I hung in there for my boys. They were having a good time. They were so innocent. They were happy to be with mom. They did not know what was happening. What was really happening inside their mother’s heart. Guilt tried to come into my soul and sit there, but I did not let it. I had to be strong if I wanted to go home and be reunited with my white knight. I had to swallow this last pill for my sons only. I had to take this trip for them. It was over now.
Life can start now.
|
Maria Aguilar Lambert was born in a small town in Southern Mexico. An avid reader since an early age, she dreamed of becoming a writer. As a young girl in boarding school, she was asked by her schoolmates to write their letters. She is currently working on writing her memoir.
|
