general

Estas Historias

IMG_5686

My home and comfort have been built around painful recollections of guerilla warfare.

I’ve heard these stories all my life – missing people, blood on the kitchen floor, rushing past hung bodies as you walk to school.

These stories are told over breakfast and in between drinks. Cushioned with laughter, saddled with sadness, and said with forced smiles and cold stares. All said in the same accent, in the same language that reminds me of home.

Living miles away from these memories, they’re still the building blocks of the two people that make me everything I am. These stories of war and a tiny country torn by war are a part of me.

So as I sit here, four days away from when you’re supposed to make your arrival, I wonder what place they’ll have in your life.

Will you find comfort in these sad stories? Estas historias, will they make you feel at home?

Is there any need for these stories to live on? Maybe they belong in the past so you can build a new identity not built on the foundation of war.

As your mother, I just hope that these stories find a natural place in your upbringing. That each word lands smoothly and fits perfectly in your life.

That estas historias find you when you need them and when you need to feel strong, when you need to feel inspired and when you need to feel grateful.

I hope they serve you, and I hope they ground you. I hope you feel connected to this country you may never visit. I hope you feel connected to this generation that sacrificed everything for you to one day be here and not worry about a soldier standing outside your door.

Estas historias are difficult. They’re heartbreaking, and they’re heavy. They’re heavy with the lives that were lost, but they’re a part of my mother and father, and so they’re a part of your mother, and so I hope they’re a part of you.

 

Advertisements
Standard
weekend warriors

Weekend Warriors: How Far Would You Travel for Some Pupusas?

Weekend Recap: August 16-17, 2014


The weekend has come and gone. One more weekend gone in August (and for anyone keeping count 34 days until fall). I, for one, cannot be more excited for summer to be over. I’ve been driving around for the past few months with a car with no air conditioning. Let me say that again…NO AIR CONDITIONING. In the realm of privileged complaints, I think we can agree no AC in 100 degree weather is the worst.

Anywho, that’s all to say…summer, I’m done with you.

So on to more important things. How far would you travel for some pupusas? As it turns out for me, it’s about 40 miles. So in the car we went (the one where the AC works, thank god) to Paul George’s homeland… Palmdale, CA.

What brought us there? Well besides some delicious pupusas, my little cousin is going off to college next week and what better way to send her off than with a stomach full of dough and cheese. Honestly though, I am very unbelievably proud of her and let her know if she ever finds herself in a field in the middle of night and doesn’t know who to call and pick her up, I’m her girl.

So back to the pupusas. Coming from a family of Salvadoreños, I probably only eat pupusas (the cheese and meat delicacy that will probably be available at a food truck near you some day soon) two or three times a year. Clearly, not rough. In conclusion, pupusas are bomb and I don’t eat them enough. And I need to eat them more.

My mama's hands hard at work.

hands hard at work

 

Shout out to my tia and my mama for slaving away in the kitchen. The memory of delicious pupusas will be my fuel to get through this next work week.

 

xoxo

Sandi

Standard