My mother can't tell you the name of her great-grandmother

on the luxury of remembering

My mother can’t tell you the name of her great-grandmother. I can’t tell you the name of mine. In fact, I believe if you asked my mother what her grandparents’ names were, we could get through an entire dinner before she remembered.

In my family, generations have been forgotten. This is how we kept moving.

Memories are dead weight when you’re running.

Last week, I confessed it’s not that my family fled Mexico, it’s that something was chasing us.

So, if you’re perplexed about how I was born in Mexico, immigrated to Canada, and now have dual citizenship, all while having fair skin that sings in the sun, you’re not alone.

I’m still untangling these truths like thousands of fish in a sagging net. It’s heavy, but this is what I’ve pulled out so far.

My mother, my siblings, and I, shortly before we left Mexico for Canada.

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In 1924, my ancestors, Russian Mennonites, arrived in the dusty desert of Durango, Mexico, from Saskatchewan, Canada. (They had originally migrated to Canada in the 1870s; however, I fear this might be an untangling for another time.)

Everyone has their reasons for running. Sometimes, they’re obvious, like a valiant sprint to the finish line, and other times, they’re more discreet, more soft, like a deer sauntering away from the morning light. Sometimes, we don’t want to run, but we have to.

If I ask Wikipedia, it tells me that my ancestors left Canada because of the compulsory attendance for public schools in Saskatchewan and Manitoba. To understand this, you must understand my ancestors trembled in God’s shadow. It was a matter of corruption. A God-fearing family would do anything to protect their children from the jaws of the world. Including moving halfway across the continent.

If I ask my parents why their grandparents came to Mexico, they don’t know. Instead, they blush, look away, and change the subject.

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It becomes utilitarian, then, to forget.

You can run faster and further if you’re not being weighed down by the minuet details of the past. By the lingering dust of the devil.

I suppose this is the bittersweet curse of the resilient. Forgetting. Moving on. Leaving and letting go. 

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My ancestors settled near a small city in the province of Durango called Nuevo Ideal, formerly known as Patos. This is where I spent the first four years of my life. Folks here reside in traditional adobe houses—sturdy fortresses, yet porous enough to welcome tarantulas, whispers of the wind, and the weight of sins.

On special occasions, my father would drive us to Patos for dinner. As dusk approached, our red pickup truck sputtered toward the lone streetlight, casting long shadows on the dirt road . A small, dirty taco stand was illuminated like a mugshot in the black night.

He would order in Spanish. Usually an hamburguesa sin chiles for all of us children and my mother, and one with extra chiles for himself.

The moon followed us all the way home, past my grandparents’ farm, past the town’s cheese factory, and into the winding driveway of our farm. The windmill in the yard stood still as a sleeping baby.

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In 2004, my family packed two suitcases, hopped on a Greyhound and came to Canada. So you can see how this becomes confusing, because my family has ties to Canada in the early 1920’s, yet I didn’t get here until 2004.

So where is home? Ahh…. the elusive concept, a slippery one. Sometimes I think it’s a white bird, sitting on my windowsill. Whenever I’m sure I’ve spotted it, it’s already become a ghost.

In this way, I feel like I’m in love yet constantly looking for a new lover. My white skin feels out of place in my birth country—ivory against the vibrant purples, oranges, and blues of Mexico, like a ghost among the living

But in Canada, no one puts chili powder on their mangos, fries up cow tongue and puts it in a tortilla, or even bakes their bread into buns called zwieback.

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Perhaps it’s my resentment toward my ancestors’ forgetfulness—perhaps it’s this need to capture what is lost in the cracks of memory—that drove me to become a writer.

I once heard someone say that the only way to stay alive is to make art. To make art so good it breathes longer than you do. In this way, you can cheat death. In this way, you can become immortal.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I am the first generation to have the luxury of remembering. And God damn it all, if I don’t do an exceptional job.

Xo

Maria

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If you liked this essay, catch up on last week’s: It’s not that we fled Mexico, it’s that something was chasing us.

Or binge all the past essays in this series:

It’s not that I’m sober curious

It’s not that I don’t believe in God

It’s not that I didn’t want to be a poet

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