This is beautiful, Maria, and all too familiar. My Grandfather even worked in that same cheese factory! Answering the question “where are you from?” has always been tricky…I have thick dark hair and light skin, I grew up speaking Plautedietsch and English with a little Spanish sprinkled in too, worked the fields as a child, and blasted Los caminantes whenever we drove somewhere with dad. Meals could be anything from a traditional mashed potato with a side of meat and salad, to barbacoa, chile rallenos, or borscht. Those last two lines really hit home. “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.” 🤌
Hi Alex 🩷 thank you so much for saying that. I relate to the strange combination of food. Borscht and perogies from our European ancestors one night, and then carnitas or enchiladas from Mexico another night. It’s so lovely to hear that you understand 🫶🏻
Your essays are such a strong mix of lyrical and plain speaking with dots of humor and so much vibrancy (I hope I'm using that word correctly; I'm getting the afternoon sleepies). I really like these lines:
"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."
Maria—me encantó this piece (some Spanglish for you because I also often feel “ni de aquí ni de allá”). I’m Dominican and my skin is white (ish, I like to say it’s olive because my ancestors are Lebanese) and I always get those looks or comments too: “Pero you don’t look Dominican.”
I’m glad you’re doing the hard work of digging up your roots. It’s such an intrinsic part of who we are. And thanks for bringing us along!
Seems like when we're young, the past is an abstraction. We don't (sometimes) think to ask questions, to discover, to learn. Later, when the questions trickle up and find their way into our older, perhaps wiser selves and there are just so many things we want to KNOW, those who might have provided the answers are gone.
Oh home. Dear home! It is best to never even learn the meaning of that word. Because to even question it, much less seek it means to have lost it. Like air, the more we try to grasp it, the more we long for it, the less we have it. Home is where the search and longing for it stops. Home is love. When time stops - thats how you recognize both.
It can be the persons we love. It can be a place that makes us realize who we are or that we only have ourselves.
Or it might even be a mystery, a lie, an illusion that can never be reached or understood. Why? Because we cannot stay idle, we only become aware of everything by change, movement, growth and loss. That is how we can only perceive something. Then why look for a home? Why not a thousand homes? A million homes each day?
Our best friend.
Our sweetest symphony in a song.
Our deepest longing that drives us.
Our coldest understanding of something that we cannot but see that way.
Our hottest rebellion in thought - even against the whole world - that we would never, no, could ever give up.
Our memories that faded over time, the images of loved ones that time stole from us, but that kept us alive; made it possible to let go and find a new way, new meaning and new love.
The things unsaid, that were just too sad to be said - because we realized we had already lost; lost it or them and out of love we would pay the ultimate price out of love: letting go, knowing well that a part of us would die with it, but death is not the worst thing; it is seeing the other and knowing that we would never really reach them - a loneliness reminded of itself in each moment in which we are side by side, not together.
So is it worth tracing back the crumbs and finding what others before us tried to forget? What is it that we are missing and could whatever we find give us back what that which we already have cant?
I write in English. Translated from German, Viennese, Linz-dialect, upper-Austria-dialect, Salzburg-City-dialect, Legal-German, Salzburger Pinzgau-dialect, some Pongau-dialect, even Latin for Legal German, Italian for the first truely own decision on a language and soon given up, French for a second (living) foreign language - but it was not my second. It was German to escape Bosnian War but never Bosnian, the Southern Croatian-dialect of it, or the Serbian I needed while fleeing from Bugojno to Ravno to Kupres to Banja Luka to Brcko to Pancevo to Omoljica to Belgrade and back to Banja Luka and Prijedor just to arrive at Saalfelden, move to Zell am See, soon Salzburg, the longing for Berlin while deciding for Linz, giving up on it to find Vienna, my current home. Or is it? Where was I ever or did I get lost inbetween all these worlds of words and places and emotions and their translations and understandings and meanings? What sense does it make to clinge to one of these points and say "Finally, this is my home!"? Will it be safe from time? Will war never find it? Can Death not take it away just as you get to feel it?
I dont know what home is. I do not understand that word. I have called many points home. Lost even more to realize that they maybe were home.
So, should we run towards home? Or are we running from home?
Both. Everyone will run, both for home and from death, fast.
I once ran that fast aswell...
I was 5. It was war. And I just had realized what death meant. Those cold, static forever lost people they showed on TV besides my father who was wondering why I was so silent.
Then I realized that it also meant losing all loved ones - forever. But at first I could only realize it as my pain, of never seeing them again.
And then the worst would follow. The realization:
The loved ones would suffer and die just like I would some day. It was inevitable. Every moment of life was just an introduction to dying, just the process that would make it more and more appreciated just to be lost in a even more painful way. A cruel hidden essence that awaited us.
I ran.
I ran with all of my being from these thoughts. As much as I could.
Until the day my parents had to leave us behind again. To find a safe destination to flee to. Unlike the 3 times I died that one day before, choking on my tears and crying - that final run to come was physical.
After I had run from the realization of death and therefore what life truly meant, I would run from Death FOR life.
I realized my parents had sneaked out (to spare us the pain of separating again) and like struck by lightning I ran outside, ran for them. Screaming, begging, crying. I had one single thought, them. I did not care what anyone thought. Because there was only one single thing that mattered, my parents.
While the first three times I lost home, my childhood - myself, I could not tell my father what I had realized that day. The only thing worse than the realizations about loss and their loss was that they would suffer the same destiny. So love made it unbearable to see the loved ones suffer. That was the true price for love.
While I had run away from the realizations of war, death and eternal nothing, this time my cries would not be interrupted for breathing and breath only.
I reached my parents, they themselves heartbroken, begged and cried for them to not leave, to stay, to not....dozens of words I would find that pured out of me for the worst thing that I could even imagine. The last thing that shocked me, that I even could see with all these teers: The painstruck look of my mother. It was so tortured and witnessable in each point, movement and expression of her face that it even shocked me in that situation. Even with that one allencompassing horror it must have been such a pain for my mother that the mere look of her face was enough to struck me into a second of calm, realizing pitty felt for her.
After that I cannot remember anything. That was the last day of my childhood. It was impossible to stay the same person after being hit by the full meaning of life, love and loss in one moment - a moment that nobody should ever witness that early. Just like nobody should ever hear or know what I cried that day to her. And just like nobody will ever understand the pain that she overcame to still leave on that day.
War, Death are nothing. Mere shadows of the lightning that crushes the soul a million times in each part possible of each moment. It was something that pain fails to describe. It was something worse than not being or dying. Dying is the salvation to that unspeakable.
I cannot remember to have had the urge to breathe at any moment. Just screams, tears and a darkness tunnel like view of my surroundings.
Have you ever tried to hold your breath? Try to spot the point where any and every thought just vanishes for the raw, imperative force to need to breathe.
That is not dying. That is just the body realizing that it COULD die.
Dying itself, I don't know.
But imagine a pain that is worse than the need to breathe. Feel it and only then have you really ever cried.
I could love without breath, but I could not breathe without love.
This is beautiful, Maria, and all too familiar. My Grandfather even worked in that same cheese factory! Answering the question “where are you from?” has always been tricky…I have thick dark hair and light skin, I grew up speaking Plautedietsch and English with a little Spanish sprinkled in too, worked the fields as a child, and blasted Los caminantes whenever we drove somewhere with dad. Meals could be anything from a traditional mashed potato with a side of meat and salad, to barbacoa, chile rallenos, or borscht. Those last two lines really hit home. “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.” 🤌
Hi Alex 🩷 thank you so much for saying that. I relate to the strange combination of food. Borscht and perogies from our European ancestors one night, and then carnitas or enchiladas from Mexico another night. It’s so lovely to hear that you understand 🫶🏻
Your essays are such a strong mix of lyrical and plain speaking with dots of humor and so much vibrancy (I hope I'm using that word correctly; I'm getting the afternoon sleepies). I really like these lines:
"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."
I'm just seeing this comment now, thank you so much Margaret. So much love xo
Gorgeous, gorgeous writing -- thank you for sharing your story.
Thank you for reading Amy 🩷
Maria—me encantó this piece (some Spanglish for you because I also often feel “ni de aquí ni de allá”). I’m Dominican and my skin is white (ish, I like to say it’s olive because my ancestors are Lebanese) and I always get those looks or comments too: “Pero you don’t look Dominican.”
I’m glad you’re doing the hard work of digging up your roots. It’s such an intrinsic part of who we are. And thanks for bringing us along!
Hi Rosa! Thank you so much for popping by and sharing your story 🩷 I’m really happy it resonated.
Your gift to make the last piece of the puzzle land is always magnificent.
Seems like when we're young, the past is an abstraction. We don't (sometimes) think to ask questions, to discover, to learn. Later, when the questions trickle up and find their way into our older, perhaps wiser selves and there are just so many things we want to KNOW, those who might have provided the answers are gone.
Oh home. Dear home! It is best to never even learn the meaning of that word. Because to even question it, much less seek it means to have lost it. Like air, the more we try to grasp it, the more we long for it, the less we have it. Home is where the search and longing for it stops. Home is love. When time stops - thats how you recognize both.
It can be the persons we love. It can be a place that makes us realize who we are or that we only have ourselves.
Or it might even be a mystery, a lie, an illusion that can never be reached or understood. Why? Because we cannot stay idle, we only become aware of everything by change, movement, growth and loss. That is how we can only perceive something. Then why look for a home? Why not a thousand homes? A million homes each day?
Our best friend.
Our sweetest symphony in a song.
Our deepest longing that drives us.
Our coldest understanding of something that we cannot but see that way.
Our hottest rebellion in thought - even against the whole world - that we would never, no, could ever give up.
Our memories that faded over time, the images of loved ones that time stole from us, but that kept us alive; made it possible to let go and find a new way, new meaning and new love.
The things unsaid, that were just too sad to be said - because we realized we had already lost; lost it or them and out of love we would pay the ultimate price out of love: letting go, knowing well that a part of us would die with it, but death is not the worst thing; it is seeing the other and knowing that we would never really reach them - a loneliness reminded of itself in each moment in which we are side by side, not together.
So is it worth tracing back the crumbs and finding what others before us tried to forget? What is it that we are missing and could whatever we find give us back what that which we already have cant?
I write in English. Translated from German, Viennese, Linz-dialect, upper-Austria-dialect, Salzburg-City-dialect, Legal-German, Salzburger Pinzgau-dialect, some Pongau-dialect, even Latin for Legal German, Italian for the first truely own decision on a language and soon given up, French for a second (living) foreign language - but it was not my second. It was German to escape Bosnian War but never Bosnian, the Southern Croatian-dialect of it, or the Serbian I needed while fleeing from Bugojno to Ravno to Kupres to Banja Luka to Brcko to Pancevo to Omoljica to Belgrade and back to Banja Luka and Prijedor just to arrive at Saalfelden, move to Zell am See, soon Salzburg, the longing for Berlin while deciding for Linz, giving up on it to find Vienna, my current home. Or is it? Where was I ever or did I get lost inbetween all these worlds of words and places and emotions and their translations and understandings and meanings? What sense does it make to clinge to one of these points and say "Finally, this is my home!"? Will it be safe from time? Will war never find it? Can Death not take it away just as you get to feel it?
I dont know what home is. I do not understand that word. I have called many points home. Lost even more to realize that they maybe were home.
So, should we run towards home? Or are we running from home?
Both. Everyone will run, both for home and from death, fast.
I once ran that fast aswell...
I was 5. It was war. And I just had realized what death meant. Those cold, static forever lost people they showed on TV besides my father who was wondering why I was so silent.
Then I realized that it also meant losing all loved ones - forever. But at first I could only realize it as my pain, of never seeing them again.
And then the worst would follow. The realization:
The loved ones would suffer and die just like I would some day. It was inevitable. Every moment of life was just an introduction to dying, just the process that would make it more and more appreciated just to be lost in a even more painful way. A cruel hidden essence that awaited us.
I ran.
I ran with all of my being from these thoughts. As much as I could.
Until the day my parents had to leave us behind again. To find a safe destination to flee to. Unlike the 3 times I died that one day before, choking on my tears and crying - that final run to come was physical.
After I had run from the realization of death and therefore what life truly meant, I would run from Death FOR life.
I realized my parents had sneaked out (to spare us the pain of separating again) and like struck by lightning I ran outside, ran for them. Screaming, begging, crying. I had one single thought, them. I did not care what anyone thought. Because there was only one single thing that mattered, my parents.
While the first three times I lost home, my childhood - myself, I could not tell my father what I had realized that day. The only thing worse than the realizations about loss and their loss was that they would suffer the same destiny. So love made it unbearable to see the loved ones suffer. That was the true price for love.
While I had run away from the realizations of war, death and eternal nothing, this time my cries would not be interrupted for breathing and breath only.
I reached my parents, they themselves heartbroken, begged and cried for them to not leave, to stay, to not....dozens of words I would find that pured out of me for the worst thing that I could even imagine. The last thing that shocked me, that I even could see with all these teers: The painstruck look of my mother. It was so tortured and witnessable in each point, movement and expression of her face that it even shocked me in that situation. Even with that one allencompassing horror it must have been such a pain for my mother that the mere look of her face was enough to struck me into a second of calm, realizing pitty felt for her.
After that I cannot remember anything. That was the last day of my childhood. It was impossible to stay the same person after being hit by the full meaning of life, love and loss in one moment - a moment that nobody should ever witness that early. Just like nobody should ever hear or know what I cried that day to her. And just like nobody will ever understand the pain that she overcame to still leave on that day.
War, Death are nothing. Mere shadows of the lightning that crushes the soul a million times in each part possible of each moment. It was something that pain fails to describe. It was something worse than not being or dying. Dying is the salvation to that unspeakable.
I cannot remember to have had the urge to breathe at any moment. Just screams, tears and a darkness tunnel like view of my surroundings.
Have you ever tried to hold your breath? Try to spot the point where any and every thought just vanishes for the raw, imperative force to need to breathe.
That is not dying. That is just the body realizing that it COULD die.
Dying itself, I don't know.
But imagine a pain that is worse than the need to breathe. Feel it and only then have you really ever cried.
I could love without breath, but I could not breathe without love.