In the Country We Love: Chapters 7-10

Something very beautiful happens to people when their world has fallen apart: A humility, a nobility, a higher intelligence emerges at just the point when our knees hit the floor.

With my face flushed and my stomach churning, I stepped into the vestibule.

The foyer began to spin, faster and faster, as if I was stuck in a washing machine.

“So what am I supposed to do?” I sniveled.

I thought of my father’s exuberance, the delight that spread across his face upon winning the money.

They’d each been appointed lawyers, but as they’d suspected, their chances of remaining here were minuscule.

I wasn’t exactly taking notes on Mami’s emotional state, with my own in such shambles.

“Please remember to observe all facility regulations. Any violation may result in the future suspension of visitation privileges.”

Months before, in that lawyer’s empty office, I’d seen my father at his most powerless. This was worse. In his eyes, I saw the look of defeat. Despair. Resignation.

“I don’t have any toothpaste in here.” My father, so meticulous about hygiene, was self-conscious about his breath and appearance.

But as the seasons rolled on and my fear hadn’t yet come true, I’d been lulled into thinking it wouldn’t happen.

Even in prison, he didn’t want to cause trouble or bring undue attention to us.

Through mile after mile of freeway, I recalled the years my family had spent worrying about this day, the energy we’d expended fearing my parents’ arrest.

Her hair was disheveled, frizzy, and in a messy bun.

My mother’s warning, the haunting admonition, echoed through me. Be careful. Be careful. Be careful.

But everyone understands the truth: Remaining welcome means abiding by the rules.

From then on, I was OCD about my hair, which was immediately identifiable as mine since I was the only one with a straight, long black mane. After untangling my tresses, I’d thoroughly wipe down the sink and pick up every. Single. Strand.

He’d gotten a friend to sell his and Mami’s cars; that cash, coupled with his lotto windfall, had to be split between providing for me and settling into his new life.

Mami and Papi vanished from my life at a critical juncture—as I was navigating that tricky passage between early and middle adolescence.

The show was filled with various performances, from opera, jazz, and contemporary to string ensemble and choral pieces.

In the days leading up to my departure, I was eager and, yes, a bit apprehensive. How would it feel to see my parents again? What would their living conditions be? And was it safe there?

Then on the road into Palmira, throngs of barefoot children begged.

Rows of cookie-cutter homes, most made from adobe, were as basic as basic can get.

At the airport and party, the two had been cordial for my sake. But all they wanted was to steer clear of each other.

By reopening the case in New Jersey, she made herself susceptible to deportation.

Even still, I blamed her for the haphazard way in which she handled the situation. She never tried to get confirmation about whether her application had indeed been handed over to the feds. Instead, she got scared and just let everything fall apart. And because she didn’t resolve it, because she didn’t see the process through to the end, she’d left our future up to chance.

His surroundings were as modest as Mami’s, but he was chill about it; if his new lot in life was bothering him, he didn’t mention it.

Papi’s generosity made the journey so sweet as we strolled through the streets of Old Town, savored ceviche at a quaint restaurant, and watched the red-golden sunset over the silver waters.

As much as I relished certain things about the trip, I knew there was no life for me there.

Not only did I buckle down in school, I became even more conscientious around Amelia’s house. I was determined to keep my spot. My chance.

Things seemed pretty perfect between Gabriela and me, but earlier that week we had argued; nothing major, just a tiff between friends.

But upon learning this news from Papi, I concluded that our disagreement must’ve prompted Amelia’s decision.

I’d made it all the way to the end of my sophomore year with no big dustup. There had to be something that brought this on now.

She wandered onto the balcony, sidled up beside me, and placed her hand on my shoulder.

Papi continued to send money, but his resources were dwindling; that Powerball money was long gone.

She encouraged us to study the greats, and she underscored the importance of good musicianship.

This aunt or uncle had lost a job; someone had been mugged on the way to the grocery store; and of course, she’d end up sobbing over how much she wanted us all to be together again. So did I; I just saw no point in rehashing it.

In response to his nudge, I made a list of women’s colleges. I had this notion that in an all-female environment, I’d be able to focus.

So I blundered my own way through the forms and somehow got funded. I didn’t understand a lot of what I signed up for, and years later I’d pay dearly for some of my choices.

When I arrived in the music room (which was called the Boston Conservatory), Ms. Jackson, my voice coach, and a few other teachers were waiting.