Memories of My Grandmother

My dad’s mom, aka Mama Marqueza, was the matriarch of our family until she died recovering from her third stroke during my sophomore year of college. I was young when I witnessed my grandmother have her second stroke. It was at her house and her sister, Elizabeth, aka Titi Licho, was visiting from Colombia. Seeing someone I was deeply attached to in so much pain was devastating. Titi Licho called the ambulance and after I had calmed down a little I called my mom and she talked me down from my hysteria. Titi Licho's courage and care at that moment was an act of love that I will never forget. She eventually returned to Barranquilla, Colombia, where my father was born and raised; and I didn’t see her in person again until I made my first adult visit more than ten years later.

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In Barranquilla my dad and I pulled up to a humble house, one of many in a modest neighborhood, with a small outdoor area; not quite a front lawn. My dad introduced me to cousins and uncles I either hadn’t met or hadn’t seen since I was a baby. I was welcomed inside and the whole front of the house had about eight computers and a bookcase, which I learned was where residents in the neighborhood would pay to use a computer; this was the family’s main source of income. A short hallway had two rooms on either side and opened into a medium-sized kitchen. On the opposite side of the kitchen was an open door that led to a concrete paved outdoor area behind the house, not quite a backyard.

And there she sat. In a plastic chair reminiscent of the ones back at Mama Marqueza’s house, Titi Licho smiled and said in a voice that was exactly as I recalled it, “Tú me recuerdes?” I laughed because I couldn’t have forgotten her even if I tried. She didn’t seem to have aged since the last time I saw her. Her aura was the same: light, cheerful and soft. Clothed in the same muumuu-style house dress Mama Marqueza used to wear she opened her arms for a hug.

“Claro que te recuerdo!” But I had remembered more than her appearance, I remembered her hugs and her laugh and her sense of humor. My dad greeted her with enthusiasm and the rest of the family joined us in the backyard as the memories began to flow.

“Sabes que la ultima vez que estabas aquí, ” Titi Licho said to me, “estabas tan chiquito que yo te bañe en una ponchera plástica.” She punctuated most of her sentences with laughter. She motioned for one of my uncles, “Buscame los fotos que tengo en mi cuarto abajo de la cama. Yo creo que allí hay un foto de Joel en ese ponchera.” He quickly obeyed. Her presence was one that invoked respect. As the undeniable matriarch, her power didn’t stem from fear, it was grown from decades of unrelenting love. You were compelled to want to do things for her as payment for all she had done for you; just like my grandmother, her sister.

I was somewhat unprepared for the wave of emotion brought on by the pictures she had collected. An old cookie tin contained pictures of my sister, my cousins, and me as kids. She kept photographs of my dad, considerably younger and slimmer, with all seven of his brothers and sisters lined up in front of Mama Marqueza’s house back in New Jersey. Portraits of herself at parties during her multiple stays in the United States created a timeline that began with big hair in black and white photos to color photos with white hair. But what got me the most were the pictures of my grandmother.

Whether it was because I already carried fond recollections of her close to my heart or because I was afraid of the pain I would feel from looking at her photographs, I hadn’t sat down to just look at her in a long time. She smiled up at me through the shiny gloss and I could remember what it felt like to have her be a staple in my life.

As if I had boarded a train I felt transported to being a child and begging to go to her house every weekend. The memories then flung me forward in time to my high school graduation where my parents had said that she might not be able to attend because of her health. I was inconsolable and extremely distraught at the thought of her not being there. But my grandmother, to this day the strongest person I’ve ever known, was there. No complaints and all smiles. The train made a final stop to the last time I saw her. I had taken a bus down from Boston to visit her in the rehabilitation center she was staying in after her most recent stroke. At this point, she was unable to walk by herself, though she insisted on trying. Her hearing and vision were poor but she made every effort to listen. Her speech was low and almost indecipherable but I could always understand “Te quiero mucho.” She was doing better and the rehab center planned to release her in a few days.

I hugged and kissed her and told her how much I loved her and that I couldn’t wait to see her back at home the next time I came from school. She assured me of the same. The next day I rode the bus back to Boston and about thirty minutes after arriving at my dorm my dad called to tell me to get on the next bus back to New Jersey. My grandmother had died. It was my first real experience with death and it stung.

I don’t recall ever having had any strong beliefs in what happens to someone’s being after death but my grandmother’s passing gave me perspective. Years after her death I can still feel her. I could just feel this incredibly nurturing and loving presence surround me at random times and it felt like her. The more it happened the less I questioned that it was my grandmother. And the more I began to accept the serendipity of her presence the more I could feel it when I needed it; in times of need or in times of celebration. This was a time for celebration.

I walked the streets of the Barranquilla neighborhood my father grew up in and pictured a little boy with skin as dark as his, probably darker from the Colombian sun, holding hands with a younger version of my grandmother. My imagination painted her as passing these roads with a knowledge of them being her own and leaving in her wake the trail of her always very commanding presence; like the nobility of the barrio. It was as if she were right in front of me. Mother of eight, standing tall with a strength that emanated from her heart.

We came to our destination and my father turned toward me, “This is the street I used to live on.” We passed all of the houses as he remarked that none of them had changed and we stopped at his childhood home. As I stepped in front of it and looked through the gate I could feel the entire story of my life within me. This is where it all began. I could hear the cries and the laughter, I could feel the pain and joy, and most of all I could feel all of the love that laid down a path that was destined to lead me right here, right to this moment.

After my dad introduced me to all of his old neighbors that still lived here, (many of them recalled how small I was in my aunt’s ponchera), we posed for a picture in front of his old house. Here again, I could feel my grandmother. She was with us and it was wonderful. The three of us smiled for the camera.

My dad and I went to Titi Licho’s house every day we were in Barranquilla. We stopped by before the day’s journey and we stopped by after whatever activity we had accomplished. Leaving Barranquilla was harder than I thought it would be. I had bonded more than I intended to with my family and I was overcome with the urge to bring them all with me. We said our goodbyes, made promises to revisit that I hope we can keep and departed from the warm hug of my Titi Licho. Fighting back tears we entered the cab and my dad, Mama Marqueza and I drove away from the house for the last time until the next visit.