Family 

Antonia Vázquez - Concord, NC

“Cuidas a tus hermanitas.”

As he often did, my father looked me in the eyes and told me to take care of my little sisters. But this time, it was different. When I last turned to look at Papi at the airport, I couldn’t have imagined that I wouldn’t see him again for two years. I left behind most of my family when I came to the U.S. with my mom and two sisters. Though we were born in the United States, we moved to Mexico when we were too small to remember it. We had no one here—no family or close friends—but my mom felt it was necessary to leave because I was having health problems and couldn’t get a diagnosis in Mexico. It took weeks to get used to the absence of my Papi’s singing, the joyful cries of my little cousins playing, the smell of Abuelita’s pozole simmering, even the sound of the camote vendor’s whistle.

In Mexico, being American was special; people would ask us how to say things in English and admire the things we did differently. But in the United States, being Mexican was the opposite. My English teacher’s voice sharpened when she spoke to me and my new Chicana friends. A boy I know was told to “go back to Mexico;” he was born in this country. Every day the news seemed to show people of color being attacked or disparaged. I watched authority figures call people like my relatives drug dealers, criminals, and rapists. My mother unfriended distant friends on Facebook who posted degrading memes about Mexican immigrants. 

All the while, I was dealing with my own personal struggles. The seasons passed without learning embroidery from Abuelita, celebrating Children’s Day in a block party with my cousins, or taking trips to las montañas with my parents. Over these past two years, I missed the colorful posada Christmas celebrations, my friend’s long-planned Quinceñera party, my cousin’s marriage, and the birth of his daughter. 

Last winter, my mother bought airline tickets for a trip to Mexico to see our family again. It would only be a two-week visit, but we’d planned out everything we could do with our family. When the pandemic hit, we were forced to cancel. Watching the cases and deaths increase kept us constantly worried that the worst could happen to our family. When nearly all of them got Covid and two of my uncles were hospitalized, all I could do was wait for messages from our father telling us they were still okay. My grandparents had both had health issues before, and we were especially terrified for them. 

This year has been hard for everyone. Millions of people have lost loved ones, and everyone has someone they couldn’t see in person. I understand how it feels to be separated from those you love—like a part of you is missing. But today I feel hopeful for the first time in two years. My health has improved after receiving a diagnosis and medical treatment. Papi’s immigration papers have been filed, and we hope that he can come to live with us within the next year. When it’s safe to travel, we’ll visit Mexico. We’re already planning the occasion: my Quinceñera party. Putting on my formal dress and tiara and waltzing the father-daughter dance with Papi will be one of the highlights of my life. I’ll carry a bouquet made by Abuelita and receive the “last doll” that marks the end of my childhood, finally raising a toast to all the beloved family members who mean so much to me.