Lands of Corn
Maria Sanchez Martinez
©
Copyright 2018 by Maria Sanchez Martinez
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My
ancestors were the people of the corn. My hometown is surrounded by
corn. So much of my family’s early life revolved around corn.
This is the main subject of my story, a telling of a journey with
corn as the epicenter. All that remains now in our lives are the few
stalks of corn we plant in the backyard, a long ways away from what
once such an important part of our everyday life.
I’ve
seen a lot of corn. On our road trip to Kansas. Some of it in the
distance on the way in to Greeley for a college visit. Our own little
bit of corn stalks in the backyard. A corn maze that one Halloween we
went out and got super scared. None of these carry the weight of that
image in Mexico, eighteen years ago, with a misty, thick fog and
shuddering cold in the air. I’m standing on one side of the
road, on a dirt area off the main paved highway designated as a bus
stop. On one side is just grass, some of it tall and some it chopped
awkwardly. On the other side nothing but corn for miles and miles.
You can see the dew on the green stalks, the moist life almost
vibrating as it sways in the gentle breeze as the day awakens.
Our
grandmother had bid us farewell earlier. In her nightgown she ushered
us with our luggage and gave us firm hugs, her boney strength the
only indication that that particular hug was different from any
other. We walked by the back of our small ranching community, passed
the five-room middle school, passed the little Virgen de Guadalupe
altar, and out through the fields of corn onto the highway. It was
cold and damp, our voices getting caught in our throats the few times
we tried speaking to each other to ask if someone could see the bus.
Every dot that appeared on the highway from afar we hoped was our
ride.
I
don’t remember how long we waited but eventually the bus came.
It was run down and sounded broken. The seats were torn, the engine
load and grumpy, the door creaked, and the speed so slow cars passed
us seemed like running cheetahs.There were a few people on board,
only those going to work in the next town over or the early birds
wanting to get first dibs at the fresh produce at the market. We sat
at the very back, all six of us with our big luggage and small bags,
out of the way from the other passengers. It was my mother, two
brothers, two sisters, and I. We were going to meet our father and
two eldest brothers in America, our new home.
I
looked thru the tinted window, through the scratches and graffiti on
the pane, out to the corn fields. Tall and thriving of life those
corn fields would never have a new home like us. Those corn fields
would grow and be harvested and give life and food to those in our
communities. It would be planted again next season and the cycle
would continue. Those corn fields knew nothing of migration, nothing
of a new language that my sister was never told was spoken in
America, nothing of the discrimination we would face, nothing of the
tears and pain we would experience, and nothing of the sacrifice our
parents were making. That image has never left me, I equate corn
fields, specially vibrate green and full of life corn fields, to my
home in Mexico. That memory is the exact moment that there came to be
a before and an after, from that everything has fallen into those two
categories. Life before we moved and life after we moved.
While
I looked at those corn fields I was thinking of my grandmother. I
didn’t quite understand why we had to leave her alone behind. I
was praying that she would be alright, that we would see her again
soon. That bony hug of hers kept me warm on that dewy morning in
July. A warmth that travelled with me and still remains in me to this
day. With that strength we made it to the other side. To the North,
to the land of opportunities, to the possibilities of the American
Dream, to green money and better education, to always having work and
food on the table, to being able to be whatever we wanted to be. The
warmth of her hug made us survivors of the land of America.
There
was another old lady along my journey north. It was on the last bus,
the one that brought us from El Paso, Texas to Denver, Colorado. It
was night and I was sitting in an aisle seat, dangling my body to the
side onto the passway trying to see up front through the windshield
at the pretty lights and passing cars. I can’t remember if she
sat in front or behind me, but the old lady somehow caught my
attention. She was trying to throw away some trash in the bag that
hung from my seat. She couldn’t reach with her short arm so I
grabbed the trash from her and threw it out. She gave me a big smile
then took a small bag of peanuts from her bag and offered it to me. I
took them from her with joy, my own bag of peanuts! It was a
wonderful night. The smell of that old lady’s perfume still
lingers in my memory from time to time, a fading scent of roses, not
strong but still memorable, her white face and red lips with wrinkles
almost a mirage now all these years later. When we had arrived to
Denver to the two bedroom apartment the nine of us were going to
share with two others I sat on the couch, happily eating my bag of
peanuts that no one could take away because they were given to me
especially by that nice old lady.
I
was seven years old when I immigrated. I’m twenty-five now.
I’ve made that 36 hour bus journey both to and from my hometown
in Mexico many times since that first time. Every year, once or
twice, we would return to visit. I would see my grandmother again,
for another nice times before she passed. It’s never been the
same of course. There is too much of a distance between the before
and after that nothing in between can blend together. There is too
much definitness to those things. In recent years we’ve flown
but the 36 hour long journey has always been my favorite. You get to
truly feel the distance between both worlds. You see a large amount
of the land of Mexico and some of America along the way, you
literally experience the change between the two through the sights
and the sounds and even the smells. The sense of familiarity to both
sides exude such strong emotions. A lump forms in your throat when
you get close to physically crossing the border both ways, you
silently pray a thank you for being allowed to return to the land
that gave birth to you but also a sigh of relief when you’re
back on the land of your future.
Now
that I see my nieces growing up deeply Americanized I reflect on the
struggles we had, struggles that in those moments don’t seem as
such. One simple thing is homework. When my eldest niece, a sixth
grader now, has homework she has my sister readily available to help
her. It’s a pretty simple and easy thing. For my own mother it
wasn’t so simple or easy. My mother doesn’t have a
completed education, she was only able to attend part of first grade
when she was eleven in Mexico. She can barely read and write in
Spanish let alone in English. When we were in elementary school here
in America what did our mother do when we asked for help as is
natural of a child to do? “I’d tell you to ask your
teacher the next day,” she has told us when I have asked. I
don’t remember it, of course, it was so long ago. One thing I
do remember is having to translate my own parent teacher conferences
all throughout elementary school. I was a good kid growing up so
there was never anything bad to report, but it still seems so
meaningless when you have to translate your own praises from your
teachers. Simple things like these that come so easy to my nieces
were once so hard for us growing up. This is what success is: the
growth of the next generation thanks to the struggles we once faced.
As
long as I continue to see corn I will always be reminded of my
upbringing as an immigrant. Not fully Mexican but not fully American,
but one hundred percent proud of both. Despite the harsh experiences
and some painful memories I would never exchange that fateful day in
July when we journeyed north in our move to America. The cycle of
corn, the growth and life it gives to the most humble and to the most
rich of people, will always be unchanging and non-discriminatory. It
is the one thing that remains both in the before and in the after, a
constant to remind me that I don’t have to chose, that I don’t
need to be more of this or more of that to be accepted. It has always
been the same and will continue to be so.
I
was born in a farming community in the state of Guanajuato in Mexico. I
am the sixth of seven children. I currently reside in Colorado and have
been here for eighteen years.
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