Roots and Wings

no. 24

Down the road from us is a place called Rancho Chico, owned by a relative of Leifer’s. Once you pass through the gates, there are two pools with slides, playgrounds, a volleyball court, and a soccer field. Tables sit beneath canopies. The boys were eager to jump into the water. I had packed their swimsuits, anticipating there might be a pool. The water was cold but refreshing under the hot sun. I wanted to sit in the shade but needed to stay near the boys. Instead, I slathered on sunscreen—I always carry a stick of it in my bag.

The floor around the pool was smooth concrete. I kept repeating “slow” to the boys, but little Enzo had trouble remembering. He slipped, fell on his butt, and bonked his head. “They could’ve made this less slippery,” I complained to Leifer. “There are no building codes in Peru,” he said. “People do things how they want.” He pointed to our patio at the casita—how cautious we are when it rains. I always make sure the boys wear shoes out there.

Pictured: Lucca, amused while eating orange jello.

Abuelita raised eight children. Leifer’s father traveled great distances for work and only came home a few times a year. That meant Abuelita was mostly on her own. When Abuelito’s sister-in-law passed away young, Abuelita took in her niece and nephew. Her persistence inspires me. In addition to caring for the children, she also tended to animals and crops. Leifer often mentions some of Abuelita’s comadres—women, usually family, who were like mother figures to him. A comadre could discipline Leifer, and he’d be expected to obey as if she were his own mother. I feel as though Abuelita and Aida are my comadres, the boys are drawn to their deep life experience and wisdom.

Leifer and I always dreamed of bringing our family to Peru. It had been over twenty years for him, and I had never been. My conversations with his parents had always been brief, and it was hard for his father to hear over the phone. We wondered how much, at such a young age, our children would be able to grasp once we finally made the trip. We never imagined our first time here would last for months. Leifer and I often express gratitude to each other for this time. We also wonder how we can be helpful to his parents. Since none of this was planned, we are slow to make decisions. I wonder if we could start an Airbnb here—this place would be paradise for mountain trekkers.

One of my favorite breads is Pan de Piso—floor bread. It’s flavored with anise. My dad tried it and commented on the anise. I hadn’t noticed it before.

Each day, the chickens go out the back gate to feast in the field. In the evening, they return, and Aida brings them into the casita to their coop. Lucca follows Aida out back. When she waves her arms to guide them in, Lucca does the same. “Geesh, geesh, geesh,” she says. Lucca mimics her. The chickens seem wary of the extra attention. Normally, it’s a well-orchestrated process to tuck them in for the night. I move Lucca farther away. The chickens dart past him quickly, wings flapping.

My mom called. She’s preparing to protest. She had a sign made with a photo of me, Leifer, and the boys. On it: “Keep families together.” My mom went to UC Berkeley as an undergrad—maybe protesting is second nature to her.

I made a cake—this time, I was determined to do it my way. I’ve been making banana “cake” (without frosting) for my boys about once a week for the past year. I had all the ingredients—I had stopped at the little market the day before to pick up big bananas. They’re not actually called “big bananas” here, but that’s how I think of them. Usually, we buy the smaller kind—there are two sizes.

I threw the bananas, flour, baking powder, brown sugar, butter, and eggs into the bowl. I didn’t have vanilla extract, so I left it out. I used condensed milk in place of yogurt or sour cream. I added a touch of pecans that my mom had brought from Texas. I mixed everything and poured it into a floured pan. Aida helped me light the oven, and in it went. It baked for about fifty minutes, and I could tell it was done by the smell. The sides and bottom were quite burned. I sliced it after lunch and served a piece to everyone. I was happy with how it turned out. Next time I may try a different pan to prevent the burnt edges.

I felt accomplished—doing something here that normally comes easily at home. No measuring cups. No temperature gauge on the oven. Just a bit of resolve and determination. The stakes felt high since Abuelita was trying my cake. Leifer reassured me: I could always blame the recipe, not the baker. I did use a different recipe. At home, I’d pull my Ina Garten cookbook off the shelf when my bananas started to blacken.

Later, I heard a rumbling in the kitchen—it sounded close. Thunder? But no, rainy season is behind us. Many sounds here are still unfamiliar. Movement outside the window caught my eye: sheep running alongside the casita. Louder than I expected.

I hear running water in the morning. My mind still jumps to rain, but it’s sunny. Just outside the casita gate, water bubbles up from the ground. “Leifer!” I call out. “Something’s wrong.” “No,” he says. “My parents are irrigating the field.” I’m still unsure—it looks like they’re creating a creek. “My plants are dying,” Abuelita says. “They need water.” Later that day, Leifer and Abuelita cleared the dead brush and lit a match. They burned it right here on the property. Every time there's a fire, I think of the pediatrician asking if anyone smokes in our home. The answer feels complicated now. Leif helped with the fire and came back inside coughing.

Last night, I was struck by the dichotomy between how isolating it’s been to immigrate to Peru and how necessary migration is for so many, for so many reasons. I felt singled out rather than part of a much larger human narrative. I seek out other voices. Immigration is such a raw, human experience—driven by the basic need to find shelter and food for your family. I’m drawn to writing by immigrants or children of immigrants. In their stories, I look for maps to navigate my own. It’s remarkable—twenty years later, Leifer and I are facing the same challenges he faced as a young man in Peru. To find consistent work, we’d need to leave the mountains. But leaving for the big city will be more dangerous for our kids.

We want to give our boys an understanding of Peru and where their dad comes from, while also providing the security and opportunity to build meaningful futures. My education was in the classroom; Leifer’s was outside of it. How do we give our kids both? Until now, their world was heavily American, much less Peruvian. Now, our intention feels irrelevant—things are shifting on their own. Still, no matter the culture, we can teach our boys to face adversity with courage—and a little humor.