Roots in Motion

no. 21

I haven’t been writing much over the last few days. In Puente Piedra, where my sister-in-law lives, many family members live within a three-block radius. Leifer’s cousin Santos is around the corner, and we’ve spent time playing with his kids, Adriano and Jairo. Leif calls Jairo “Tía Hydro,” but Jairo is gentle with the kids. They’re 13 and 10 years old.

Adriano and Jairo go to the neighborhood park on their days off from school to play soccer at 6 a.m. We join them later, less committed than they are. I often see pickup games at the park—volleyball and soccer. Young and old come together. A cement bench sits nearby for onlookers.

My dad makes us coffee every morning. He brought his equipment: a hand grinder, a portable kettle, and a press. He wakes up before us, and the coffee is ready when we shuffle out of our rooms. He even brought his own coffee beans. His brew is strong. I’ve gotten used to the weaker coffee here and need to add hot water to mine.

It was International Workers’ Day (Labor Day), a national holiday that fell on a Thursday. Leifer’s sisters and their families came over, along with Santos and his family. Leifer prepared the night before by sweeping and mopping all the floors.

We went to the market to buy chicken, steak, fish, lettuce, corn, potatoes, garlic, and ají. The market is about two blocks from the house. You walk through a metal door into a maze of stalls. Trini led us to a particular chicken stall, even though we’d passed several others. There were also people walking around selling items. We bought two yo-yo-like toys for the boys, one sol each. I later regretted not picking one out for Lucca, too. He often reminds me that he’s not a baby anymore and wants to play.

Tía Julia got some of us dancing. Leifer and I danced to huayno music. Julia described it as lots of jumping and twisting. I was happy to be in Leifer’s arms. I saw tears well up in his eyes. Later, Leifer’s nephew Frank talked about how much life had passed since Leifer left for the United States twenty years ago. Frank said he was happy just to be with him—to drink a beer, to have a conversation, to walk over and be close. "It’s different when you can reach over and touch someone’s shoulder," he said.

The other afternoon, a cousin showed up in his moto and whisked Leifer away. Leifer told me he’d be back in 30 minutes. Miraculously, all my kids napped that afternoon. The peace was welcome after several chaotic days of dealing with my visa. But by 6 p.m., Leifer still hadn’t returned, and I realized his phone was at the house. Tia Trini came by that evening, and I told her I was worried—I couldn’t remember which cousin Leifer had gone with. “¿Gordo?” she asked. Yo pienso. Trini called another cousin to get Carlos’s number, then called Carlos. Yes, Leifer was with him. I was relieved. Thirty minutes had turned into six hours—there was a lot to catch up on.

In Lima, I was sick with worry and grief. The traffic, the people, the constant vigilance—it’s hard to find peace there. My stomach stayed in knots, and I felt exhausted. I’m amazed by how many friends and family Leifer has, as if time froze when he left twenty years ago. Peru feels like Leifer’s life that I’m trying to make mine. But this isn’t the life we built together. We’re managing small fires, not yet building anything of our own. I’m only a visitor in Peru—the visa process makes that clear. Maybe my path here doesn’t have to be permanent, but how can I put down roots when I’m required to leave by June 5? On a tourist visa, I can stay in Peru for up to 6 months in a year, but only in 3-month increments. I need to return to San Francisco to work on getting the papers I need for a family visa, which would extend my stay for two years.

This morning, Abuelito walked in and said, “Good morning.” We all laughed—Abuelito is learning English!

Lucca is restless. He wakes up crying. I’m too sleepy to open my eyes. He settles down, falls asleep, then starts crying again. He can’t get comfortable. Then I hear him vomit—Leifer and I jump out of bed. We change his blankets and his clothes. Lucca looks at me with his big, weary brown eyes. He’s quiet, and I feel unsettled. Leifer crawls into bed with him. I listen to their breathing. My thoughts race with possible explanations for his illness.

My time here is finite and impermanent. Any roots I put down will be swept away like sand in the wind. Maybe it’s not about making roots, but about bringing my whole self to Peru. For now, I’ve stepped away from my career and stretched the ties to my own community. I feel like I’m losing myself in this new place I’m desperate to claim as my own. Claiming a place would let me drop anchor instead of being pushed around by the fickle winds of immigration policies and bureaucracy.

To begin integrating myself into life in Peru, I start by unearthing stories from my own childhood. Here, I often struggle to share where I come from—the vocabulary I need to fully express myself just isn’t there. So instead, I turn inward, remembering the small moments that shaped me. I was a tightly wound child, full of nerves, but I also remember being curious and independent. I grew up in a small town outside Austin, with the freedom to roam on my bike. I’d call home to check in with my mom and let her know who I was with. My favorite time of day was dusk, when the sun had softened and the cicadas began to sing. I loved the library and always checked out books. Writing never came easily to me—I disliked the sound of my own voice on the page. I rarely spoke up in class, but I always did my homework and followed the rules, both spoken and unspoken. I loved dancing—ballet and tap when I was little. Later, I swapped dance for soccer, but by high school I returned to it, taking ballroom classes—mostly salsa and swing. Those dances are deeply social, and I loved the sense of connection they offered.

Now, in Peru, I find myself craving that same sense of connection. Without shared language or history, I feel like I’m arriving empty-handed. But these memories remind me that I do carry something with me—my own habits, stories, values, and ways of belonging. In time, I want to share them aloud with Leifer’s family.