Bachata, Pupusas, and Broken Roads

I sent my mother to her deathbed.

Maybe if I hadn’t, I’d still be dancing bachata on the streets of my impoverished village. Maybe, I’d still be running barefoot and muddied into the fields of the coffee plantations where I once called home.

If only I hadn’t pulled her so far away from me, I wouldn’t be here- alone, trying to understand a language I’ve never heard. Maybe I wouldn’t be trying so hard to belong.

Let me make this clear: I’m not a killer; if I were, this would probably be a police statement instead of an essay. But still - this is my confession.

For context, my mother and I had always had a close relationship. Since I was born in the impoverished side of El Salvador, I never held another hand but hers. We didn’t have much, my father had left for America to start a new life, and he sent money every month, but visits were rare. Still, even if we didn’t have a lot of money, my mom always gave me what she could. It was my mami who showed me how to ride a bike, my mami who saved every penny each August so I could have a birthday cake with candles, and it was my mami whom I condemned.

To put it simply: when you're six, the world is small- you hold your mother’s hand on the way to school. She braids your hair before school, she whispers sweet words into your ears or every time you have a nightmare, and she’s right there to pick you up and carry you back home whenever you fall. But when you're fourteen, the world explodes. You don’t want to hold her hand, her comfort after nightmares, and in the mornings, instead of letting her take you to school, you kiss her goodbye and run.

Truly, I didn’t mean to run so far. But that’s the thing about fourteen; your world is transformed. Fourteen was the year I decided I was too old to work with her in her pupusa stand. I was too cool to dance bachata in the streets after church. I didn’t need her there to kiss me goodnight, and her simple dreams of going to the city every weekend looked like stupidity to me. At fourteen, independence was shaming where I came from. No longer was I proud to belong in the one-bedroom brick house at the end of the alley that my mother and I called home.

In a way, the definition of growing up meant pushing her away. Before I turned fourteen, mom and I rarely argued. But I pulled away. And if I pushed her away, I would grow up faster. But I never thought I would end up here.

That’s how all this happened.

We were fighting one day. About what I can’t remember, but the last words she ever said to me were:

“Estoy tan enojada contigo, ya no te entiendo Sofia, siempre en la calle, y esta ves ni se te vaya a ocurrir regresar sin mi pan.” (I am so mad at you, I don’t understand you anymore Sofia, always outside, and this time don’t you dare come back without my bread.)

“Ya, ya me voy para no verte, me voy.” (Yeah, I’m leaving, so I don’t have to see you.) I yelled out the door one last time.

The walk to the bakery was the same as always- familiar and full of life.

Tios sitting in plastic white chairs playing dominoes with a half-finished bottle of beer in their hands.

“Nombre, güero, si usted todavía me debe mis trece dólares.” (Don’t even man- you still owe me thirteen dollars.)

Typical Salvadorian Sunday.

As I walked through the market, the vendors shouted like usual -  "CEBOLLLASSSSS, PIPIANNEEEESSS, FRUTA A CUATRO POR EL DOLAR.” (ONIONNNSSS, PEPIANSSS, FRUIT FOUR FOR A DOLLAR)

One woman smiled and called out, “Y usted mi amor, le doy los pepinos a cuatro por el dólar,” said one selling cucumbers in her stand (And you, my love, I’ll give you four cucumbers for a dollar)

“No, gracias,” I said back to her.

As I kept on walking, I couldn’t help but pay attention to the soles of my shoes. Since the beginning of that summer, the soles of my shoes had been bothering me- they were falling apart, and my mother couldn’t afford to buy me new ones until winter. Another thing I was mad at her about.

Silly, I know now. But again, when you’re fourteen, worn-out shoes feel like proof that no one in the world could understand you, let alone care about you.

“Hola, hola, nina Sofia!” said Marta, the tortilla lady who made them on the street across the mercado. I’ve known her forever- my mother had been her neighbor for years. When Marta was nine, she dropped out of school after her father killed her mother in his drunken rage. No one really did anything, and so she had been forced to work as a maid since it happened. There were a lot of Martas around El Salvador.

Don’t get me wrong- this country is beautiful. But life just happens to you sometimes. Whether we like it or not, life rolls the dice and forces us to play- to belong. In El Salvador, life is good if you have money; if you don’t, well, let’s put it this way, kids sometimes walk five hours to school with no shoes, and rarely eat anything other than frijoles con tortilla. Still, el pueblo y la gente sobreviven.

I was lucky. I had a chance. Marta didn’t.

But if you saw her, you’d think the opposite- the way the sun beamed on her brown, dark skin, the way she smiled when you talked to her, even with her two silver front teeth- she made you feel as if your soul was alive, just because you were here, en el pueblo de las personas con corazón.

“¿No tiene ganas de un pan?” ( You don’t want some tortillas today.)

“No, gracias, yo solo vengo por pan para mi mamá, vamos a hacer panes con pavo para la cena,” (No, thank you, I’m only here for bread for my mom, we're making turkey sandwiches tonight.) I said as I kept walking.

I didn’t know it then, but that moment with Marta was the last time the world felt right. Marta was a symbol representing my home- my village, my roots. We weren’t rich by any means. Damn, sometimes people dropped out of school because work called on the plantations. But by god were we alive. Alive in a way where your chest hurts- full of music and prayers, of dust and laughter, and simple dreams.

As I approached the bakery, I heard gunshots. I ducked and covered my face. Ever since gang members had appeared in our village, gunshots were a common occurrence.

I thought nothing of it as I took the bread from Don Pedro.

I even smiled.

I thought nothing of it as I walked home and waved to Marta one last time.

I did think something of it when I arrived at the brick house at the end of an alley.

I thought something of it as I dropped the loaves of bread.

I thought something of it when the officers held me back, crying and screaming, stopping me from seeing the body in the black bag they were carrying out of the only home I’d ever known.

I thought something of it when officers told me it was a case of mistaken identity.

I thought something of it when they told me the horrible things gang members had done to my mother.

And somehow, I’ve never been able to stop thinking about it.

Nightfall painted the sky when they finally let me crawl back into my house to collect whatever the gang members had deemed of no value.

The house itself was unrecognizable. Blood stained the walls where my mother had so lovingly hung traditional weavings. I walked through the house- quiet now and hollow- and suddenly I realized my home lay soulless in a mortician’s office. The music, the bachata, the pupusas- well, they were gone.

I screamed, I cried, and I punched the wall for what felt like days. If only I hadn’t fought with her, if I hadn’t rejected my culture. Maybe we would’ve both gone to buy bread.

She was gone- and in my mind, I killed her.

Three weeks passed before authorities could find my father, and another two for them to finally put me on a plane to America.

I didn’t even pack a bag- just boarded the plane with pain and guilt.

Now, here I am, two weeks before being fifteen, sitting in the back row of my ELD class, surrounded by fluorescent lights and a language I barely understand. My life changed in a matter of minutes, I now nod when I don’t understand something because I’m too afraid to speak. I smile when I want to cry because I miss my mom.

Sometimes, my classmates joke about their moms texting them every day and “bothering them,” and I wonder what that feels like.

At night, when I try to sleep without seeing blood on the walls, it hits me like a ton of bricks: maybe I did send her to her deathbed. Not with weapons, but with silence. With distance. With a slammed door and the stupid pride of a fourteen-year-old little girl.

When I was home, I didn’t want to belong to that stupid impoverished village, or in her stupid arms that held me when I broke. All I wanted was to live the American dream, be an American girl with their fancy makeup, nice clothes, and the cute boys I had seen on TV. But trust me when I say this: I would do anything to have my mom back, to be back home, and to see my home.

Deep down, I know, I know I didn’t kill her. The gangs did. The country’s sickness did. Poverty did. But you can’t tell a fourteen-year-old girl that. My last words to her weren’t “Te quiero mami” or “Te amo mucho mami”- no, they were shouted across the room. I left the house angry, I slammed the door in her face, and now she was gone.

Sometimes, it really feels like I killed her.

Maybe it’s true, maybe it isn’t, but guilt doesn’t care about truth. It just sits in your chest and rots.

In a way, I don’t just yearn for my mother. I yearn for my village, my country - my home.

El Salvador used to be my sanctuary; everyone knew everyone, and I took comfort in that.

Oh boy, you should’ve seen it- before it was controlled by warlords and drugs, El Salvador was beautiful. The sun would never just rise - it would spill, gold and honey syrup would color the trees. The rooftops were painted in colors honoring our traditional dances, always smelling like roasted maiz and damp earth. Chickens, roosters, and street dogs roamed the dirt roads like they owned them. Street kids, abuelos, and abuleitas smiled at you whenever you walked by.

Funny, isn’t it? I used to think I didn’t belong. That I needed makeup, movies, and malls to matter. But I did belong. With mango juice running down my chin. In muddy feet and half-broken roads. In my mother’s off-key singing and old women blessing me in the streets. Truthfully, I didn’t just lose my mom. I left the only place that I ever truly belonged. Mango juice, coffee plants, muddy feet- and all.