Do I spend more time thinking about the past or the future?
I don’t think it’s a conscious choice. Some places stay with you. Some losses make you look ahead more carefully.
Venezuela is one of those places.
My oldest son was born there. His father and his father’s family are Venezuelan. When my son was born there, it was the most beautiful place you can imagine. Bella. Muy, muy bella.
There is a saying that you miss your home and its food when you go elsewhere. All I can say is that I didn’t find that to be totally true. Yes, I missed my family. And yes, it was very trying while I was there because of my ex. There is a reason he is an ex, and the Church annulled the wedding. I’ll leave it at that.
There are times when I can smell Venezuela here in the States. It is when the breeze does just so.
The beaches were beautiful, but the people even more so. They were and are very warm people.
I learned many things while I was there. One is that some people think they speak Spanish, but they don’t understand its meaning or its depth. I met another American girl who was learning Spanish there. She didn’t speak it very well, but she was learning the heart of it. Cuide sus palabras.
Many people believe Hispanic culture is male-dominated. That isn’t entirely true. The matriarch often leads the home. Much like in ancient times, the queen mother was the trusted guardian of the king. The confidant.
While I was there, I met many truly wonderful people. One such couple taught me an Italian nursery rhyme, Battiamo le manine. And of course, the Venezuelan nursery rhyme Arepita, arepita, para mamá…
Since socialism took over, I have seen and heard so much. The changes were drastic. When my son wanted to visit his grandparents and learn about the land of his birth, they told him not to come. It was not safe.
There used to be a joke about Colombians wearing their watch on the right arm so motorcycle thieves wouldn’t cut off their left arm as they drove by. Amazingly, I later heard that the shoe was now on Venezuela’s foot.
My son has never seen the place of his birth.
His grandparents came here to visit, and their children would not let them return home. I watched them pray for the socialistic and communistic forces to leave their country so they could return home to the country they love. For years, I witnessed their pain. Their ache.
In this country, we cannot comprehend what it is like to lose everything you have ever known and loved, and be forced into a foreign land, so that you can eat. They prayed constantly to go home. No one came to help. Not until now.
Sadly, my son’s abuelita passed away without ever seeing her homeland again. The place she begged to return to.
It has hurt me to witness their pain through the years. To carry it quietly, alongside them. And now, to see even a small opening gives me a cautious sense of hope.
Now, the people I know are cautious, but also hopeful. There is much work to be done to restore what was once a great nation.
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