48 Village Away – Janet Vargas-Fritts

Village Away

Reading has captivated my heart since I was a mere six years old. I fell deeply in love with the wonderful stories brought upon by a pencil and paper. I would describe reading as a world where imagination is seemingly endless, and our curiosity is granted freedom to flow in all sorts of interactive directions. My willingness to become a reader was a struggle at first. As with most children, I felt it was difficult to read aloud a new story where the wording was just too complex for my comprehension. Throughout my life, it was difficult for me to escape this thought process. It took many twists and turns to get my love for reading to expand.

My story begins when I was six years old. I was living in the small town of Richmond, Indiana, where nothing ever happened. At age six, I was typically found wearing just about any tomboy-styled clothing I was capable of finding. I wore baggy jeans, large shirts, hats, etc. This all came together well with my short structure, but it’s not something I look back on in fond memory. Most things that didn’t involve running around outside or playing with friends felt challenging at this age, reading in particular. In spite of my enjoyment of having stories read aloud to me by teachers, family members, or even special guests, I just couldn’t prioritize learning them alone. I would stay up every night waiting for my mother to come into my light blue bedroom. My mother was an incredible woman. She had the most beautiful white smile that contrasted perfectly with her light brown skin. Her dark brown shoulder-length hair allowed for a warm invitation to strangers as they saw her as a sweet young woman. Every room she went into she left a feeling of warmth and comfort in pursuit. She would sit upon my bed whilst I was moments away from falling further into a deep slumber. As this occurred, she read to me the stories that she knew both my siblings and I loved. My mother always had a way of bringing these stories to life and captivating the attention of everyone that was around. It didn’t matter who you were, where you came from, or how old you were, if my mother was performing a story, you were captivated and listened to every word. My mother loved to reenact any Dr. Seuss book she could find. If she saw one at the store that she did not yet own, she would immediately pick it up for purchase. My mother would always tell us that the simplicity of a book allows for a field of freedom for the reader. She adored Dr. Seuss’s work while we adored seeing her eyes light up each time she read it aloud.

I remember looking up at her as my eyes would slowly slip shut, while she continued to play these characters for me. As I fell asleep, her voice quieted and quieted and for me this was the most peaceful part of her nighttime storytelling. The opportunity to fall asleep to her voice knowing she was nearby and present if I were to be in need was extremely comforting. She would often end every story with a word of advice. The particular one I find myself recalling to this day was a quote from John Lennon, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

My mother did the best she could to hide the harsh reality of the world from her children. Although she attempted to do this for years, no one is truly able to stay blind to the world’s truth forever. One morning in 2010, when I was seven years old, I was informed my mother was going to be deported to her hometown in Mexico. I recall the moment almost as if it had happened yesterday. I got off of the school bus after a long day of studying where I was greeted by my Aunt Nancy. Looking back, this should have been the first red flag I noticed, but instead, I was just grateful to be home.

Because the bus stop was around a block away from my home, we had to walk to my house. The walk was terribly quiet. My aunt only spoke Spanish, while I at the time was unable to speak the language. This caused a barrier between the two of us, so we never had much of a relationship. We passed alongside the empty houses and drug addicts that flooded our neighborhood before arriving at the front door of my childhood home. Once I got inside the door, I noticed my older sisters to the side crying while my father sat at our dining room table. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I knew it wasn’t good. I could see in my fathers’ eyes that he was trying to keep a brave face for all of us kids, but we could tell that he was breaking. It was a rare occasion that I ever saw my father show an ounce of emotion. This was rough on my upbringing, but especially rough in this situation as I felt there was no one to turn to. I knew my father’s love was there, but the lack of communication was undeniable. He proceeded to call me into the room alone where I sat at the table awaiting an answer. “Your mother is going to be going away for a while. I’m not sure how long, but Nancy will be here every day to watch you after school while I work. I’m going to have to pick up more hours since we’ll need the money.” I don’t remember what I said in response. All I can recall were the tears flooding my eyes.

Living with my aunt was difficult. I had almost no relationship with an adult since my father was constantly working and I had no possible communication with my Aunt Nancy. Of course, this was not purposeful, but in a sense, I almost was raising myself.

As a seven-year-old, I hadn’t an understanding of what deportation meant. In my mind, my mother was just going away for a few days. No one explained to the seven-year-old what was going on, as it felt it was almost too real for someone of that age to take on headfirst. When my mother left, I was heartbroken. I didn’t know what it meant to be deported. I thought for months that I was the reason she had left. Perhaps she did not enjoy reading these stories to us anymore? Maybe that’s why she had fled? It was the only possible scenario I was able to come up with at the time. This is when my hatred for reading slowly began. I felt that reading was the sole purpose my mother was taken from me, and I had no say or control over how to fix this situation.

A few days turned into a few months. A few months became a few years, and before I knew it, I was ten years old with no mother still. At this point, it became necessary for me to read as it was a curriculum at school, which I now dreaded going to. I hated having to go to school and hear the teacher attempt to read a book like my mother had. Although I loved the stories, the feeling of comfort was not there. The love and warmth my mother gave me was missing when hearing these stories fall from another’s lips. I had extraordinarily little contact with my mother since the time of her deportation. Still, three years later, I had no legitimate answer as to why she left. At the age of ten, rather than blaming reading, I came to the false conclusion that perhaps it was not the books, it was not the reading, it was me. I was the reason my mother had left.

I made it my purpose from that day forward to do whatever I could to get her to come back. I thought to myself that maybe if I became as good of a reader, or as exhilarating of a writer as she was, then maybe she would be so incredibly impressed that she couldn’t help but to return. I asked my teacher at the time, Miss Jackson, if it would be possible for me to stay after school and strengthen my performance in both my reading and writing skills. Of course, as I was failing these two subjects with an F, she thought this was an excellent idea. Miss Jackson remains my favorite teacher to this date. She was a young educator with a heart of gold for every single student she encountered. She had long brown hair and an incredible personality, which was hard to find in this specific school building. We both worked together to plan out a schedule where we would be able to meet every Wednesday after school. The first few lessons felt like a drag. I would show up and sit endlessly to be lectured on the same subjects I could have done within school hours. I did not want to be there; Miss Jackson knew this all too well. She also knew that I had a purpose and that is what gifted me with the drive to continue. Rather than scolding me for my desire to be at home instead of within the building that consumed me five days a week, she tried to make the learning fun for me. She created games and prizes for every paper I received a 100% on. She would gift me with breaks after thirty minutes of arduous work. She allowed me to draw on the back of my worksheets once I had completed them. She gifted me with a larger drive than I had prior.

I attended every meeting for over six months. My progress within the subjects grew drastically and I slowly, but surely became a better reader and writer. I decided one day that I wanted to put my efforts forward and somehow allow my mother to see the progress I had made. I went home that night and ran up the wooden stairwell to gain access to the room I shared with my sister. I quickly jumped on the bottom bunk (as that was the only option I had being the youngest) and began writing. I wrote endlessly for hours trying to produce the perfect letter. Crumpled paper after crumpled paper I realized how difficult this would be, contrary to my prior belief. Looking back now, had I been slightly easier on myself, I believe I would have had the ability to see that a lot of those crumpled letters were filled with love and affection. Love was the only real thing my mother needed at the time. She did not strive for perfection; she thought writing was a form of self-expression. She felt that was the best way to let yourself be noticed.

Much like Sandra Cisneros states in her publication of “Only Daughter” (2020), “In a sense, everything I have ever written has been for him” (p. 268), she finds herself writing for her father just as I for my mother. I am thankful that I can say my mother has been back since I was eleven years old, and without her, I would not have found my love for reading and writing. I would continue to be on a seemingly endless journey of discovering who I am and what I am meant to be doing. Looking back on her return now, I can see the massive effect it had on me to not have a parental figure. For four years, I raised myself. After my mother returned, it took almost a year for me to open back up and allow her into my life once again. The first moment I saw her after her return, I couldn’t even recognize her as my mother. I was nearly certain we picked up the wrong person. Since that year, she and I have grown an incredible bond with one another, and I find myself sharing every accomplishment I can with her. I go to her with new story ideas and writing prompts every time they come to my mind. She is the first to hear if I have read an exhilarating new publication, and she will often read it afterward so we can discuss it with one another. My mother and I may have lost a few years with one another, but in return, we gained a bond that will last us a lifetime.

Reference

Cisneros, S. (2020). Only daughter. In E. Wardle & D. Downs (Eds.), Writing about writing: For Indiana University East (4th ed., pp. 268-270). Bedford/St. Martin’s.