A Dream Called Home

by Reyna Grande

  Everywhere I looked was white—the snow, the birch trees, the frozen lakes, the dormant cranberry marshes. I had my very first snowmobile ride, and Nathan had his first sled ride. I also got my wish when the “right” kind of snow fell and Nathan, Cory, and I spent the rest of the day making a giant snowman in his grandmother’s front yard.

  This was middle-class, white America and so unfamiliar to me that it felt like being in another country. I participated in their games, family outings, and activities, but no matter how welcoming they were, a part of me still felt like an outsider. My shyness and insecurity were in hyper mode with all these new people and experiences. I soon found myself desperately craving Mexican food, my comfort food. Carol was a good cook, but I missed the spices, the hot peppers, and the saltiness I was used to. I knew that as soon as I took a break from the mashed potatoes and green bean casseroles and ate some of my own food, I would feel much better.

  As if reading my thoughts, when we got back to Racine, Carol asked me if I wanted to make dinner for the family.

  “Sure,” I said.

  I decided to make chiles rellenos, and we went to the store to buy the ingredients. In Mexico, in L.A., whenever we made chiles rellenos, we roasted the green chili peppers directly over the flames of the gas stove. I panicked when I realized that Carol’s electric stove was not going to allow me to roast my peppers, to cook them the only way I knew how.

  “How about you use the oven?” she suggested.

  I had never roasted peppers in an oven. I didn’t know if it was possible. I was already in an unfamiliar kitchen, in an unfamiliar world, and the last thing I needed was to try to improvise when I was asked to cook dinner for the family, especially when I was already nervous enough about doing it right.

  “It has to be over the flame,” I insisted. “I need fire. Do you have a barbecue grill?”

  “I do,” she said. “But you’re going to go out there in the cold?”

  “Yes, it’s the only way,” I said.

  She sent her husband to pull the grill, which they hadn’t used since the summer, out of the garage, while I bundled up from head to toe, preparing to go outside in the freezing cold. I spent half an hour shivering in the snow, roasting the peppers on the grill while Carol watched me from the window. I swore I heard her laughing.

  Finally, the peppers were roasted. I peeled them and stuffed them with cheese, made the creamy tomato sauce, cooked the rice, and finally announced that dinner was ready.

  “It all looks beautiful,” Carol said as she passed the chiles rellenos around on a platter. And to my relief, they ate them all.

  When our break was over and it was time to leave, I found myself not wanting to go back to L.A. I could picture us living in one of those beautiful two-story Victorian houses, which cost the same as my tiny two-bedroom house in South Central. We could live near the lake, close to Carol, Andrew, and the adorable grandmas.

  Reyna’s first snowman

  Reyna and Nathan’s first sled ride

  “Wouldn’t you want to live here again?” I asked Cory as we were packing our things.

  “Not really,” Cory said. “I’m happy where we live. I like our home.”

  He had always referred to the South Central house as “your house.” This time, at hearing him say “our home,” I didn’t feel so bad about leaving Racine and going back to Los Angeles, to the place that had never quite felt like home to me, but now did.

  42

  Reyna at her publication party for Across a Hundred Mountains

  ON JUNE 20, 2006, my dream finally came true. I became a published author, and by doing so I began a lifelong quest to advocate for the Mexican immigrant community by sharing our stories with the world, and using art to build bridges.

  Publishers Weekly gave Across a Hundred Mountains a starred review. People magazine said it was “elegantly written, a timely and riveting read.” The El Paso Times called it a “breathtaking debut.” The following year, it would win an American Book Award. I couldn’t have been more elated—and relieved. The critics loved it, and now I had to go out and find readers who would care to read it.

  I swore I would do everything in my power to honor the opportunity I had been given, not just for me, but for all those writers of color out there who hadn’t been as fortunate.

  At my publication party at Skylight Books in Los Feliz, I gathered with my family and friends, colleagues, and the Emerging Voices community, and it felt like a birth of sorts—we were welcoming my first book into the world.

  I thought about what that editor had once said, No one is going to care . . . But as I looked at my friends and family in the audience—my mother, my siblings, my nieces and nephews, Diana, Cory, Nathan, Jenoyne, the EV fellows and the program director—I pushed those thoughts away, and with a deep breath I began my reading by saying, “Thank you for being here, for listening, for caring.”

  And as I held my book in my hands, feeling its comforting weight, its thick cover as sturdy as concrete walls, the words on the page lined up like rows and rows of bricks, my name in capital letters stretched across the cover, I realized what I had done.

  I had finally built a home that I could carry.

  Reyna with her first book, Across a Hundred Mountains

  My publisher scheduled several readings for me in cities across the country, and I experienced the famous book tour I had heard so much about: the airplanes, the hotels, the cities, the literary escorts my publisher hired to pick me up at the airport. When I spotted them holding up a sign with the name “GRANDE” on it, I would rush up to them saying “I’m here! It’s me!” feeling that it was all a dream.

  The reading that was the most special to me was at UC, Santa Cruz. My creative writing teacher, Micah, gave me the wonderful news that Across a Hundred Mountains had been chosen as the Freshman Read for the Kresge and Porter College students. She invited me to do a presentation of my book in the fall of 2006.

  Exactly ten years after I had first journeyed to Santa Cruz to pursue my degree, I made my journey north once again.

  I brought my mother with me to help with Nathan, and since she and Betty rarely saw each other, I figured it would be good for her to spend time with her youngest daughter. Betty and Omar were now living in Watsonville, working full-time and raising my nephew. Spending the day with Betty and my mother made this trip extra special. To my relief, there was no awkwardness between Betty and me. As my sister had once said, she had nothing to forgive me for, and she had meant it.

  We went to campus early so that I could have time to walk among the redwoods and revisit the place that had been my home.

  “How do you feel about tonight?” Betty asked as we made our way to the venue.

  “Excited and nervous,” I said. The presentation at UCSC was special because not only was I presenting for my first time at my alma mater, but this was the first time my book had been assigned as required reading. Across a Hundred Mountains had been released three months earlier, but I still didn’t feel comfortable onstage.

  “You’ll be great,” Betty said.

  When the lights dimmed, I couldn’t really see the faces in the audience. Micah called me up to the stage, and I glanced at my mother and Betty sitting off to the side with the boys on their laps. My sister gave me a smile of encouragement. My mother looked just as scared as I was.

  As I walked up to the stage, my stomach began to hurt, my jaw tightened. What was I doing there? Who did I think I was to speak to an audience of 350 students? What if they didn’t understand my story or didn’t care for it? I wanted to run out and hide among the redwood trees. But then I thought of Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston and remembered how much meeting her had meant to me. Once upon a time, I had been a student in the audience. Sitting on those chairs was a student like me needing to be encouraged, wanting to hear my message.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m honored to be with you today here in Santa Cruz, where it all began for me.”

  When I finished, the
students applauded, and I was escorted to the table to sign books. My mother and Betty sat next to me as I signed book after book for the next forty minutes. Some students, especially the handful of Latinos in attendance, thanked me. One young woman said, “Thank you for writing your story. You’ve inspired me to keep fighting for my dreams.”

  It was then that I knew my struggle had been worth it.

  My mother’s lack of English kept her from understanding most of what I had said during my presentation, but she was impressed by the size of the audience. “They all read your book, Reyna?” she asked as I finished signing the very last book of the night.

  “Yes,” I said. “It was required reading.”

  As we drove to the hotel, my mother kept talking about all those books I had just signed. I was glad that she got to share that moment with me. I longed to bring her into my world. I wished she would tell me she was proud of me. But neither she nor my father had ever said that to me, just as no one had said it to them.

  Then, something magical happened in the car—my mother began to ask me questions like those the students had just asked me. In the car, I did a Q&A session in Spanish just for her.

  “Reyna, when did you start writing?”

  “Why did you want to be a writer?”

  “Why did you write Across a Hundred Mountains?”

  “How long did it take you to write the book?”

  “Where do you get your inspiration?”

  I looked out the window and wiped away the tears that were gathering in my eyes. Finally, for the first time in my life, my mother sat next to me and, with undivided attention, listened to my story.

  One lazy Sunday morning, not long after my trips came to an end, I said to Cory, “Want to play Scrabble?”

  He shrugged and said, “Sure.” We sat down with the board between us and grabbed our tiles. I loved the feel of the smooth tiles, the challenge of arranging and rearranging letters to find the right word, and placing the word in just the right place on the board. At the end of each game, I loved looking at the board to see how the words connected to tell a story. Every game we played was different, unique. It was a perfect game for a writer. I especially liked the surprise of seeing what letters I would get every time my hand went into the bag. Scrabble was so similar to what I knew of life—sometimes you get great letters, sometimes you get bad ones, but either way, you have to do your best with what you’ve been given.

  After a few turns, I put my hand in the bag to grab my tiles, and was shocked to find not just letters, but a diamond ring, nestled in my palm. I stared at it, wondering what a ring was doing in the tile bag. Where had it come from? What did it mean?

  Cory got up from his chair, knelt down before me, and said, “Will you marry me?”

  “Wait. What?” I asked.

  Cory took the ring from my palm and held it between his fingers. “Reyna Grande, will you marry me?” he asked again.

  I was wearing an old robe, hadn’t even showered or brushed my hair yet, but I didn’t care how I looked and neither did Cory. This was the moment I had dreamed of the last three years.

  “Yes!” I said. I threw myself into his arms and clung to him, unable to believe that soon I would call this man my husband. “You amaze me,” I said as he put the ring on my finger. “You really do.”

  “You amaze me, too,” he said.

  “How long has that ring been in the bag?” I couldn’t remember when we had last played.

  “Two weeks.”

  “What? Why didn’t you ask me to play earlier? We could have been engaged two weeks ago!”

  He shook his head, smiling. “I needed you to ask for a game,” he said. “It had to be you.”

  “What if I hadn’t asked today? It could have been months!” I said.

  “Well, good thing it was only two weeks then.”

  With joy, we continued our game. We took turns putting down a word, and then another, and then another, laying the foundation for our new life together, one word at a time.

  Epilogue

  Reyna with her family, 2008

  WHILE PREPARING FOR our wedding, Cory and I learned that I was pregnant. So when our wedding day arrived in August 2007, I had a baby bump showing under my wedding dress.

  Though my dream of being a published author had come true, I was still determined to continue my education and hone my writer’s craft. While I was planning my wedding, I was also working on my master of fine arts degree in creative writing. I was four weeks from giving birth when I walked onstage to receive my second university diploma. My father attended the graduation, and this time, I did not give any humiliating speeches about him.

  In January 2008, two days before Cory’s thirty-second birthday, our daughter, Eva Alana, was born. He said it was the best gift he had ever gotten. My daughter was three weeks old when she began to travel with me for my author presentations. At this point, she’s a pro at traveling. By pursuing my career, I hope to teach Eva to be an independent woman and not to let herself be defined by being someone’s daughter or sister, mother or wife. I want her to know that it is possible to be those things while still belonging to herself.

  My daughter is now the same age I was when I crossed the border and entered the U.S. I look at her and wonder: Would my own child survive what I survived? I don’t know. What I do know is that if I were put in my father’s place, I would do the same thing. I would risk everything for my children. Knowing that Eva and Nathan will be spared what I went through gives me the strength to look to the future with hope. I want for them what I have managed to have—an education, a successful career, a good home, a life lived to the fullest—without the heartache that it took me to get those things.

  In 2010, my father was diagnosed with liver cancer. That final year of his life was difficult for us all. But it was that very year when my dream of being together for the holidays came true—my father invited all of us to his house for Thanksgiving. He put a lot of effort into preparing his very first turkey, marinating it for twenty-four hours in orange juice and herbs, and when he served it to us, it was served with love. My siblings and I marveled at how delicious the turkey was. We enjoyed every bite. But it turned out my father had never heard of a meat thermometer, so the next day, we all got diarrhea. My siblings and I would laugh about this for years to come.

  When my father died in 2011, I found solace in my writing. Though he is gone, I can bring him back to life again and again in the stories I write about him. The words I put on the page allow me to get to know him in a way I never could while he was alive. In my writing, my father lives on.

  In 2016, Cory and I moved our family to Northern California. Leaving Los Angeles after almost thirty years of residing there was bittersweet. We finally bought a dream house, a beautiful two-story Victorian like the house Cory grew up in. How many words would it take to get my dream house? I had often wondered. Over half a million words, and more to be written.

  My siblings and I grew up dreaming of a loving, stable home. Our journeys to making such a home were long and difficult, but one way or another, despite the obstacles we encountered in life, we have managed to build a good life and a better future for ourselves and our families. We are what my father wanted us to be, hardworking and self-sufficient. Our priority now is teaching our children how to be those things, too.

  Though it has taken ninteen years since my college graduation from UCSC, I’m proud that the next generation of college graduates in the Grande family is on its way. My nieces Natalia and Nadia are studying at a four-year university. My niece Alexa and my nephew Randy are both in community college with plans to transfer to a four-year university. My niece Sophia, her brother Carlitos, and my son, Nathan, are now in high school, on their way to college. And of course, there is my little girl, Eva, and Betty’s two youngest children, Ryan and Leilani, who are in elementary school, with their futures ahead of them. Maybe one of them will follow in my footsteps and end up in Santa Cruz. I dream that one day my children or g
randchildren will come visit me and give me a T-shirt that says UCSC MOM or UCSC GRANDMA. I would wear it with pride.

  I continue to write for the same reason I first put pen to paper when I was thirteen years old—to remember, to understand, to give meaning to my experiences as a Mexican immigrant and woman of color. I have been blessed with a successful writing career, have won awards, shared the stage with authors I admire, and published my work internationally. But what I am most proud of is that my books have landed in the hands of thousands of young people, whom I hope to provide with a little inspiration for their own journeys. I wish to tell them: “Yes, the Dream still exists, despite those who have tried to take it away from us. It is worth fighting for.”

  Now more than ever, I am determined to write, and encourage others to write, stories that celebrate the resilience and tenacity of the millions of immigrants in the U.S. who fight every day for their dreams, for their right to remain, for their stories to matter.

  I hope that by telling our stories we will help make the U.S. a place where we value our commonalities and respect our differences, where we celebrate the diversity that makes this country strong and unique, where every one of us—regardless of where we come from—knows that we belong.

  And that we are enough.

  Acknowledgments

  An important lesson I learned as a young woman was to surround myself with people who believe in me. I took that lesson to heart and continue to practice it to this day. Who would I be without the people who have come into my life and, through their love and encouragement, have helped me reach my dreams? This book is my latest dream, a dream that was made into a reality by the people who I now wish to thank.

  My lovely editor, Johanna Castillo, and the whole team at Atria Books, and my tenacious literary agent, Adriana Dominguez at Full Circle Literary. Thank you both for believing in this book and helping me bring it into existence.