In October 2012, I boarded a flight from JFK to Madrid. Most of the way there, I stared dreamily from the window, wondering how my mom would be different. How her life had shifted since that Christmas I’d traveled to Colombia. How she was faring in a new country. So many years had passed since our last meeting that I felt like I was going to see a stranger. Mami had agreed to meet me in baggage claim. The woman who showed up there that evening was not the mom I remembered.
I wheeled my suitcase through the sliding doors leading to the waiting area. “Diane!” I heard. “Over here!” Mami and her girlfriend, another Colombian woman, were both waving and rushing toward me. Is that her? I thought. Before I could get a great look, she darted forward and threw her arms around me. “Oh, princess!” she said, squeezing me long and hard. “It’s been so long!” I backed up, blinked back the tears, and gazed at her. Oh my Lord. My mother’s nose was different. Completely.
Back when our family was still together, Mami had often mentioned wanting a nose job. “You don’t need one,” I’d told her. “I like your nose the way it is.” I’d always thought it was pretty and distinguished, large and with an arched bridge. As a small child, I remember reaching up to touch it, and I thought it had a certain elegance to it. For as long as I can remember, she’d called it her “witch nose.” At some point during all those years while I was busy ignoring her calls, she’d gotten the surgery. I stood there and gawked at her. Her nose wasn’t like Michael Jackson–style different; it had just lost its big arch. She was also fit, tanned, and toned, like she’d been hitting the gym daily. She was wearing a pair of dark-wash Levi’s and a cute blouse. Her hair was a little more gray than I’d remembered, and yet it was long and still shiny. Her complexion glowed as if she was seven years younger, not older. She looked happy, happier than I’d ever seen her in Colombia.
Fresh tears welled up in my eyes. “You got your nose done,” I said. “Wow.”
“Yes, I did,” she said proudly. “A few years ago.”
Seeing how much my mother had changed made me painfully aware of just how many years I’d locked her out. How much of each other’s lives we’d missed. How weak I’d allowed our mother-daughter bond to become. She’d made this big decision to change her nose, and I’d had no part in it, nor any awareness of it. Her life had moved on without me in it. It hit me that we had no real relationship anymore, only the shadow of a former one. That realization made me feel so lonely—not just on my behalf but also on hers.
Mami reached up to hug me again and held me even more tightly than before. “It’s okay, baby girl,” she said. “I’m here now.”
From that first moment in the airport, it was clear to me that I wasn’t there to reconnect with the mom who’d raised me; I was there to get acquainted with the person she’d grown into since. Nothing about her life in Madrid resembled the one she had had in Colombia. For starters, she owned a car, one of those budget European models that looks like a toy. After we loaded my suitcase into the tiny trunk, I climbed into the front seat next to Mami and went back to staring. Her side profile made her look even more different than she did face-on.
“Let’s get outta here,” she said, revving up the engine, turning on the radio, and speeding from the lot. She seemed so independent. So in charge of herself. So spirited and sassy as she zipped through the streets. The last time I’d seen my mother drive, I was a kid; in Colombia, she had gotten around by bike. So it was the weirdest thing, all these years later, to see my mother behind the wheel. She changed lanes with confidence, glancing back and forth between the road and me.
“So how have you been, my love?” she asked.
“Good, I guess,” I told her.
“Should we stop by the grocery store and pick up anything special for you to eat this evening?” she asked. “I’ve already made your favorite, frijoles y arrocito.”
“That should be plenty,” I said. “Thanks.”
As Mom curved from one road to the next, I peered out at the city. The place reminded me a bit of New York. Cosmopolitan. Sidewalks overflowing with people. Little cafés with outdoor dining. The architecture, however, made it uniquely Madrid. Gothic churches and basilicas all over the place. Beautifully maintained plazas and squares. Mami lived on the outskirts of the city, and about half an hour into our drive (and after we’d dropped off her friend for an appointment in the city), we at last pulled into my mother’s parking lot. “Here we are,” she said, yanking up the emergency brake. “It’s not much, but it’s home.” Inside, the one-bedroom was bare-bones—a couch, a table with two chairs, and her queen bed and dresser in the bedroom—yet by comparison to Mami’s previous homes in Colombia, it was quiet and it was all hers. The walls were mostly bare, but she had a school photo of me, at age seven, hanging at the center of one of them. I had this wide grin with three front teeth missing. I cringed when I noticed it. I no longer knew that little girl.
Mami still had to work long hours while I was in town, but we spent as much time together as we could. She took me to dinner one night. To a museum one day. And later in the trip, to a flamenco show. I spent a lot of the trip in awe that she had built a life for herself here. I think about it now, and that was probably because any recent memories I had of my mother were of her nervous, scared, and in hiding. There was no need to hide here, and no one was giving her any charity.
A couple of years earlier, she’d gotten a job at a farm, taking care of animals. It didn’t pay much, but it was far more than she could earn back in her country, and it was enough to cover her rent. It had also given her back this spirit of independence, this spark I was noticing in her. She wasn’t just surviving in Madrid; she seemed to be thriving. At long last, she’d regained control of her life. How Mami got her groove back—I liked it.
I hadn’t expected the trip to be a Hallmark reunion, but it was more difficult than I thought it would be. Just as my mother had changed, so had I. And that meant we clashed quite a bit. When you haven’t seen someone in years, you have to literally relearn the person, figure out what makes him or her angry, scared, ticked off. And as we made those adjustments, silly tensions arose. “Diane, your food is getting cold.” Mami would direct. “Can you not tell me what to do?” I’d shoot back. “I’m not a kid anymore.”
Then as the days went on, she frequently wanted to reminisce about my childhood, about the old days. “You remember how you used to play out in the backyard with Dana and Gabriela while I was cooking?” she asked.
“Of course I do,” I snapped, “but that was a long time ago, Mami.” In her mind’s eye, those experiences were as vivid as if they’d happened the day before; and as I’d drifted further from her, she’d held those memories all the closer and more tightly. But for me, the recollections were like old faded photos, ones I’d long since replaced with all the moments that came after. Mami knew little of that life—and her mention of the previous one we’d shared brought up so much anguish for me.
Some of our moments together might’ve been tough, but many others were sweet. “My muzzy,” I’d call my mother. She loved that. During our time together, I’d make her laugh by taking on a Spanish accent and imitating people around us. We took selfies all around the city. It was just me and Mama. I would make up little sketches on the street where I would pretend to be a Spanish reporter interviewing her about whatever monument or church we were in front of. Slowly, my memory of all the great times we’d shared began to come back. Even when I was little, my mother would indulge all my kooky shenanigans and let me play with her for hours. I remembered. Mama, I loved you and you loved me. I was your little girl and you were my favorite.
We filled our evenings with conversation, but seldom on any subject too painful for me to confront. She had figured out that I was not ready to discuss everything; it was still too raw for me. That changed four nights before the end of my trip. Over a bottle of Pinot Grigio, the two of us sat near each other on her couch—and it was the first time I had ever shared a drink with my mother. Mami,
a little tipsy, started talking about the deportation.
“That whole time was so horrible for me,” she said. “The prison was dirty. I couldn’t communicate with your father. I couldn’t eat or sleep…”
As she spoke, my blood pressure rose. I sat up and cut her off.
“You know what, Mami?” I shouted. “I don’t want to hear another thing about how hard things were for you!”
Mami, caught off guard by my anger, stood. “What are you talking about, Diane?”
“You don’t even know how hard things were for me!” I shouted. “It’s always about you, isn’t it? You, you, you!”
Tears came pouring out. “You abandoned me!” I howled, standing to point my forefinger right in her face. The words, ones I’d never uttered aloud, came from some unknown place inside of me, with a fire and a fury that surprised me. “You destroyed our family!” I screamed. “I hate you!”
Mami widened her eyes, and then all at once, she too began to cry. She tried to pull me into her arms, and I resisted. But I was weeping so hard I couldn’t keep my body stiff. I finally gave in to her pull and buried my face in her bosom.
“Diane, I never wanted to leave you!” Mami wailed. “I did everything I could to stay with you! Everything! I never meant to hurt you!”
Mami embraced me for the longest time, rubbing my back and swaying me from side to side as if I was again her baby. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Please forgive me.”
I’d spent nearly a decade making my mother wrong. I blamed her for deserting me. For taking the kinds of chances that put her at greater risk for deportation. For vanishing from my life at the very moment when I most craved her love, her care, her attention. And on that afternoon when I’d watched her wave good-bye through the back bars of a paddy wagon, I’d made a choice, one I wasn’t conscious of. In the quietness of my heart, I’d decided that no apology Mami could later offer would be sufficient. No explanation would be enough for me to let go of the deep bitterness toward her that I carried in my belly. I’d built a barrier from that rage, a partition so thick and so high that no one could peer around it. My mother might’ve left that detention center in 2001, but for years after, I’d held her a prisoner, the person most responsible for my heartache. I’d rendered her unforgivable, and in so doing, I’d also locked away myself. A part of my soul. And any hope that she and I would ever live at peace. That night, in the dim light of my mother’s living room, I made the choice to free us both.
On my last day in Madrid, Mami drove me with her to the farm. When she turned on the radio, a familiar ballad by Cristian Castro called “Por Amarte Así” came on, and after we sang it together for a half minute, I stopped.
“What’s the matter?” Mami asked me.
“Nothing,” I said.
“What is it?” she pressed.
“This song takes me back,” I told her. Before she was deported for the last time, Mami would often spruce up my bedroom, just to make things nice for me. I’d come home from school to find yummy burning candles flickering, and sometimes she’d even have a little present waiting. One afternoon, I spotted Castro’s CD, Mi Vida Sin Tu Amor, propped up on my pillow. I fell in love with that album and listened to it so often that I almost broke it. Until we heard Castro’s song on the radio, I’d nearly forgotten Mami’s gift all those years earlier. I’d carefully buried away the memory along with countless others.
“I’ve missed you so much, Mami,” I told her.
“I’ve missed you too, darling,” she said.
I cried the whole flight home. The sweet old woman seated next to me kept handing me tissues. “It’s okay, dear,” she repeated. “Everything will be fine.” These weren’t tears of sadness; they were tears of release. Of freedom. Of healing. Of recognition. My mother had been dealt a whole hand of wild cards in life. She’d played them as well as she could, and, in so doing, she’d managed something far braver than I ever might’ve attempted at her age. I had not yet learned to fully accept my reality, as she had been forced to. Even still, my mother has never been a bitter person. I’m amazed at her great spirit and her ability to soldier on in any challenge life presents her with.
With a heart still burdened from a level of loss and grief I’d wish upon no one, Mami mustered the courage, with Eric on her hip, to set out for a foreign land. A nation where she didn’t speak the language. A country that provided a haven from the poverty and violence and despair she was desperate to flee. Along the way, she fell down, got up, and then toppled to her knees again. But in the end, she always got up. She crawled back to her feet. She stood. And she deserved not my contempt but my deepest admiration.
* * *
It was time for me to get a new manager. My breakthrough with Mami had freed up this huge space inside me, and with my spirit so much lighter, I was eager to move ahead with my work. The Susan Batson Studio hosted showcases, and there, managers and agents could show up and evaluate our work. As soon as I returned from Madrid, I signed myself up for one and began searching for a monologue to present. I settled on one about a girl who had a troubled childhood, married young, and later became a meth addict. When I read the piece for Susan (yes, the real Susan Batson!), she told me, “This is a nice choice for you. It has a lot of dimension to it.” She gave me a couple of pointers, and later that week, I gave a powerful enough performance, if I do say so myself. Josh Taylor, an agent from VAMNation Entertainment, was there that day.
“That was amazing,” Josh said to me afterward. “Can we talk?”
“Sure,” I said, blushing, as he handed me his card. A week later, I was in his office discussing the possibility of him representing me; I showed up wearing a cropped top, ripped stockings, and platform boots. I looked like a homeless person, but thankfully, Josh didn’t seem to notice. “I think you’re very talented,” he told me. “I think I can find you work.” Frankly, I didn’t know if he was boosting my ego or being serious, but either way, the encouragement felt good after months of being told I wasn’t pretty enough. Talented enough. Experienced. So within days of our meeting, I started working with him.
At his word, Josh began sending me out on auditions immediately; and in between auditions, he often checked up on me. “How you holding up?” he’d call and ask. Many weeks, there’d be no auditions. The thing is, when casting directors don’t know your work, they rarely want to even see you. And no matter how much your manager tells them “She’s fantastic,” they roll their eyes and keep it moving. So during my downtime, I also kept tracking down my own opportunities on websites like Backstage, and of course, on CC: Creeper Craigslist. When none of those roles worked out, I began wondering if I should change my direction. Maybe I should go back to school for theater, I thought. Maybe I need some serious training. In the meantime, I auditioned myself silly.
You name it, I tried out for it—from series like Glee, to procedural dramas such as Law & Order. I’d go into these auditions, wait by the phone for days, hear nothing—and later discover I’d been up against a real celeb. I once got beat out for a part by none other than Nina Dobrev from The Vampire Diaries. Excuse me, but how did it make any sense that I was even up for that role? No clue. Casting will assure you they want a “fresh face,” only for you to later see that the name got it instead. So I’d go into these auditions thinking, Whatever—I’m sure I have no shot, and in a way, that eased the pressure. In retrospect, I now realize this whole process was part of what it means to become an actor. You’ve gotta put the time in. You’ve gotta get out there and show casting directors who you are, and even if they don’t hire you initially, they might circle back and ask to see you down the line. I know that now. You couldn’t have convinced me of that then.
I was cast in an episode of Are We There Yet?—the TV series (based on the 2005 movie) created by Ice Cube. That was over-the-moon exciting. I then got a central role (!) in an indie film called Emoticon;). The movie wasn’t huge, but they paid me around a hundred dollars a day to film. That’s real money. Plu
s, I got to travel to Mexico for some of the shooting. I also did this small part in a movie called My Man Is a Loser with John Stamos. So a little at a time, I was building up my SAG credits and making a (small) name for myself. At least I was working and putting in the hours. “It’s only a matter of time before people are really going to get on the Diane Guerrero wagon,” Josh always told me. “Just hang in there. Bigger opportunities will come along. You have to build toward that.”
One week after I’d been turned down by a fresh slew of casting directors, Josh sent me a text. “There’s this part I want you to try out for,” he wrote. “It’s a prison series, so don’t wear any makeup for the audition, and have your hair messy. Keep it as real and natural as possible.” He mentioned that it was an Internet thing, and since my big dream was to be on TV and in the movies, I wasn’t exactly impressed. But who had time or money to be picky? Ha, not me! Remember, I wasn’t above CC: Creeper Craigslist.
Josh e-mailed me the sides that evening so I could begin to work on it. The character was a girl named Maritza, a spunky, tough ghetto girl whose bad choices have landed her behind bars. In the scene, Maritza is running for prison government, and she gets into a scuffle with her best friend, Flaca. At the end of it, she pops off with a smart-ass couple of lines: “Vote for Maritza if you want more pizza! Vote for Flaca, she’s full of caca!” How silly, I thought. It’s a Web series? Do people watch those?
The day of the audition, I called my papi with the secret intention of getting a pep talk. “I’m getting really discouraged by everything,” I told him. “It’s so hard to keep going out on all these stupid tryouts.”
“You can’t give up so easily, chibola,” he told me. “You’re doing your best, right? And that’s all you can do. Something is going to work out. Trust me.”
In the Country We Love Page 20
