Malibu Barbie

The time: Summer of 1985. The setting: El Paso, Texas—a small apartment on the Spanish-speaking side of town. I had just turned five. All I could think of was the Malibu Barbie that my parents had promised me for quite some time. I remember the day so vividly as the sun was beaming through our small ventana—I mean, window, into the main living space of my family’s apartment. I can still smell the tacos del pastor that dad had been preparing for my fiesta. His smile ignited a light within my soul just like el sol through la ventana. Mami seemed stressed- I could tell by her keen sense of urgency—an urgency that even a toddler would be able to observe and soak in like the wrinkled skin under her eyes.

The fiesta had started. There was a with a red and white picnic cloth on the table that sat in the middle of the kitchen. As my friends arrived, I was so excited! Mami greeted all of the madres as she put all of the presents on la mesa. All of the padres/fathers went into the kitchen to help my papi con la comida. They always commenced a celebration by popping open a modelo especial followed by, “salud.” A las mujeres/women, they praised with woo.

My celebration had begun with a sense of joy hovering over the room. After the feast, then came the regalos/presents. All eyes were on me as I made my way through all of the wrapped boxes. It was as if I was on a marathon to find Malibu Barbie—a dream at the age of five. A dream of being white and taking in a sky wrapped in sun; enjoying a life without worries nor doubts. As I searched through my memories just as I had for that box as a child, I could not detect the present in which my mind had been set.

The time: Winter of 2015. The setting: El Paso, Texas—the same small apartment on the Spanish-speaking side of town. I had just turned thirty (and a half.) I felt as if I was a flower that had never found its bloom. Daddy had died fourteen years ago. And Mami, well, mami had taken in so many rays and had blossomed into a rose that was about to fade. A withering soul in which too much sun/sol had prevented her from the shade.

That night, as I began to move with urgency, that of which my mother had taught me, I decided to take a walk. I opened the door and in the midst of the gloomy sky, I sat there in utter surprise. Only to find a light seeping through the confines of a mysterious box. “Mami,” I cried “What is this?” “Open it,” she said. And as I brought the box inside, her body ceased to exist. As I was falling apart, devastated by this loss, the box withered away. And as the box disappeared, I saw from the rear, the same ray of light that had appeared on the day I had just turned five. I could hear the words of pappi! “Mija, we couldn’t afford your doll this year, but I promise you, the love you feel here is something much dearer. You will receive your gift in your coming years.” I would never understood why my wish was not their command, but suddenly, I finally had.

That night, 2015, in El Paso Texas I endured pain, unsettlement. And with that, I would never forget the present mis padres granted me. True soul/sol can never be trapped inside of a mysterious box. It’s seeped within the depths of our existing love—in this case the ones who live, with a physical loss, just like the faded box. The true gifts are the memories not lost.