Miranda Santiago - Epistolary Exchanges
* Would probably be written in Spanish, but for the purpose of translation issues, I will be writing these emails in English *
(1/5)
To: Abuelito
From: Mirandita Lucia
Hi Abuelito. My name is Miranda Santiago, and I am your granddaughter. I’ve heard so much about you; well actually that is a lie. I’ve heard very limited details about you from what my father relays to me during sporadic moments of vulnerability. He never told me your name, so I’ll just call you Abuelito. I would call you Abuelo, but my dad and my Abuelita are pretty short so I’m guessing you were too haha. Therefore, you are Abuelito rather than Abuelitazo. I have so many questions for you, and I don’t even know if it would be okay for me to ask them. They’re pretty invasive questions, I’ll warn you now. They are all the questions that tiny little Miranda very bluntly thought inside her head while she managed to put together the pieces of your existence. I don’t know if you would answer. I don’t even know if you want to be aware of my existence or of my father’s. I don’t know if my father would approve of me even reaching out to you. I’m going to ask them anyway.
Besitos,
Mirandita Lucia
(2/5)
To: Abuelito
From: Mirandita Lucia
Hi Abuelito. It’s me again.
To start, where are you living now? I heard you live in the North, somewhere near Jalisco, but you were born in the South. My dad told me you were the Aztec side of me, which I think is super cool. I’ve always loved exploring my indigenous roots, my grandma is the one who passed on the Mayan ancestors and its always lived in the back of my mind how far back our history goes. You probably know all of this. She would slap me across the face if she knew I was talking to you. Well. I’m assuming. Since you are not a part of the family. Where you ever a part of the family? Like was there any point in which you guys were all one big happy family? Were you there when my father was born? In the room? Or when my Tia Tere was born, or my Tio Pepe? Or any of the six children that you shoved inside my grandmother? Did you love her?
Sinceramente,
Mirandita Lucia
(3/5)
To: Abuelito
From: Mirandita Lucia
Hi Abuelito. I’m sorry if my questions came off as a bit hostile. I’m still unsure of what type of relationship I want to have with you. I don’t know what happened or what you did; all I know is the residual effects you imposed on the current realities of my family. But, I guess before we jump into the juicy stuff (even though I might’ve already done that, oops), I want to know who you are. My dad told me you were a marimba player. One of the best in the entire country of Mexico. He said that people knew you from all over and came to listen to you play with your band. He once told me he walked by you while you were playing in the street as a teenager. He didn’t tell me whether he said hi or if you acknowledged him. Did you even know him? Did you ever have heart-to-heart father-son talks? Did you pass around the soccer ball together? Sorry. I did it again. So, who are your favorite artists? My dad always played Gloria Estefan, Sting, and Djavan when my brother and I were growing up. However, my dad always noted that his music taste came from his own nosy behaviors. He said he used to put his ear against the window of his room, facing directly at the neighbor's kitchen. He said at a particular hour every day, they blasted the radio loud enough for him to listen. Then, he would write down the lyrics and chords. He and my Tio Pepe would then learn them on guitar, jamming together daily like clockwork. I had always wondered where he got his musical talents from.
Responde porfa,
Mirandita Lucia
(4/5)
To: Abuelito
From: Mirandita Lucia
Hi Abuelito. I realized I was asking so many questions about you that I never got the chance to introduce myself properly. Like I said, I’m Miranda. My middle name is Lucia, and I am named after my great-grandma, Lucia. My mom’s grandma, you don't know her. I love that we share that. I’m in my second year of university and studying to become an author. Or maybe a museum curator. Or perhaps law school, but that’s a long shot. I’ve always been fascinated with our history as Mexicans. It is crazy how things went down, you know, all the colonialism, dictatorships, neoliberalism, you probably know. I realized I don’t even know how old you are. You’re probably old as fuck. Pardon my language. Were you around during the Mexican Revolution??? Wait, no, that was a long time ago, and you would be like 100 years old. All that stuff is my jam; you’ll always catch me with loads of books about that stuff. I also love music, which I guess I can thank you for, maybe. I play a bit of guitar, but nothing like my dad and my brother, who are both beasts when it comes to the old Cuban ballads of Pablo Milanes and Silvio Rodriguez. I’m more of their singer and palmero. I studied some jazz singing at Berklee College of Music, which is near where I’m from. Oh, right, I live in the U.S., in a city called Cambridge. I don’t know if you’ve ever ventured out of the country. My guess is that this is not the case since the rest of the family is still struggling to get their visas. It’s extremely cold here in the winter, so my family and I usually come down to San Cristobal during that time. It’s nice, though, with many trees, lovely parks, and cool train stations. I wonder what it would be like if you could stand in my living room. I sometimes imagine you gazing at all my dad's paintings strung across our wooden walls or traversing my room and my brothers’, looking at the stupid boy band posters poorly taped to my wall. God knows what you would think of my mom. I don’t think she would like you.
Abrazos,
Mirandita Lucia
(5/5)
To: Abuelito
From: Mirandita Lucia
Is it stupid that I’m talking to you as if you were still alive? Yeah. I heard. My dad told me last year. His face was calm; he didn’t tear up at the sound of his own voice muttering the words. I didn’t know how to react. Was I supposed to be sad? Probably not, since I never knew you, since my dad never even knew you. But something in me felt mad. I don’t know. I hate that my dad walked past you that day, fully knowing who you were. He knew you were his father that day. He saw you when he walked down the street where you were playing your stupid fucking marimba. It seems like you have better things to do, huh? Well, let me tell you something. You missed out—big time. You don’t even know the miracle of a person that is my dad. I think it's stupid that we even carry your name. Did you know that my Abuelita left the line blank on my father’s birth certificate, which you were supposed to sign as his father? I found it in the attic. He is the best father in the world, which is not something that everyone can say. He taught me how to play soccer, how to draw, and how to properly kill the wasps that always somehow managed to sneak into my room in the summertime. He taught my brother how to cook mole and milanesa. He supported my mom so much that he risked moving to another country away from his entire family and town that he had never left before. He perfected his English for her; he was outcasted for her. He rebuilt himself for her. He bought his mother a home before he left and gave each of his siblings a room in that home. Every time we fight, he comes into my room five minutes later and apologizes for whatever was said. He believes in me; he wants me to be less shy and raise my voice more. “Echale mas ganas, Miranda”, he tells me: “Give it another try.” Whenever we talk about my future, he tells me to broaden my skill set with computer science classes, a conversation we’ve had millions of times. He wants me to succeed. He makes me dinner every day. He not only coached my and my brother’s soccer teams, but he coaches the soccer, tennis, and wrestling teams at the middle school he works at currently. He doesn’t even know how to play tennis or wrestle. If I ask him for five dollars for a snack on venmo, he sends me 20$. He knows all of these things and does all of these things without having had that himself. Who did he learn that from? It sure as hell wasn’t from you.
Hm. I’m sorry. What do I know about you. What do I know about what you had growing up. I guess I’ll never know now. In the meantime, what’s your favorite color?
I hope I get to meet you in the next life, or maybe I don’t.
Mirandita Lucia