I wrote this article as a Google Profile about two years ago and then I updated it a few months ago. I took it as a writing exercise but then I started to like it... maybe because, pretty much, it's about my father.
I grew up in a noisy neighborhood in Lima, Peru, playing soccer on the streets with my pals when traffic was slow, hiding from adults to smoke guilty cigarettes and listening to portable AM radios at the doorsteps of our houses. It was during my high school years that I discovered movies, books, good music. What can I say? I am still hooked up. It seems that I have not changed much since then.
I am the son of Alicia Segunda and Ezequiel Gilberto, immigrants both from the same northern part of the country who met for the first time in Lima, the country's capital, the big metropolis. Everybody knew my dad by the nickname “Chiki” (pronounced Cheekee) —except me, who called him “papá” until I became a teenager. My dad was a truck driver with a heart of gold who rarely allowed me to go with him during his travels, something that hurt me badly because I loved being in his company.
Maybe because it was so rare, hitting the road with my dad is one of my most precious memories of those days.
Truth be told, truck cabins were then such an uncomfortable place. The engine of my dad’s truck was so noisy that we could talk only if we yell at each other —forget about listening music on the road. Besides, in order to arrive as early as possible, my dad always pushed himself a little longer and drove farther and farther before even thinking about pulling out to eat. But no matter what, every single minute of those trips was precious to me, bringing to my eyes a moving landscape that was worthy of every nuisance: desolate deserts that seemed to extend until the end of the world, small dusty pueblos in the middle of green and luscious valleys, mountainous landscapes that looked from another distant planet… until you saw a barefoot little boy carrying his books to a school miles away from home. The best, though, was when we stopped to eat and relax, and we could savor the different accents and the stubborn smiles of the people, defying with humor the appalling poverty of their surroundings.
One day, after graduating from high school, a friend of mine came home with the idea of studying in one of the most “exclusive” universities in Lima. My dad heard that and since then he insisted that I should study there until I actually did it. In Peru there are no scholarships available, though, and we had some money issues at home. But throughout the time I was a student, I never had any problem paying my tuition on time.
After graduation I discovered the pleasure of writing when I was hired as a copy writer for a recently launched weekly magazine of El Comercio, “the” newspaper in Peru. I am very proud of my record there. In time I became an Editor —“Jefe de Redacción” was my job title — and my boss, Bernardo Roca Rey Miró-Quesada, a restless and visionary guy with the soul of a gypsy, got tired of getting cornered with my salary demands and put on my hands the responsibility of creating an entire magazine, so that I could have a superior pay-grade as an Editor. It was a stroke of genius. Those days felt as if the stars had finally aligned for me. I had my “own” magazine, my beloved son Alex was born and I got a new job title and a better salary. Best of all, I put my ideas to work everyday. And as an editor, I recruited and lead a group of talented young writers and we had lots of laughs together. Best of all, the financial numbers and the readership of the magazines under my supervision looked absolutely great and always improving. Did I mention that I was lucky?
Things changed in time, though, and I started to think that I could do even better. Marital problems at home, management decisions at the magazine that bothered me and left me with the feeling of being unappreciated at work lead me to leave everything behind for the promise of coming to the United States. So, I quit and studied hard to pass my GRE test and finally I got a graduate student visa, coming to Miami to study International Relations.
Postgraduate school was so difficult, though. I had to struggle not only with a new country and a new language but I also had to deal with these highly abstract academic texts that I needed to read over and over. Providence came to my rescue. I met a nice woman in the university who sweeten my days with her love and dedication. We married as soon as I graduated and it was a beautiful period in my life, when money was tight but we did not really care. Financially we were down at the bottom, I guess, and we could only go up.
The problem is that a degree in International Relations is as useful in Miami as "an ashtray in a motorcycle". In a single week I had to work three or four jobs at the time: seasonal jobs, part-time jobs, freelance jobs. Finally, I decided to start moving. Unable to find any position in South Florida, I went to work for a Spanish newspaper in Houston. I started living there and in a few months I was hired by a publishing company in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, to be the editor of a trucking magazine. I met great people there and, again, I felt better with myself . The magazine seemed to be successful enough and two years later I became an American citizen. The only sour note of these days was that, during my first year in Alabama, my father passed away in Lima. It was one of the most painful experiences of my life and I still can not honestly say, after almost six years, that I am over it.
Alabama is kind of slow but you may find really nice people. The weather is just lovely and, if you get over the addiction to college football that seems to permeate everybody and everywhere in Tuscaloosa, you easily enjoy its cozy, small-town flavor. Eventually though, my son grew up and enlisted in the Air Force; I got divorced in 2008 and my ex wife returned to her life in Miami. I stayed in Tuscaloosa until June 2011 when I moved to Greensboro, North Carolina, a perfect place for me, with a nice weather and friendly people and a social and cultural dynamism that you associate with larger cities.
It was usual that, when my dad and I were riding the truck on a trip and we saw the roadside restaurants lined-up one after another just when it was time for lunch or dinner, he kind of read my mind and said: "Come on, let’s stay on the road a bit longer, we can always stop to eat later."
Sometimes, I feel that those words have come to
lead the remaining years of my life. This need to keep on moving and to
stay on the road longer than what I am supposed to, stretching the
limits, forcing myself to go on though deep inside it's been a long time
since I am starving, sleepy and exhausted.
* * *
No comments:
Post a Comment