Migration is metamorphosis, a beautifully complex cultural and personal transformation.
- May 2002 - Melbourne Airport. I’m four years old.
I watch as suitcases of all different sizes and colours endlessly spin around the metal rail. I can hear people around me speaking a language I don’t understand. I point out our two red suitcases and Mamá pulls them off the rail. We walk through security, and an older woman in uniform with a stern look stops us to ask Mamá questions. They both look confused as they struggle to communicate, but after multiple hand gestures, movements and pointing, we are finally let through the automatic doors.
The bright white walls and fluorescent lights make me squint. The airport is crowded and loud. I watch reunions all around me; families tearing up as they embrace tightly, kids holding up balloons, flowers and welcome signs. Then I see him, and he sees me. Papá.
I sprint towards him, dodging and weaving through all the people in front of me. I run and jump into his arms; he grabs me, spins me around and holds me tight. I haven’t seen him in three whole months. Mamá is not far behind me, and she quickly joins in our hug. I feel at home.
I sit on Papá’s shoulders and cling to his neck as he carries me to the car — our “new” car. It’s a white 1990 Toyota Corolla, with small scratches along the back doors. Heunlocks it, pulls out a long wooden rod from the back seat, and wedges it under the trunk to hold it open while he loads our suitcases. He then settles me into the soft car seat. Outside, the tallest tree trunks I’ve ever seen tower over us, their green leaves consuming the deep blue sky. The window is held up by layers of sticky tape, and I pick at the corners. The car radio is on, it’s fuzzy, and I don’t know any of the songs.
2. June 2002 - Wattle Park, Surrey Hills.
It’s mostly just Mamá and I. We walk to the park everyday while Mamá makes up stories and songs along the way that make me burst out in laughter. I spend hours on the monkeybars. Sometimes there are other kids my age, but I’m scared of speaking to them. Mamá encourages me to go and introduce myself, pushing me out of my comfort zone. Although I don’t fully understand them, we create imaginary worlds and make up our own language. Mamá always used to make friends with the other parents in parks, but lately she’s been quiet. I wonder why.
Papá works during the night and goes to university during the day, so I don’t see him much. However, every night without fail, he’ll read me a book of my choice. When he hugs me goodbye I wrap my arms tightly around him, trapping him in my grasp. I hold on for what feels like forever, until I finally resign to let him go. He looks back at me and I know he doesn’t want to go either. He kisses me on the head, whispers te amo and tells me that he’ll be there when I wake up. He walks out of my room in his builder boots and hi-vis jacket. I was used to seeing him wear a suit and tie to work.
3. August 2002 - Florence Road Preschool, Surrey Hills.
It’s been two months since I started going to preschool. At first, I felt lonely and invisible because no one ever really knew what I was saying. Every word I spoke was met with confused looks from the teachers or the laughter of a snotty blond kid. But slowly, my ear got attuned to the sounds. After a few months, I could finally understand what my teachers and the other kids were saying, and I even figured out how to mimic their accent. I found a new voice. I couldn’t wait to tell Mamá and blurted it all out to her when she picked me up. She was extra quiet on our walk home and as she opened the front door she stopped and turned to me. She told me I could only ever speak Spanish to her. And she really meant it, she won’t respond if I say a word to her in English.
4. September 2002 - Box Hill Clinic.
Today I went to the doctor with Mamá because we had both caught a cold. I sat with a red nose and cold hands in one of the seats across from the doctor. I stared up at him and with a croaky voice, I began confidently translating the whole conversation between Mamá and the doctor. Mamá spoke at times, but became silent as she saw the doctor's look of confusion. As we were leaving, the doctor handed me the prescription, but Mamá quickly snatched it from his hands, and the doctor waved goodbye apologetically.
Mamá and I walked out of the clinic slowly towards the bus stop, I looked up at Mamá and
saw thin tears streaming down her cheeks.
Why are you crying Mamá? - I ask.
She stayed silent for a minute, then bent down next to me, placed my face between her hands and smiled at me through tears. She gave me a big kiss on my forehead and whispered: gracias.
I wiped her tears with my thumbs and stared back into her deep green eyes. I gave her a kiss on the forehead and said: gracias a tí Mamá.