On November 8, 2002, a baby was born at El Hospital Morgan, Santo Domingo, in the Dominican Republic. Her mother was a beautiful, tanned, 17-year-old. Her skin radiated like a golden goddess, her hair was thick, brown, and full of life; just like the baby she had given birth too. The father was nowhere to be found in this scenario. Joy was everywhere, the baby welcomed by smiles and “Dios te la bendiga.”
I learned how to walk before I started teething. Like many children, I was raised by my mother, who was struggling to finish her senior year in high school after giving birth to me. Her schedule was hectic; she would wake up early in the morning in order to be able to take me to my aunt’s house so she could attend school. Now she always tells me how I would be waiting for her, expecting a gift. Now, when I say the word gift, I don’t mean diamond encrusted necklaces. I mean simple things, since we didn’t have much money. She laughs when reminiscing about the times she would bring me anything she could grasp, whether it was a tiny clementine or a flower she’d pick on her way to get me. She loved me, and though I was young, I’m sure I loved her too.
I was separated from my mother at the age of 1, I was raised by my grandmother. I remember walking down the street, little hand locked with my grandmothers, and gaining everyone's attention with the dramatic and extravagant dresses she would get tailored for me. Each person I had encountered that had known my mom would say we were like “dos gotas de agua”, two drops of water. My grandmother had always made sure to send my mother videos of me, and I recall viewing them and watching myself smile so confidently with a few missing teeth and the face of innocence and purity. In my grandmother's care, I went to a charter school in the Bronx where I wore plaid, pleated skirts, white blouses, and a navy blue vest. Where wearing ripped jeans on dress down days, having your hair dyed, or long, acrylic nails wasn’t permitted. Where freedom and individuality was limited and patience was tested. Still, I was a B student and fluent in both English and Spanish. I would even consider myself a teacher’s pet. I liked raising my hand and volunteering to write on the board. I liked leading the lunch and bathroom lines and being praised for it. I remember getting in trouble for the silliest thing; talking. I guess I was pretty expressive all throughout my academic years. It got to the point where I had my desk isolated into its own “island”. Aside from that, people applauded me. My grandmother would tape up my report card containing 3’s and 4’s on my closet, beaming at the sight of it. Everything was perfect in my world. In all honesty, I enjoyed being at the charter school. It became home, containing familiar faces and familiar personalities. They grew up along me, mentally, physically, and emotionally.
I remember being able to see my mother through video chats on that old DELL monitor that sat in the living room on top of a dark, oak desk no one used. It was blurry at times because of poor connection, but I remember thinking, “Wow, she’s beautiful”. She always told me that I was her one and only princess.
When I reached the age of 8 or 9, my mother's brother and sister came to America: my aunt and uncle. I recall seeing them in clean summer clothes that I was sure they had bought for the occasion. When they hugged me, the scent of cedar trees and warm, tropical air embraced me and danced around in my nostrils. My aunt taught me many things- mostly housework related chores. I remember getting
ready to leave for school, and as I sat waiting for my school bus there would be my aunt getting dressed for high school. She was the closest thing I had to my mother; I worshiped her. She would always smell of cheap citrus-scented perfume, and with each spray its aroma lingered in the living room. I couldn’t wait to be like her.
On December 7, 2012, a little less than a month after my 11th birthday, my grandmother, her husband, my aunt, uncle and I created a big sign that held the 3 magical words that welcomed the biggest and best change in my life. I remember it was cold that night so I dressed in my favorite fuschia overalls, black snow boots and pepto pink marshmallow coat. We packed into the car and headed to the airport. Heart racing at the speed of light, sweat glistening on my palms, I closed my eyes and tried to envision her. Her copper brown hair, thick and full of life and her hazel eyes that were ringed with gold, almost like a field on an autumn afternoon. Her smile bright and wide, hinting at mischief yet containing love and safety. When we got there, we were too early so we had to wait for what had felt like an eternity. I was about to close my eyes and rest when I saw everyone getting up and rushing to the gate where she was going to be exiting from. Anxious, I got up too. This was it. The lady that I had mostly seen on that old monitor at home would show up any minute.
Eager, I looked around at the melting pot of people pouring out of the doors. Suddenly I saw her. Everything else was blurry, but she was there. I ran. I ran into her love. I ran into her heart. I ran into the few memories we held together. I ran into her open arms, like mine when I was a baby. I inhaled her sweet aroma- cedar trees and fresh linen. I pulled back in order to analyze her. Her lips, pink and full, curving into a smile although her eyes were spilling out with tears. Her hazel eyes hidden behind thick glasses, and her long hair now short and styled into a neat bob. She was beautiful. She was real. I had loved her without meeting her. She was my mommy. I held the sign up, “WELCOME HOME DAIANA!” More tears poured out from the both of us and she laughed her melodic laugh. She loved me, and I knew for a fact that I loved her too.
Today, my mother has developed into an inspiring role model, not only for me, but for my old sister that my mother had secretly been carrying the day of her arrival. She has become my best friend and my hero in such a short amount of time, and day by day we make up for the 10 years we had apart by making new memories.
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