Growing up, my paternal grandmother and my aunt would always enlighten me with stories about my childhood in the DR. My grandma use to always tell me how I would go up and down the streets calling out “abuela, abuela!” and when she didn’t answer I would call, “Mauricia, Mauricia!” finally, in my last attempt to get her attention I would yell, “Mama, Mama!”
My aunt always tells me the story of how one day I walked into the house asking her for some pesos. Out of no where I called her “Tia Bolanga.”
The other day I ate a tamarind Skim Ice, which is sort of like a frozen pop. When I tasted the sweetness and sourness of the tamarind, I felt like I had eaten it before. Some where deep in my taste buds little brains, I knew that 18 years ago tamarind trees were a part of my life.
These and other stories are becoming actual pieces of my childhood puzzle. As I walk these streets today I faintly recall the smells, images, and footsteps of what was once my world. I am grateful for this opportunity and as difficult as it may be, I am here.