illegally americana
My vocal cords slowly fold, producing sounds when they are attached together, making summer waves of my voice. I gently close my eyes to the warmth of my honey skin, my coffee eyes, my misplaced language. I play my accent on a record player and the disc spins as I hear the two thousand six hundred twenty-two miles between Colombia and los Estados Unidos.
I stand with my hands behind my back as the tent fevers, and my mask begins to sweat. I slowly move under the shadow of the sign: Coconut Grove Art Festival. Papá is in front of our booth waiting to see who will be our first customer. It is 3 p.m. and the festival is about to close. A middle-aged lady approaches our booth; she is wearing a floral mask. I approach her and I say, “This clutch is handmade with leather by my mom.” She leaves with a “thank you,” and I see Papá’s stress as he sighs with discouragement. We drive home in silence, knowing these festivals won’t hold us for long, especially in the pandemic.
As we arrive home, I open the door to see the sun washing the pale walls, Mamá smiling as she wraps maple leather threads weaving together two equally rounded pieces, a purse. She carefully caresses every edge like she is building a sculpture. I observe how she stamps, encrusts a tag that says made in the U.S.A, unlike the illegal immigrant who made it, my mom. I inhale the aroma of Colombian coffee and leather wrapping me, holding me in place.
Leather has claimed me with the colors no other nationality could in depths of reddish-tanned hues ever since I was in my mother’s womb. I grew up with a hippie mom who could not stand the idea of living without her craft and with a dad who dropped out of industrial engineering to become the salesman of his love’s craft, or what he called it, pursuing the world of art, his passion.
I belonged to Columbia but with the years Colombia became a name on my passport and the U.S became the author of my stories. I don’t recall it very much, but one of the few memories I have of being a legal resident, a natural born citizen, was in the cold air of Bogota. I was in my mom’s factory where she had once employed fifty workers to construct made in Colombia purses with materials like tagua, a native seed and Colombian leather. However, the factory was now closing and the sewing machines and cutting tables had vanished to a sewing machine and a cutting table. The man who sold leather to my mom’s company, Mauricio, was now selling empanadas. My favorite person from my mom’s sewing staff, Patricia, was now a housekeeper, and my parents were now owners of a decaying company replaced by American brands like Michael Kors. In the emptiness of our factory and the confusion in my head from living in a three story house to abuela’s room, I was excited because we were going on vacation to Miami. I recall watching Pocahontas en inglés and writing circles, thinking I had finally learned how to write in English. Mom was nervelessly annoyed by my frequent asking if I had learned it yet?
Shortly after, our vacation to the U.S extended, but not our visa. This was my first crime at six years old. Living illegally in a one bedroom apartment with a cockroach nest, moist paint, paper walls, and a temporary inflatable princess bed. But most of all, the biggest criminals were Mamá and Papá who drove me to school unlicensed, and drove across numerous states to sell leather bags at art festivals in tents and fifty dollars in their pocket.
Despite this, I was the worst and most stubborn criminal for allowing my tongue to adapt to a country that was and will never be mine. For stealing a language that wasn’t mine. This was my second crime. Through this, my sentence was longing for a Colombian or an American identity, a true identity. In my first grade classroom, when my true American classmates, who wore the ocean in their eyes and looked down upon the soil of mine, said they couldn’t be friends with someone who they couldn’t understand, with the dumb kid. From there, they made sure I knew I was different, for not understanding the difference between how are you? And how old are you? For not looking or speaking American enough.
Before school, as my mom braided my hair in the mornings she made sure to remind me to not tell anyone of our illegality, no le digas a nadie. And on weekends when we drove miles to festivals in Atlanta, Naples, and St. Augustine, I was shown the fear of being undocumented.
The first time I questioned: why couldn’t my parents get a real job? I was a seven-year old in a rented Toyota Yaris sharing most of my seat with a humongous tent on the side, and boxes over boxes of leather purses. I remember being so uncomfortable and mad. I also remember my mom’s and dad’s effort to keep me comfortable: the Walgreens pink pillow besides the humongous tent and the Dollar Store itchy blanket. But what I most remember is the tension on my mom’s shoulders despite the Bob Marley songs on her playlist and my dad’s soil eyes when a police car drove by. Somehow as a seven year old who was supposed to be seated in a child’s safety seat, I was calming my discomfort and anger because I loved my parents. And I knew that if I told them how the legs of the tent poked my stomach when they asked if I was okay, my mom’s shoulders would become more tense and the soil of my dad’s eyes would muddy even further.
My family is criminal for wanting what American brands took from us. But worst of all, I have let the guilt sink because it was easier to believe the capacity people saw in me. It was easier to believe that I was guilty for sitting in an American classroom and that the miles between my native home and los Estados Unidos were as far as I could go. But I was wrong, because illegal didn’t mean incapable or impossible, it meant that my parents fought and continue to fight the impossible to raise my possibilities. Illegal didn’t mean that I was bringing drugs, crime, and that I was a rapist like el presidente said. Illegal was the term that was defined by the government, whose members are the criminals for labeling humans illegal. The people they name as aliens are the people who cross the other world to cure and grow our home, los Estados Unidos. I thank my illegality because it sentenced me to the identity of a fighter, one who finds home in woven threads and in Mamá y Papá, who finds the longevity to continue to fight when I’m told to not speak Spanish, to go back home, to repeat what I say. I will be a fighter, a writer, for those who are like me, but are in cages and concentration camps.
Through grassy lands and yellow skies, I stand on a continent with no owner, a home with no owner. I brush my caramel skin with my hands, fingers through my hair, and pick up the soil in my eyes. I finally exhale with a handmade red, white, and blue mask. Mamá smiles, she hugs me in maple leather, as she finishes weaving the pieces of my story. From leaving Colombia to staying in the U.S. Papá smiles in silence, knowing that he and Mamá have taught their daughter to live boldly, even if that means carrying a pencil in replace of dólares. I appreciate my accent and Mamá y Papá say goodbye en el nombre del padre de el hijo, y del espíritu santo, waving their hands up, down, and horizontally, blessing me to weave my next chapter. Before I leave, we hold hands and say Amén. My eyes river as I close the door to the sun-washed walls, and my feet step out to touch the road. I run fiercely two thousand six hundred twenty-two miles, I finally scream I am illegalmente una Americana. And, I whisper, a soon to be journalist.
Maria Arango is a student currently enrolled in Miami Arts Charter in the program of Creative Writing. Maria was born in Bogota, Colombia, and likes to write about immigration and writing that shows a different perspective from the other side. In 2019 she was named the Editor of the Teen Art Force Magazine of Contemporary Art. She has several publications like in Tint Journal, Canvas summer 2019 issue, Diversified 2020 and was a writer in an activist magazine (Defiant Magazine). During the summer she was an intern at The Lab, a coworking space where she received the opportunity to be a blog writer and help small companies with social media. She is also the President of the Book Club at her school and as a part-time job helps a small leather business “Sulay bags” to promote their art work in art shows. In 2020 she received a Gold Key, Silver Key, and an additional silver key in Scholastic. She also won a Silver medal in scholastic which only 1% of the applications received at a national level. Maria was also Awarded in the Miami Fair Department of Creative writing this April. She was a student at Speak up where she did speak out poetry and has performed in the Miami Book Fair. She also received an amazing opportunity to be in the investigative journalism program at The School of The New York Times with a full scholarship. In her free time, she is a blogger for the South Florida Red Cross and she is currently constructing her own activist magazine Forlavox. María loves the art of writing and hopes to further her art while helping others.