In "Borderless," Guatemalan author seeks to correct misconceptions about Central American immigrants
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Loading... - Sadiki Omar
- 11 May 2023
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Maya returns home and feels uneasy as she notices no one around, not even the lady who sells tortillas or the señor who comes home late from work. She sees a stray dog on the empty street and feels relieved to be home but finds the door open slightly, which puts her on high alert. She hears laughter and someone smoking inside her home. As she cautiously approaches, she sees her mother tied up to a chair and surrounded by two men wearing black masks and gray hoodies. One of them holds a gun to her mother's head. Maya can't believe what she's seeing and whispers her mother's name. Her mother looks up at her and shakes her head, indicating her to remain quiet.
Two weeks ago, Maya's mother asked her if tomorrow was the big day, referring to the day when Maya was supposed to meet the director of her high school's fashion school in Guatemala. Maya felt excited and nervous at the same time as if she were at the top of a roller coaster ride. Her mother reassured her by saying she had a good feeling about it. They both shared a mattress that they laid down on the living room floor every night and lifted back up every morning.
In this way, the living room became their bedroom and vice versa.
“Don’t be worried. I have a good feeling, mija,” her mother said, toothbrush in hand.
Tomorrow the director of Maya’s high school—the best fash- ion school in Guatemala—was going to announce the top ten designers of the year. These ten would then get to showcase three looks each in the annual fashion show. Two weeks from now! This was the first year Maya was even eligible; you had to be at least in your second year at the institute and be sixteen. She—finally!—was both.
“Are you worried about Lisbeth?” her mother asked before spitting out toothpaste in the sink.
“A little . . .” Maya snuggled against Luna.
Now her mother returned with a jar of Pond’s lotion. “What’s meant to be is meant to be.” Maya watched as she rubbed cream onto her cheeks. Okay—strange. That lotion was a morning smell, one that belonged next to coffee and oatmeal and folded newspaper pages on the kitchen table.
