Bárbara Renaud González - Golondrina, Why Did You Leave Me?: A Novel

Golondrina, why did you leave me?

Golondrina, why did you leave me?

Chicana Matters Series

Deena J. Gonzlez and Antonia Castaeda
SERIES EDITORS

Chicana Matters Series focuses on one of the
largest population groups in the United States
today, documenting the lives, values, philosophies,
and artistry of contemporary Chicanas.
Books in this series may be richly diverse, reflecting
the experiences of Chicanas themselves,
and incorporating a broad spectrum of
topics and fields of inquiry. Cumulatively, the
books represent the leading knowledge and
scholarship in a significant and growing field
of research and, along with the literary works,
art, and activism of Chicanas, underscore their
significance in the history and culture of the
United States.

a novel

BRBARA RENAUD GONZLEZ

Copyright 2009 by Brbara Renaud Gonzlez
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
Second paperback printing, 2011

Requests for permission to reproduce material
from this work should be sent to:
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University of Texas Press
P.O. Box 7819
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The paper used in this book meets the minimum
requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (R1997)
(Permanence of Paper).

eISBN: 978-0-2927-7446-9

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gonzlez, Brbara Renaud, 1953
Golondrina, why did you leave me? : a novel /
by Brbara Renaud Gonzlez. 1st ed.
p. cm. (Chicana matters series)
ISBN 978-0-292-71958-3 (pbk.: alk. paper)
1. WomenMexicoFiction. 2. MexicansTexas
Fiction. 3. MotherhoodFiction. 4. Mexican
American Border RegionFiction. 5. Domestic
fiction. I. Title. II. Series.
PS3607.O556G65 2009
813.6dc22 2008047829

DEDICACIN

To my mother,

Marina Hernndez Renaud

b. 18 julio 1929 d. 9 octubre 2000

Mami. Thats what I call her. Not mam or Mommy but Mami, the baby sound we make with breast milk still bubbling from our boquitas, a fine powder of a word, tasting of yummy nalguitas when she changes my diaper, hungry as the crying into her apron. For an oatmeal cookie, a doll with nothing to wear, a paper and pencil. Mami, a word made of Mexican songs enveloping her like a cloud of sighs in a bean-soup kitchen smelling of kisses she gave and gave and never received.

Mami was the first word I learned in Spanish.

This book is a fictionalized telling of my familys story. The events are completely real to Texas, however, a story so cruel and sublime that if I wrote the truth you wouldnt believe it.

Brbara Renaud Gonzlez
San Antonio, Texas
Christmas Day 2006

At the beginning of time, God offered a prize to the one who could travel the world and tell the story best of what he or she saw.

Many wanted to leave but were afraid of the dangers of an unknown journey.

Crow left first, but got interrupted with some carrion and returned without seeing hardly anything.

Then Swallow left. Swallow took many months in returning, and when everyone thought Swallow had died, the bird appeared one day telling an infinity of things that had been seen on the whole trip there and back.

As a prize, God gave the swallow the gift of changing countries.

from Argentina

Eliberto Gonzlez, aka Chabuya, who tells the best stories, including the one about when we were married. Mara Teresa G. Pedroche, pintora de las primeras, who gave me her art. Diana Flores, activista who should be president. Lupita Beltran, borlotista who deserves someone to write a novel about her. Cont de Loyo, flamenca who taught me what it is to dance. Terry Ybaez de Santiago, artista who painted my rooms and said, Dont be afraid, girlfriend. Raquel Ruiz, la colombiana apasionada who makes coconut rice better than Gabos novelas. Graciela Snchez, la rebelde who offered me work. Gloria Ramirez, who taught me how to dance a mera-mera polka. Norma E. Cant, maestra and editor, who with Elvia Niebla gave me space in their Charcotown condo and time with la Booboo, the parmesan cat. Annie Trevio, la doctora. Mary Ozuna, who took me to the river and told me her story of San Antonio. Joan Frederick, the photographer who gives presents on her birthday. Geraldo Mitchell, capitalista. To el poeta Pablo Martnez, who graciously read and edited some terrible drafts of this book and tenderly tore it apartjust what I needed.

Gracias to the gran santa of mestiza writers who taught me to wield words as if each day is the last one on earth: the one and only Sandra Cisneros. Muchas gracias for the Alfredo Cisneros del Moral award, named in honor of her father, that allowed me to buy the computer to write this book.

And special acknowledgments:

If I had not been able to live in San Antonio, theres no way I couldve written the river that flows through this book. Gracias to Graciela Snchez and the buena gente of the Esperanza Peace & Justice Center for bringing me back home and then setting me free. And to Josie Mndez-Negrete and Jorge Negrete, true Tex-Mex royalty, for letting me stay in their Gaudi Tower la San Anto, along with impassioned late-night plticas, pretty good wine, and the best chilaquiles in San Anto.

And to the women who guided my clumsy hands: my late ta Lupe Galer, a true Parisian artist working as a seamstress in Oklahoma City, who spent a whole summer teaching me how to iron silk, and to my sister Leticia, who recorded my parents telling their stories because she knew my job was to write them down.

Para mi pap, Robert Renaud: This story is the only land that matters.

How my mother crossed the border

Mamis got the radio on as usual, its Selena with her Como la flor, and I turn it up. Como la flor... all the love that you gave me has died and how it hurts how it hurts... And then were dancing round and round the kitchen table, como la flor, were like two flowers no one has ever seen bloom in our two-step, and the kitchens spinning with the polkas shoo-shoo-bopping love songs, no matter that there is something about love dying like the way that carnations die / asupacito carcacha nodejestambaliar aunque tenga carcacha no importa peep-peep!

SelenaSelenaSelenas singing, her voice a smooth crema in harmony with the sax and the trumpets pumping the beat and the band is rockin the polkas so that Mami and I two-step two-step, dancing the pain away together. The beat is swaying right back, tingling tentando, we can dance shoo-bop shoowa all night, we are not afraid, we are not afraid, we wont give up, even if its not returned because thats all there is. Because we are women, we are roses, and love is the rain, the sky, and the land we seek. Mami wants love and I want her to find it.

What do you mean?

Mamis reminiscing again about Mexico and like always the story stops when I ask her how she crossed the border. Now the radio and Selena are surrounding us with that terriblebeautiful love story that begins with a mans hands sliding up the wrist to dance and Selenas song takes me and Mami to that moment forever and I know she wants it to begin again even when it has ended and I know it must have hurt so much and yet. Sometimes I think love is just the beginning we want even when we already know what the ending is going to be.