Catalina Claussen - Holding on to Hope

En memoria de los immigrantes que murieron en el desierto buscando un sueo 2003

In memory of the immigrants who died in the desert seeking a dream.

Dedication inscribed on an iron cross memorial on the American side of the Columbus, New Mexico port of entry.

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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. The views or opinions presented in this book belong solely to the author and do not represent those of Progressive Rising Phoenix Press LLC, its owners, staff, contractors, or other authors. Any views or opinions expressed in this book are not intended to support or malign any person, nationality, ethnic group, religious belief, local and federal law enforcement official, or political position.

Text Copyright 2020 Catalina Claussen

All rights reserved.

Published 2020 by Progressive Rising Phoenix Press, LLC

www.progressiverisingphoenix.com

ISBN: 978-1-950560-40-0

Printed in the U.S.A.

1st Printing

Edited by: Gerald Hausman

Cover Photo: Women Running, BigStock Photo ID: 11749763, Copyright: kbuntu. Used With Permission.

Author Photo: Patrick Gendron. Used with permission.

Title Page Illustration: Butterfly Boy by Michelle Narvaez. Used with permission.

Cover design by William Speir

Visit: http://www.williamspeir.com

Book interior design by Polgarus Studio

Visit: http://www.polgarusstudio.com

On the front steps of the house in the timeless moment that is Sunday afternoon, Papi tells me the story. Eran las cinco de la tarde. It was five oclock in the afternoon. Y como un viento del desierto they came for Abuelo. Like a desert wind.

We lived in the last house on the last street, sheltered in the shadow of the neighbors house on one side, and on the other protected by no one but God.

Papi says, Abuelo stood there with the heat of the afternoon drenching his shirtfront, penetrating the white collar that set him apart from others as a man of God even he couldnt stop them. There were five of them, possessed by a dark force, dressed to kill. Their faces, their names blurred under the burden of their business.

He pauses. His eyes are elsewhere as if reading to me from the pages of his memory.

My father failed to see them, Papi says finally. He failed to see them as sons of the Almighty. He saw them the way they were dressed, cloaked in darkness.

Papi pauses again. This time his eyes are on me, as if letting the lesson penetrate my skin. But it didnt end there. My brother, Santiago, was at Abuelos heel. Santiago was a scrawny kid who spent too much time with the chickens and not enough time with the Scriptures, according to Abuelo. The family used to tease him for it. We used to say one day he would grow feathers and become one of them.

Santiago had five roosters. Proud trained killers in their own right, softened only by the way he stroked their feathers, by the way he cared for them. Papi pauses to wipe his glasses and then continues. That day they knew the time had come. See, Abuelo couldnt stand alone against the enemigo, although he did try. Abuelo didnt know that Santiago stood behind him, despite the teasing. Abuelo didnt know that Santiago stood en tierra firme with all five roosters. He takes a breath and finally, The enemigo came for him, surrounding Abuelo, just as they had been trained. Fists loaded.

Papis eyes return to the pages in his mind. This time its different. Hes swept up in his story and in el viento del desierto. The desert wind. In the fight, Abuelos faith did not waver. He was strong. His cries to God were silent. They came for him again and again. From my seat on top of the adobe wall I saw Santiago advance. His roosters, white-feathered, red combs, were an army against the enemy. Santiago let out a whistle, and it was done. Las plumas blancas a su lado. White feathers at his side. Purification. Protection. Y por la paz eterna. And for eternal peace.

Papi turns to me and says, See. They never saw it coming. He laughs. And Abuelo? He never saw it coming either. He breathes, considering me for a moment, and then says, We never teased Santiago after that. You know, mija, he had earned our respect.

Papis story is about the struggle long before I was born. Its about where we come from and our rebirth. Sitting here on Sunday afternoon free of the narcos and full of hope, this is the future he wants for me. La paz eterna.

By

Catalina Claussen

Bienvenidos al lunes. Welcome to Monday. I wake up disoriented. In my dream, my brother, Junior, and the other boys on the court are serenading me with the guitarra at my quinceaera. I dance a traditional waltz with Papi, my skirts billowing as he guides me across the dance floor. He whispers what I need to know about being a lady. He talks about how a real man cherishes his bride, as a father cherishes his daughter.

But the reality is I hear Mami and Papis voices muffled behind Mamis bedroom door, whisper-shouting about something. Lately, if Papi bothers to come home, their talk is about money. I cant make out their words exactly, just the steady, staccato flow of Spanish and English that betrays their uneasy existence.

It didnt used to be that way in the beginning. I used to be able to see them in my minds eye. Mami, a legendary beauty with suitors coming to her modest home in Hidalgo. And Papi? His fascination with flesh and bone and the stories that weave us together won her hand in the end. So how did it come to this? How did it come to closed-door shouting matches, cold fall mornings, and an unshakable fear that I will lose all of them-Mami, Papi, and Junior. My dreams try to tell me otherwise with visions of the perfect quince, but then I wake up.

Their argument bursts through Mamis door and Papi says, We cant afford it, Ximena. A stylist? Dont be ridiculous! How can you think of quinceaera hair and make-up at a time like this?

Shes our daughter, she says. We only have one. You should be the last person I have to explain this to.

Shoot! Its already 8 a.m.. I push their argument aside, roll out of bed and slip into my sweats and Crocs. I pull on a shirt, twist my hair up in a scrunchie, and wipe yesterdays make-up from my face. Its time for school.

In the crisp Sunday afternoon light, the truth is wrapped up in fist-sized yellow blooms. I snuck out the back door when the shouting started. Beneath the squash blossoms and lush leaves the size of dinner plates, I wait. Jets etch vapor trails across the sky. The ravens play tick-tock from their perches in the naked elm. I lie here in my cutoffs and plaid shirt, hoping to disappear.