My mother has had a stutter stapled to her speech since she was a child. I didn't realize she periodically stumbled over her words until second grade, when a classmate pointed it out. I hadn't noticed it for the first seven years of my life, even though I'd heard her voice since I was born. To me, that was just how she talked. To me, the stutter was how her voice was supposed to be. Even now, I have to be intentional about noticing her speech pattern because, on autopilot, her vocal slips fall on deaf ears. The same concept applies to the false normalcy that I used to rationalize the abuse that I received from my family.
I grew up in a dysfunctional household where stifled rage, lingering secrets, and suppressed resentments filled the bedrooms and common spaces like a gas leak. Breathing in the tension and trauma was the norm for my sister and me. It quietly stirred at the bottom of our cereal bowls and soured our home-cooked meals. Growing up, my father traveled frequently for work, and my mother had a full-time job, so they hired a nanny to care for my sister and me most of the day. Maria was an immigrant who crossed the Texas-Mexico border before landing in Dallas, where my family and I lived until I was sixteen.
One of the first questions my mother asked her was, “Do you have the papers?”
“No. Me no have paper.”
My mother nodded, then moved on to the logistics of how Maria was expected to help her care for my sister and me.
The woman treated me like I was her own but never reported the episodes of violence I’d learned to bury under layers of denial. I assume this was because she couldn't afford to lose her home or job. I never blamed Maria for not speaking up. Knowing her situation, I would have stayed quiet too. But instead of turning her head the other way or shrugging her shoulders as many of my parents' friends did, Maria did her best to shield and soothe my sister and me from the abuse that we breathed in.
“No cry, Chiquita. No cry,” she'd say before pulling the trembling frame of my body close to hers. At that time, it was what I needed to get through the turbulent years I spent in that house.
Halfway through my sophomore year of high school, my family moved to Silicon Valley, California, leaving Maria behind. My home-life chaos continued, but this time no one was there to protect us, so my sister finally went to our high school counselor. When the truth came out, Child Protective Services made several visits, and that's when the physical outbursts finally came to a screeching halt. Today, when I feel the jolt of an empty threat or a bitter remark from my family, I try to comfort myself the way Maria once did, knowing it won't feel the same.
When the election results for the next presidential term were released, Maria was the first person to come to mind. She'd asked me to keep in touch, and I never did because every time I stared at the digits of Maria’s phone number, my tongue caught in a stutter as her voice echoed through the walls of my memory.
No cry, Chiquita. No cry.
I quietly sob every time I see a headline on my Instagram feed that outlines Donald Trump's deportation plans. Guilt about not holding on to my relationship with Maria and grief about the possibility of it being uprooted permanently fill my lungs like water.
My mental health would be dire today if it weren't for her. Maria is part of the reason I didn't run away from home as a child or commit suicide as a teenager. She is part of why I keep healing as an adult. The ripple of political changes that ricochet from the man that my country has chosen to lead us for the next four years makes me wonder about the other nannies who have crossed the border and found themselves taking care of children of dysfunctional families. With Maria in mind, I try to feel what they must be experiencing, knowing they may be forced to dissolve their dreams into American soil and leave behind the child who needs them most.