Gated Community (2022)
The living room saw wars and alliances, a history only known to the citizens of the great tiny country that was held between those very walls. The sisterly fights over clothes, the friends that turn into public enemies in my grandma’s eyes if they dare to set an eye on her daughters.
BY ROXANNA VILLAMIZAR
IMAGE BY EBRU KUR
When one thinks about dreams, they always seem to be in-the-hopes-of finding them. We almost never mean the past. But I think the past has a lot to do with our aspirations. We learn what we want—or don’t want—through family, friends, and places. Sometimes memories are the material from what we build our future with. From time to time those materials are actual concrete and bricks, impregnated with memories. Old landmarks often carry these memories of old times, dreams and nightmares. Some of them were destroyed in order to forget, some still standing to remind us of our roots. But even old bridges and apple orchards speak of our past intentions. Fruit and communication, ways to keep us closer, fed and flourishing.
When my grandparents first met back in 1962, they fell madly in love and decided to get married quickly. My grandmother was older than my grandfather, and the sole provider of her household. It was safe to say that my grandfather's mother didn't like her that much. But that didn't stop them. One morning before dawn, my grandfather sneaked out of his house and ran away to get married to the love of his life. They got married with their friends as witnesses. When all was said and done, they started to build a life of their own.
They were young and naive. Without the help of their families, they ended up living on the wrong side of the tracks in a skimpy forgotten town. There was nothing much to be done but they put their best spirits at it. My grandmother worked hard on keeping the shabby place they managed to get. The dirt floor and the plank wood walls left much to be desired but what mattered to them was the ardour burning in their chest. The fish my grandmother caught in the pond fed them and the little money my grandfather could gather kept their bills and rent paid.
The children started to roll in not long after arriving, and my grandmother did whatever she could to raise them under those circumstances. One, two, three little girls arrived one after the other. But once my mother was born, the walls in their little lives started to grow narrow. My mom kept getting sick, rashes appearing all over her tiny body because of the suffocating heat. My grandfather’s mother offered to take her in, raise her. But they were a package deal, my grandmother refused and packed their bags and went back to the city.
With struggles and happiness in between, and my grandfather being able to go back to farm work, their lives started to turn around. From one rental to another they were finally able to save up for a place of their own. When they first got the house, my mother was seven years old and my uncle seven months old. After years of hard work, they finally got a big house to call their own. This included not only their children but their respective mothers. Four rooms, two and a half bathrooms, and a big backyard. The kids grew up and their mothers grew old, like the Trinitarians in the front garden.
The living room saw wars and alliances, a history only known to the citizens of the great tiny country that was held between those very walls. The sisterly fights over clothes, the friends that turn into public enemies in my grandma's eyes if they dare to set an eye on her daughters. My grandmother’s Maria Luisa cake on everyone’s birthday, friends that turn into family. The treats and countless favourite meals that were created in the kitchen. And out of nowhere, four kids turn into seven grandkids and two great-granddaughters. Some of us found love and a place to rely on when the outside world became too much. When you didn’t have a roof to call your own or simply when you just wanted a cold glass of sugar cane lemonade. Grandma would tell you the latest gossip or cook your favourite meal. Grandpa would help you out if the money didn't meet your dreams or if you wanted some ice cream to spend the warm afternoon. A place that meant someone always cared. People went away to never return; some became regulars to the one place that made you leave with a ball of warm light in your chest.
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My grandfather was always a hard worker. A big man with tons of stories up his sleeve; from being run over by a bull up to three times; to being burned entirely by a freak truck accident. He was an active restless man, yet he was the first to get sick. His Parkinson’s started to deteriorate his mind quickly and my grandmother took care as loyal and committed as always. Not that long after, my grandmother’s long-hidden illness came to take her. Far too soon, far too quickly. She hated drunks and did not allow a single drop of alcohol in her house, and, ironically enough, liver failure took her away. All we had left were letters for each of us where we learned that for the past eight years there hasn't been a day that she didn't feel pain and asking us to take care of my grandfather. That stubborn strong will of hers that proved deadly.
Buried in the same plot as my grandfather’s mother. A legacy of will and love that seemed to prove stronger than death. The last years of my grandfather’s illness were filled with uncertainty; they were long and gruesome. It started to feel like a five-year-long funeral. The walls were tinted with nostalgia and faded memories. My grandfather’s shaky body, of memories long gone, seemed like the memento we all held closely to. The carcass of the long-gone golden days; the wide smiles; the living room filled with laughter; the holidays filled with family and friends; gifts and meals.
The notice came that the house, after my grandfather’s passing, was being sold. I cried as if I was losing my grandparents once again. That big old house, our family's oasis, was no longer ours. I tried so many times to close my eyes and remember all I ever lived, all the emotions I ever felt within those walls. The spaces spoke of them, my grandma helping me make bead bracelets to sell in school, my grandfather playing with us in the terrace hammock, my cousins and I playing on the couch, my aunt teaching me how to wrap presents on Christmas night. All the things that I took for granted and I felt I was about to lose.
I needed a way to say goodbye, I needed one last time to fill that place with laughter as my grandmother would have wanted to. I wanted to feel that the very house they loved could feel the love they built back. I know buildings don’t have feelings. But sometimes I felt I could hear my grandmother's laughter in the other room or my grandfather's footsteps coming up the stairs. Their eyes were everywhere, and I swear they could hear us. I wanted for them to see all the light they left behind. I held my graduation party there as a way to say goodbye not only to the house but to the precious childhood it gave me and my mother and my aunts and all of us. Music was played, and food was served. The funeral finally ended. We no longer mourned but celebrated all the life that was left to be lived.
My house of dreams once existed and is still standing, but the walls now guard another’s family hopes. Maybe the concrete still echoes the memories of my mom and aunts laughing and running; The old dirty boots of my grandfather returning home with a big bag of bitter grapefruit; or my grandmother watering her old Staghorn fern. It was our refuge for decades, the last memories we had of the loved ones that were no longer with us. Birthdays, quinceaneras, weddings, my grandfather returning home after being kidnapped by a guerrilla. Blood and tears, sweat and fears. Through that door came loved pets and hated exes. The last child and the first great-granddaughter. Through that door came nurses and roses. But in the end, we left with dreams of a better tomorrow.
Roxanna Villamizar (they/them) is a creative writer born in Colombia. They hold a B.A. in Audiovisual Communications with a focus on web design. They’re currently enrolled in Humber’s Professional Writing and Communications graduate certificate. They love pretty sights and the book Little Women.
Image: Ebru Kur (Gated Community, 2022)
Edited for publication by Em Fabbri, as part of the Bachelor of Creative and Professional Writing program.
HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation.