“We’re Moving to Disney World!”
Written by Laura Gonzales, PhD; Edited by Naz Hussein
Mami and Robertito posing with the Beast at Disney World in Orlando, Florida, 1998.
“We’re moving to Disney World,” mami told me one night as we laid in bed having one of our many daily charlas — times when it was just us talking, laughing, and eating snacks we didn’t want to share with others.
“We’re moving to Orlando!” she said. “To the USA!”
“To the same city that Mickey Mouse lives in!” she continued.
I could always tell when my mom was scared — she would open her eyes widely to seem excited and fight off tears, but she could never keep her bottom lip from quivering.
I knew tears were coming.
“Papi and Robertito are going first to find a place for us to live. In the meantime, we’ll finish out the school year,” she said.
Her top lip started shaking in concert with the bottom.
Here come the tears.
“And it will be okay because you will get a chance to learn English, and papi will get a job, and we will be happy,” mami continued, tears now in full motion.
“It’ll be okay, mami,” I hugged her. “That sounds like fun. Plus, if Robertito leaves first, I get the room all to myself, and he won’t be here to step on my homework.”
Laurita, the voice of reason.
Leaving our home in Santa Cruz, Bolivia to move to “Disney World” was not easy for my mami.
In Bolivia, she worked as a German teacher in a private school, the same school that I went to. We would ride to school together every morning, have lunch together every day, do homework together, and go to sleep together. We would laugh about our daily encounters or cry because the power had been turned off and we didn’t know how we were going to pay the bill.
In the US, mami started working as part of the cleaning crew at a new hotel. After the hotel went bankrupt before mami collected her first paycheck, she went to work at Burger King, friendo papitas (frying potatoes) to pay the bills.
Although some — many — days were hard, my mami’s eyes would always light up as bright as the sky when my brother and I walked in from school.
In the afternoons, she would sit down with me to do my homework. We would both laugh as we tried to pronounce words in English.
“Come on, try again!” she would tell me.
“Say advaaaanced, just like the gringos, Lohhrah!”
Mami thought it was hilarious that my name in English is pronounced “Lohrah,” like the word “lora,” or parrot, in Spanish.
“I don’t want to!” I would say. “I don’t know how to make my mouth move like that!”
Whether she was at work or running errands, my mom always walked around saying, “I love my children! What else could I ask for?” She would tell stories about her kids to anyone who listened.
“My Robertito, he’s a football star… American football,” she would tell the cashier at the grocery store or the crossing guard at school.
On Saturday mornings, mami would call her friends and family back in Bolivia. She would give them updates more detailed and filtered than any social network.
“Oh yes, Roberto senior is working at Disney World. Can you believe it? It’s a dream. And Laurita, she doesn’t talk much, but I can tell she’s learning English. She is always listening, and she’s made new friends.”
“Robertito is basically driving already. He’s always outside playing. We bought a beautiful house. You have to come visit!”
No matter who she talked to, mami would paint a perfect picture despite the challenges we experienced.
We were all adjusting to life in America. I spent months in school not uttering a single word so my peers wouldn’t notice my accent. Mami went from teaching children, a job she loved dearly, to making cheeseburgers. But, the sacrifice was worth it; we made it to America, we had a house, and she was with her children. What else could she ask for?
In 2008, following the housing market crash in the US, mami and papi moved back to Bolivia, while Robertito and I stayed here in the US. We needed to take full advantage of American education, or else all of the family’s sacrifice would be in vain.
“You promise to take care of each other?”
“Pinky promise?” mami asked us, over and over again, until she could convince herself that it was true.
“Yes, mami. We will always take care of each other. Promise, promise.”
Back in Bolivia, mami went back to teaching at the German school, while my brother and I continued life in America — our new home. My brother started his undergraduate career while I finished my BA in English and contemplated going to graduate school. I knew I wanted to keep learning, even though I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I also knew that my grocery store job would not hold my interests, or support our household, for long.
Eventually, I got my Master’s degree at our local University, fell in love with teaching college writing, and decided to apply to Ph.D. programs.
I’ll always remember the day I told mami I was accepted into Ph.D. school:
Laurita La Doctora, she called me, even before I stepped foot on campus to start my PhD in Michigan.
“Don’t worry about the snow, baby,” she would tell me, “it’s beautiful. Think of it like cotton balls on the ground that can catch you when you fall, like your mami.”
She always did catch me when I fell, no matter the distance between us.
Last month, I took a trip to Bolivia: the first trip to my hometown without my mami.
I still can’t believe she’s gone, taken during a pandemic that stole away too many mamis and their babies.
All of her brilliance, shine, and her unconvincing smile were reduced to a box of ashes I hesitantly carried with me back to Florida.
Back to Disney World.
Back to her children.
What else would she ask for?
As I packed up my mami’s belongings, picture by picture, note by note, I tried to imagine what she would tell me. What would we say to each other if we had one more chance to talk?
Where can I find those cotton balls to land on now, mami, when the whole world feels cold and spinning?
I find traces of them in her memories: in the little endearing notes she left around my house saying she loved me but I still needed to dust; in her singing along to songs she didn’t know the lyrics to; in her movements as she closed her eyes and danced with one finger pointing to the sky.
Laura and Mami enjoying iced coffee drinks in Düsseldorf, Germany, 2018.
One of the many things I found while organizing my mami’s things after her passing was a copy of my book: a book I wrote for her and in many ways about her. A book about the beauty of language; how it cannot be contained in words.
In her copy of my book, mami had pages earmarked, yet nothing underlined. She would never “ruin” a book by writing in it. Instead, she earmarked it and called me to discuss. She would repeat how proud she was of her baby, and she would ask me questions about what I wrote. Her questions were tougher than any reviewers’.
“I just love what you can do with words,” she said. “Your words are short, but they have power. They move people. They move me.”
Mami reminded me of the times we would look up words in the dictionary and try to pronounce things in English like the gringos. We laughed as we thought about the fact that some gringos may now be reading my book in school.
“Así es la vida,” that’s life, full of surprises, she told me.
I have no big lesson to share in my humble immigrant story. In many ways, I’m still living and learning from it as I navigate existing in a world where my mami isn’t one flight away. I miss seeing mami cheer and cry with her whole body upon first seeing me cross customs at the Santa Cruz Viru Viru airport, reminding me that I am home.
Where is home now?
I still envision my mami’s smile, not only in my memories and in the pictures that help me remember her *(Ohito, 2021), but also in the people who continue to uplift while she’s gone. In the family and friendships that form a foundation of cotton balls so soft and welcoming that I feel safe not only falling, but also laying down as long as I need without feeling shame or hurry. I carry her warmth and try to honor her across the relationships I build with others.
My immigrant story is that of tremendous privilege, joy, and pain. I don’t know what to make of it except to say that it doesn’t end here.
Our immigrant stories are not just tales of a past left behind — they are stories we carry in our veins, in our hearts, and in our memories, shaping who we are and the spaces we inhabit.
My mami’s sacrifice, her love, is my immigrant story, because without her, I wouldn’t know what it means to be loved. I wouldn’t know what it means to love others.
What else could I ask for?
Laura and her mami taking a selfie at Omi’s house, August, 2018.
For my mami, Fabiola Joffre Inmaculada Joffre Bergann de Gonzales.
9/23/1960–6/18/2020
Ohito, Esther. 2021. “What can we not Leave Behind? Storying Family Photographs, Unlocking Emotional Memories, and Welcoming Complex Conversations on being Human.” Bank Street Occasional Paper Series, 45. Retrieved from https://educate.bankstreet.edu/occasional-paper-series/vol2021/iss45/10
Biography
Dr. Laura Gonzales is an Assistant Professor of digital writing and cultural rhetorics in the Department of English at the University of Florida. She writes and teaches about the importance of language diversity in classroom, community, and professional contexts. She can be reached at gonzalesl@ufl.edu
Disclaimer: The views, information, or opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of WeaveTales and its employees.
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