My Father’s Ghost
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My Father’s Ghost

My Father’s Ghost

My Father’s Ghost

IT TOOK ME a long time to admit that my father’s ghost haunts me—even longer to figure out that his spirit was leading me toward reclaiming my identity. 

He first appeared to me in a dream after his funeral. I was in my first year of college, sleeping in after another all-nighter. The dormitory was quiet, the other students eating breakfast in the cafeteria. Suddenly, the dorm room’s plaster walls faded, and I was standing on the porch of my childhood home. I could smell the pollen from the mulberry trees and felt a hummingbird buzz over me. It was morning, and my father measured a two by four on his workbench. He is probably mending a part of the house, I thought. (He had built it from the ground up.) The sunrise filtered over the trees, its shadow tracing the blue line he was drawing on the wood. He finished his lines and rubbed the back of his hand on his forehead, an old habit. His hair was black like it was before chemotherapy and before he died. 

“I’m lucid dreaming,” I said to myself. The shock made me still. I waited for him to look up at me. 

When he finally did, he smiled. “Utz awach,” he said. Hello. 

I was about to respond when his shape faded. The house disappeared. I was alone in a dorm room again.

I felt I was missing something if I did not have all my father’s words.

This dream marked one of the first moments I asked myself what I understood about heritage languages. I asked my Spanish professor in college to identify some of the words my father had spoken when I was a child. I had already taken all the courses available to me in Spanish language and literature and was now studying Portuguese. I felt I was missing something if I did not have all my father’s words. At first, my professor looked puzzled by my question until another student who had Guatemalan parentage overheard us and came over. 

“I know other words, too.” 

We both wanted answers.

Our professor looked sadly at us. She did not know anything about our words, but she guessed they were an Indigenous dialect. She suggested we ask our parents. I didn't bring up the fact I had no one left to ask. 

I left the question alone for a long time, avoiding it because it was like picking at a fresh wound. But the question came up again when I embarked on the long process of scanning all of our family’s childhood pictures. I had not realized the mountains of photo albums from the sixties, seventies, eighties, and nineties that my family had amassed. I think, altogether, the tower could have crushed the small scanner. If only, I thought, there had been digital cameras sooner. I began to embrace the process, enjoying memories I had forgotten in the pictures. I admired my father’s photography skills. 

As a child, I took for granted that he had worked as a photographer and had an eye for composition. My sisters and mother’s photos in seventies garb reminded me of the film Saturday Night Fever. Then I found a carefully composed headshot of my sister wearing a Mayan textile top and head covering. There was a photo of me as a toddler gripping my first tripod and wearing my first Mayan huipil. If I had been younger, I would have still assumed all Guatemalan citizens wore these. I found a photo of my father’s mother. It was ghostly gray, but she was also wearing the same textiles. The pieces of my identity did not come together, even after this.

Left: Photo of the author's parents on their wedding day. Right: Photo of the author as a toddler, holding onto a camera tripod. Photos courtesy of the author.

I had put these questions to sleep for years, again, after asking my mother. She was not from Guatemala. She was from Veracruz, Mexico, the site that saw the arrival of Cortez. Everyone in that region had to adapt to survive. She suggested my father had left his language behind because he could not use it here. But I could see that even she had led a life of resistance where she could. She had learned enough English to pass the citizenship test, and then she spent the rest of her life speaking only in Spanish. It was our responsibility to adapt to her, not hers to assimilate. When I interpreted for her in public, I began to feel shame. I had absorbed the self-hate taught at school and accepted that we must shed a part of ourselves to assimilate. But the adult in me sees how deeply the resistance to this assimilation still burned within the languages my family kept. I continue to share phrases with my mother that my father used: “Quieres un kappe?” Do you want a coffee? The words hold more than just Mayan and Spanish; they contain the memory of my ancestors.

I had absorbed the self-hate taught at school and accepted that we must shed a part of ourselves to assimilate. But the adult in me sees how deeply the resistance to this assimilation still burned within the languages my family kept.

RECOVERING A LANGUAGE is an emotional journey. Yet there have been amusing and empowering moments. I still recall the first FOIA (Freedom of Information Act) request I submitted to ask for my father’s immigration file—it was the back and forth with the Department of Homeland Security that I had grown used to as an immigration attorney. I submitted the documentation I needed to prove that I was my father's daughter and asked for “everything.”

The first reply was terse: “We cannot give you everything. Please be more specific.” 

I responded curtly: “I am specific. See reattached document.”

They replied again. We went back and forth until frustration gave way to my replying, “I think you forget I’m an attorney. I know what you can give me. These are my father’s documents.”

They sent me a template letter back with a disc. In it were hundreds of pages, a few redacted lightly. From this, I began to draw out pieces of my father’s journey, his parents’ names. I then found his original Guatemalan birth certificate. I found out where he was born, my great grandparents’ names, and even the finca (plantation) where they were born. I also began to research Guatemalan Indigenous languages and how Indigenous languages were discouraged through a complex history of Ladinization.

Indigenous languages were discouraged across the continent, and I saw a new piece of that. That fact sat painfully within me. I was a child of the nineties. I remembered Proposition 187 in California, English-only movements in Arizona, and California Governor Pete Wilson. I grew up on the border, where assimilating into the “melting pot” is what determines how easily you can move, with immigration officers always present. 

My parents frequently took our family across the border to visit friends. They were terrific visits to the ejidos, the unincorporated, rural enclaves outside the central city of Mexicali. However, coming back was an ordeal. No matter how late into the night we arrived at the checkpoint, I needed to sit up, recite my name, date of birth, and city of birth. I remember the flashlight in my face, and the many times my parents were sent to secondary inspection because of their heavy accents. In our words, I realized, we can usually find our truths.

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IN THE PAST year, I’ve had time to reflect on the truths, the cultural roots, hidden in my parents’ lives: how my mother used plants or the words in my father’s songs. There are truths in their words, words that don’t exist in Spanish dictionaries. Last fall, in my first semester of Huastecan Nahuatl, I began to understand the language was not cognate with Spanish or English. It was not parallel. There are entire world views in the words—there is no him or her, for example, and no gendered nouns. 

Like the world I step into when I lucid dream, there is a world we step into when we speak and learn our Indigenous languages. Entire cosmologies come into view.

Another example of a world within a word is cempoalxóchitl, the name for marigold, which holds ancient ties to sacred holidays, deities, and medicine. Like the world I step into when I lucid dream, there is a world we step into when we speak and learn our Indigenous languages. Entire cosmologies come into view. But the dream does not get fuzzier as you awaken. Just the opposite. You are turning the knob on a telescope, and your perception of yourself, your parents, and their communities comes into focus. 

My Nahuatl teacher, Cuitlahuac Martinez (founder of Speak Nahuatl), once asked, “How deep is your love for yourself and your community?” There are many threads of meaning for me in that question. I became an immigration attorney because I wanted to help my community. But is it good enough for me to work within an immigration system built upon white supremacy? Should I not envision a different future where my role doesn’t have to exist as it does? 

My ancestors were resilient people, and it is a testament to them that we are still here. Our languages, holidays, medicine, and customs have survived for generations. When I started this reconnection journey, I began to see our peoples’ relationships differently. I saw the deep connection to the land and realized I have just as much a duty to care for this continent as they do. I recognized that by reconnecting to my Indigeneity, I could better support my community and acknowledge my interculturality. I also learned to be more aware of the culture of individualism I grew up in, so I could begin to take part in a more significant collective consciousness.

As I study today, my father’s Mayan words continue to appear like small stepping stones of knowledge. The Nahuatl terms, which I share with my mother on the phone, jog her memory sometimes and lead to stories about her grandparents. Reconnecting is a lifelong process. For my part, I have felt more whole since I realized I could continue building a connection to my ancestors through language. With the same intention and love, the substance out of which my father made our family home, my son and I can continue building on his legacy.

Originally published in Ofrenda Magazine, Issue 01, January 2021.

Originally published in Ofrenda Magazine, Issue 01, January 2021.

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