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Flight 326
By Yanabel Faris
I had lost the desire to sleep. Every night it became harder to find the dream. We had become accustomed to the incessant sound of the fan that brought the early morning breeze and mixed it with that artificial source of energy. The mosquitoes didn’t help either, and the sound of the neighbor's generator only kept me awake looking at the ceiling. Nights were so different from how they were before. There was no Facebook to look at, no internet to go and watch a show on Netflix. There was just the silence of an empty night that pass by as slowly as it can. My husband didn’t have any problem sleeping; he was quiet as always. I spent most nights thinking, never waking him to become nostalgic together. I was enough for both of us. Ever since Maria came to our island, my emotions hadn’t been the same. I had changed. First, I never thought I would survive a day without electricity, but after the hurricane I had to wash clothes in the river. All kind of thoughts came to my mind. Too much sensitivity, and the patriotism more alive than ever; those were the major part of my days. Nobody knew if the mornings were starting earlier or if the nights were attacking more closely, if we had already become people again or if we were waiting for someone to play one of those songs that made everyone dance.
Mornings were not happy anymore. Sounds were more necessary, and distance was more noticeable now that there were no social media to connect us. I wondered if my friends were safe, where were those get-togethers that we never achieved and that, at that time, seemed more necessary than ever. So much more necessary than the signal to call my brothers and tell them that the old man was safe.
Everything became more evident that September 28. I woke up earlier than usual. Between the ice row and the uncertainty, I forgot to eat breakfast. After two hours I was back home. I returned in a hurry to finish packing a half-hearted suitcase that did not feel like traveling. Small, cold, full of clothes but empty. Just like a coin thrown for a bet, it had two faces, and on my side the ticket did not say "ESCAPE" but "FUTURE". That future that I had promised my parents when they laughed in the living room while I shouted: "I'm going to be an actress, I'm going to be a writer", and they still thought I'd be a doctor.
“My girl has to go further!”, Mom said to her friends.
I know Mami dreams of seeing me in an interview, while she is at home bragging about what her daughter does with her neighbors, drinking a cup of strong coffee with bread and cheese. Papi,on the other hand, just wants me to have work – “Mija in whatever you decide but you need a job!” – although deep down he likes what I do. I've already heard that he's going around the neighborhood talking about his daughter and the gringo master’s degree she is doing.
I took that plane for them. I took it for me and for my future children. I took that plane because my island had taught me that a future is not left halfway and although the hurricane broke us we always find our way back to reborn. From the ashes like we always do, we dance our problems, we laugh at the pain, and we fight back.
With fear and uncertainty in my suitcase, not knowing what would happen next but sure that this was something I had to do, we took that plane. With that little spark of hope, we left. We closed our house, afraid that another hurricane would threaten it, and with two suitcases in hand, we left.
We arrived at an airport so crowed it barely moved at all, where the heat seeped through the roof and still drew water that remained since the hurricane. I would never forget the atmosphere of that day. You could feel the pain, the broken dreams, the emptiness of those who had lost everything. There was no hope, just need. It was crowded with families, children crying, faces destroyed. People who left without wanting to leave, many others who did not know why they were there and I, trusting in my ancestors and values, determined not to drop what I had started.
The flight at 12:30 pm with destination to JFK airport in New York was more loaded than usual. It was full of goodbyes that some couldn’t say, stagnant tears and fake smiles. My husband sat in the window, I had too much in my head to add the imminent liftoff of my departure. For him, it was a surprise that I decided to stay in the middle when I always fight for the window. I was one of those who enjoyed watching the takeoff, feeling like the plane was leaning towards the sea and being confused between the clouds. But that day my mind was very far from that desire and my eyes refused to see a gray Island, without the green of those trees that went with the wind. El Yunque no longer stood out like the mountain from where the god Yukahu took care of us. Whoever has known about the colors of this Island didn’t want to see it destroyed. That's why I decided not to look, I preferred to close my eyes and remembered.
I remembered the rivers where all the kids swam when we were little. I felt the mountain breeze at my grandmother's house. Enjoyed the smell of roasted coffee every morning. I wanted to absorb every possible memory, just in case I didn’t came back. Just thinking about that possibility shook my soul and my heart became more one with the heart of my land.
I could hear in my mind the anthem of Puerto Rico -not La Borinqueña-. I heard Preciosa.
You will be beautiful without banners without laurels or glory! I imagined Marc Anthony singing with his voice immersed in a memory like mine and with that passion that always characterizes him. I saw him singing along with me, both children of the same land and tied to the same feeling of belonging. That flag that remains high and vibrant in its movement. My soul kept repeating it again and again: beautiful, precious, precious. Precious you will continue to be even when you lack flora because you always know how to blossom from nothing. You have done it while you have been erased from the story and I do not doubt that you will do it again.
Finally, the flight was going to take off. With my eyes closed I kept myself while Marc Anthony kept singing in my head, again and again, his song. We weren’t on land anymore; the captain did not tell me, my soul felt it when it came off my body. My husband took me by the hand, he knew that I wanted to be traveling the country, rescuing animals, building homes; he also knew that it was necessary to take that flight. He held my hand like never, aware that I didn’t have enough strength to support my body, he became the piece of soul that my body needed to continue. He smiled at me with that tenderness that knows how to conquer me, with his gaze he let me know that everything would be fine. He reminds me that I also did this for Puerto Rico.
Someone has to keep dreaming! I used to tell everybody. It was one of those phrases that was always on my lips, but that at that moment I forgot how to articulate. I spent my days talking about dreams, and I had never felt its meaning as close as when that hurried plane was moving away from San Juan.
That plane transported dreams, not as I would have guessed, but there they were. The dream of those children, by which their parents had left. That dream with a name of life that became more than obvious in the belly of that innocent woman. That grandfather anxious to meet his grandchildren - those his son would never take to Puerto Rico - those who, if it were not for Maria, he would have never met. Parents telling stories to their children, children who did not know about catastrophes or lost homes. I can assure you that no one applauded when we landed in New York. The bodies were in that 747 but the souls had remained in the 100 x 35. It was 4:45 in the afternoon and the Borincana herd had reached North American soil. No one seemed to want to get off, as if stepping on the ground in New York made it more than obvious that we were separated by an immense sea from our homeland. If you had been in that plane, you would never believe those saying that those who left where escaping.
They said those things because they did not see the tears, they did not know those passengers like I did that afternoon. We never spoke, and the truth is that it was not much needed either. We will never be friends. But we had too much in common; we moved away without wanting it, out of necessity - as different as each one was -.
Unlike what many believed, there was no escape but nostalgia. Everything was strange, everything became indispensable and caused need. There was romance in the memories, along with sadness, pieces of joy in the memory, and absences became more alive at that stage of the story. Even my dog was more missed than ever, and he went to infinity before Maria stepped on Puerto Rico.
The shower is hot, but somehow it still feels cold. Food is always on the table, but it does not taste the same as the one shared with the neighbors, with those friends who gave us the light when the island was dark. The cold is more felt than ever, because the price paid is to lose the stars in those dark and hot nights on the balcony of my house. How many nights wasted on Netflix, ignoring what surrounded me!
However, some insist on judging, they love to project themselves in others. They kept talking about those who went away to escape, those who do not understand that suffering is what brings teaching, those who insist on concluding that they only go out of fear. Fear? For me it has more to do with courage; courage to know that they love this land from a distance as if they were closer to her than ever.
People are escaping from the Island! Who would want to run away from such beauty? Nobody, that's the answer.
There are decisions that go beyond opinions on Facebook statuses. If you had been on that plane you would have noticed the newborns that were leaving without memory, the children who were crying because deep down they understood that the goodbye kiss from abuelito was a farewell with no return. If you had been on that plane you would have seen me as always, with a notebook in hand and flying with ideas. The same ideas that I have been keeping since I was four years old, since I promised to take them away. The same ones that I dared to ride on that plane, the same ones I want to return to.
That flight number 326 made me understand that we are Puerto Ricans no matter if we are at 10,000 feet or on the Moon.
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Yanabel,
Gracias por encontrar las palabras justas para describir lo que se siente partir de nuestra amada tierra. Gracias también por estar dispuesta a ir y plantar bandera con tus sueños en tu nuevo mundo. Admiramos tu arte y, aún más, tu valentía. Definitivamente, puertorriqueñas como tú han hecho, hacen y seguirán haciendo la diferencia al contarnos con honestidad la realidad. Confiamos en que continuarás siendo reflejo dinámico de lo que significa ser #caribeña donde quiera que vayas y hasta cuando te sientas en la Luna.
Un abrazo con admiración y mucho amor,
Prólogo:
Yésica Isabel Nieves Quiñones
(blog personal: www.yesicaisabel.com)
9 de julio de 2018
Brooklyn, Nueva York
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Gracias por el amor que sientes por Puerto Rico.