Mi Otra Vida

Frida Matute

“‘Get down!’” My mother wails pushing my head downwards against the truck’s leather seat. I smell smoke and see gunshots soaring into the night coming from brown burly camouflaged soldiers getting closer to our only means of protection, the feeble truck. My limbs shake like loose dried leaves as I sob quietly to hide my presence. I am sixteen and terrified for my life. “Campesinos,” peasants who work the land, scramble underneath trapped cars, into black trunks, and beneath the shadows of the brush alongside the highway for safety. Our taxi driver dives into the Blazer and slams the door shut with nervous adrenaline.

He starts the Blazer and inches out of the jam caused by the locals’ protest over gasoline at a station illuminated in neon lights. I shift my body searching for the gasoline gauge. We have a quarter tank left. Can we reach home through the carretera vieja, the road where no one wants to travel? 

Cautiously rattling along, the tires propel puffs of dust into our open windows fusing onto our humid skin. Lean men and women walk with melancholy expressions. During the daylight Venezuelans die for their possessions here.

My eyes are shut envisioning the road. Then, I try to focus on the corpse I saw lying along the path. My sorrowful eyes dart towards three gaunt, dark-skinned kids, like me, looking inside a dump for scraps of food. I stare at the digital clock in the Blazer counting the minutes until we reach home, trying to ignore my thoughts.

Finally, I smile seeing the tranquil building. My dad opens the lock that separates the apartment lobby from our small, three-room, tender home we visit frequently. My body loosens as each muscle begins to feel the exhaustion from the stress of our trip. I remind myself that Mamá Carmen, my grandmother who is the reason for our visit, is sick with Lymphatic Cancer and needs us. She sits in her reclining chair worn from regular use. As I kiss her cheek and hug her motherly body, I sigh with temporary relief.

We took a risk visiting her. Chaos had spread in Caracas; the flow of gasoline had stopped. In addition, the government was corrupt and jobs were scarce. Accordingly, the international world views Venezuela as a terribly imperfect place, yet I taste the Frescolita in the fresh open supermarkets and smell the basil, and “cambures,” or plantains.  I see the hazy mountains that surround the familiar aura of my family, emphasizing my love for the country.

I leave Venezuela with a new need to strengthen my morality, rouse my motivation, and drive myself to show others my experiences through writing. Venezuela is my second home and second mother who compels me to share my experiences. I am an example of the dichotomy of my country in these United States, as long as I keep the memory of Venezuela in my and in others’ embrace. Sharing my other life has become a necessity.