Make Your Home Among Strangers (50 page)

I pictured Ethan hitting this same kind of roadblock—What am I even
doing
here? Who decides what counts as
general interest
? Why does no one else's research make
them
an activist?
—
and realizing the same thing about what he needed to do. A few months after Leidy's wedding, I found and applied for the lab manager position here at the Institute, knowing I was perfect for it, though maybe a little young for such a role. But I knew (or knew of) many of the researchers affiliated with the lab—including Professor Kaufmann, who served as one of my references—and after driving hours and hours (and missing many meetings with my advisor) for the various rounds of interviews down in San Diego, I successfully convinced them of what I'd known all along. The day after I signed the contract, I quit the grad program, channeling some imaginary combination of Ethan and Leidy as I picked up the one box all my things fit into and left, my middle finger the only part of me waving goodbye to my advisor's empty lab.

My parents each approved of the move for the wrong reasons (See? You didn't need more school to find a good job!), but that could change if my work took me to a certain Caribbean island. I already know what each would say should I ever have to tell them about an upcoming research trip to Cuba: my dad would talk about being
a little disappointed
in me, about the unfairness of me being able to travel to a country he can't enter, but he'd mostly not say anything, only leave me guessing at his meaning from the way he'd wait a day or two longer than usual to call me, the way he'd not leave messages on my voice mail for a while, choosing instead to just hang up; my mother would bring out familiar words—
betrayal
,
loyalty
,
traitor
—words that have come to define our relationship no matter how much time passes but whose sting has faded and turned into something I can manage, something Leidy is just as tired of hearing. My mom would, she'd say if I went, not be surprised.

To tell them would also mean inviting them along in a way. We still have family there. Go see this cousin, that aunt, I can hear either one of them demanding. Or more likely now: Go see this grave. And when I tell them there'll be no time for that, that this is a
work
trip, that I'll mostly be on the water, in or under a boat, that what they want me to do takes me clear across an island I don't know: Oh, I
see
. You don't have time to take a piece of paper and a crayon to your
grandmother's headstone
? You don't have time to do that for me who will never see it? Oh, that's right,
of course
you don't. I should've remembered how busy you always are. I shouldn't have even asked.

Truth be told, I don't know if I would tell them, since keeping quiet would be the easiest thing, the familiar thing, the way I've dealt with so many of my choices ever since that first year away. I'd say only that I was traveling again, to one of the dozens of islands I've already been to over the course of my career, so there'd be no expectation of presents. But it would make me sad to keep Cuba from them, because I'd want them to know I brought a part of them back to where they started, that some part of them had finally returned home. Even if—thanks to the summer I left them behind—they wouldn't see it that way.

*   *   *

After that first summer, I left straight from Santa Barbara to Rawlings with enough time to move my stuff from the college-owned storage place to my new room—a single, more expensive than a double, but what was another grand each term on top of my other loans? It was peace of mind, a year I could be alone and not worry about how people saw me. I used the days before classes began not to track down Jillian in her new apartment or enjoy the sun-soaked campus the way Ethan would've, but to write letters to my mom and sister—something I'd never, ever done. Earlier that summer, I had a test run at writing as a way of apology: I'd written to Ethan a couple weeks after getting to Santa Barbara, after learning that the work I'd do that summer would lead to my name appearing on an actual publication. He was the only person to whom I could imagine telling that news who'd understand its significance, so I finally replied to his
OK, OK
e-mail, trying to open things up again with just one line of my own:
I'm in Santa Barbara and therefore on your coast
, I said. But he sent only this single line back:
You're still a long way from where I'm from.

So in writing to Leidy and my mom, I tried harder. I tried to say what I felt, thoughts that seemed big and important back then but that I can't even remember now. I imagine I was trying to explain myself as a way of asking for forgiveness. I imagine I was trying to figure out why I could never be like Caridaylis but how at the same time I was already like her—I wanted my mom to see that. A week after the letters would've arrived, my sister called the new phone number I'd written in each.

—You are so weird, she'd said. A letter? Who
does
that?

I asked how things were in Miami. Ariel was being used yet again, this time for the presidential election happening in a couple months. My mom had thrown in with George Bush Jr.—her newest cause, the first of many until David and Leidy moved her back to Hialeah. I was not surprised.

—The news down here is saying that Al Gore was the one who basically made the actual phone call to raid Ariel's house, she said.

—That's not true, I said.

—How do
you
know?

I said, It's probably not true.

—Mom says she forgives you, Leidy told me just before we hung up, after we'd stopped trying to prove each other's certainties wrong.

But my mother didn't come to the phone. She never said it herself.

Months from that moment, on Thanksgiving Day of my sophomore year, I'd be sitting in my dorm room, my back to the window and the snow falling outside, blinking at the screen of a laptop I'd bought with part of my summer stipend. I'd see a banner hanging from a pedestrian bridge over the expressway, near the exit that got you closest to Mami's building.
THANK YOU ARIEL
, the banner would say.
WE REMEMBERED IN NOVEMBER.

That was the first election in which I was old enough to vote. When my voter registration card showed up listing my polling place as my old elementary school, I followed the directions in the mailing and sent away for an absentee ballot. When that arrived, it took up my whole mailbox and, when I opened it up in my dorm room later, seemed excessively complicated. There were multiple envelopes, multiple places where my signature needed to be
affixed
—a word I'd never heard used that way before. I was to vote in private, it ordered. There were to be, it stated ominously, no witnesses.

I almost threw the whole thing out.
This is too hard
, I thought, and I tossed the flapping pieces of the ballot and its instructions on the radiator, hoping they would sizzle and burn away. How easy it would've been to drive to my old elementary school, to park in its familiar lot, to walk into the cafeteria I sometimes smelled under the brighter, cleaner scent of the campus's dining hall, and slip into a voting booth. How easy—how much less of a burden—than what I had to do, what I would end up doing.

But we all know the history, and I'm sure my vote was never counted. I'm sure it sits—even now, probably in that state's capital—in some vault, the envelopes unopened, the paper moldy and dank like the Ariel artifacts my mother kept, at the bottom of some bag filled with ballots like mine. I wish I'd known as I sat there hovering over that radiator-warmed punch card—having waited until the postmark deadline to commit a decision to it; the little pin that I'd detached from the instructions, which mandated I use only that tool to puncture the spot that proved where my loyalties lay, slipping in my sweaty hand—how pointless it would be. I wish I'd known that no one would ever see it or count it. I wish I'd known, as I pushed through one choice over the other, how little it mattered which side I ended up betraying, how much it would hurt either way.

 

Acknowledgments

Much thanks, love, and gratitude to the following:

My agent, the brilliant and thoughtful Adam Eaglin, not just for his belief in this book, but for the passion he put into making it stronger and finding it the right home, and for always knowing the right thing to say at the exact right time, even across several time zones. The whole crew at the Elyse Cheney Agency.

My editor, Hilary Rubin Teeman, a long-lost sister when it comes to unconventional first-name spellings and height. Alicia Adkins-Clancy, who answered e-mails from the altar; Dori Weintraub, dream publicist; the entire St. Martin's team, especially Laura Chasen and George Witte, for getting us down the home stretch.

The Institute for American Studies and the University of Leipzig, especially Florian Bast (eater of reindeer and undying Vikings fan), Anne Koenen, and Crister Garrett for opening up their homes and sharing their families with me during my time in Leipzig. Jennifer Porto and Andrew Curry for the late nights and the reminders of home.

The One Voice Scholars Program, the single most amazing organization for which I have ever worked. Sue, Mommi, Kelli/Kelly, Irma, Ruth, Rosie, Sharmon, and especially Dan (Dan!) for their dedication to making college access a reality in this country. One Voice is the real deal: Please visit
onevoice-la.org
to learn about the vital work they do.

More of my One Voice Family: Amara, Angelica, Yaracet, Jenny, Jose, Steve, Pablo, and the rest of the One Voice 2010 class. Roxy and Arturo, my 2011 badasses. This book is for you guys and for those who'll come after you. Consider it a very long hug.

The Bread Loaf Writers' Conference, where so many of the best things that have ever happened to me got their start. Michael Collier, Jennifer Grotz, and Noreen Cargill for creating a supportive and inclusive home. The Waiters of 2008, 2009, and 2010—especially Tiphanie Yanique (waiter-mama and sister) and Aaron Balkan—and the 2012 Fellows (with extra love for Claire Vaye Watkins for her generosity).

The editors and magazines who supported this novel in its early stages: Roxane Gay and Catherine Chung at
Guernica
; Ken Chen at
CultureStrike
; my literary prima Laura Pegram at
Kweli
. Erin Belieu, Stuart Bernstein, Alexander Chee, Ru Freeman, John McElwee, Diane Roberts, Elizabeth Stuckey-French, and Alexi Zentner for valuable advice and timely guidance.

Peggy and Walt for the apartment on Alki, home to this novel's biggest revision. Peter Mountford, Urban Waite, Karen Leung-Waite, Brian McGuigan, Laura Scott, and the Richard Hugo House Family for making Seattle feel like home in every other way.

Holy hell, the Grind (especially summer 2012) and its cocreators, Ross White and Matthew Olzmann. Thank you for creating that beast. There is no book without the Grind.

My literary hermanas, Xhenet Aliu, Dara Barnat, Kara Candito, Reese Kwon, and Nina McConigley for their nonstop hustle and support; Charles Baxter and Helena Viramontes for being fantastic role models and mentors.

The M.E.A.N.H.O.E.s and the Skitsos of yesteryear, with a special thanks to Monica Hill, Ankur Pandya, and Chris Principe (and Renuka, honorary Skitso). Cindy Cruz, best friend forever and my favorite Gator, for letting me steal so much.

My little sister, Kathy, for getting back in the water. My parents, Rey and Maria, for always doing their best and for raising me to do the same.

My best friend and first reader, Andrew “Best In Show” Missel, who saw the worst of it, and to whom I owe so much. You are in every word. I will never be able to thank you enough.

 

About the Author

JENNINE CAPÓ CRUCET
is the author of the story collection
How to Leave Hialeah
, which won the Iowa Short Fiction Award, the John Gardner Book Prize, and the Devil's Kitchen Reading Award, and was named a Best Book of the Year by the
Miami Herald
and the
Latinidad List
. A PEN/O. Henry Prize winner, Bread Loaf Fellow, and a Picador Guest Professor at the University of Leipzig in Germany, she was raised in Miami and teaches English and Ethnic Studies at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln. You can sign up for email updates
here
.