Synaptic

The final project for this course asked students to compose a work of creative nonfiction using one of the approaches we read and analyzed in the first half of the semester. Emma chose to expand a class exercise focusing on creating compelling characters through their “props”—familiar objects we associate with a person close to us. Emma initially chose to focus on her grandmother and the hammer she used for household projects; however, the expanded draft also included her mother. The result was a moving piece of memoir expressing Emma’s pride and gratitude for her heritage. On the sentence level, Emma makes great use of imagery, going beyond simple sight images to transport us into the world of her memories, and figurative language to deepen the raw emotions she describes.

-Dr. Lance Dyzak

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I sit batting my eyelashes which are disproportionately larger than my tiny head, as I swing my feet below the kitchen table trying to reach the floor. I had just turned five years old. Steam slowly rises from the handcrafted soup that sits in front of me. Smelling of basil and tomato, I blow on it with my cheeks puffed. I swirl my spoon around in circles trying to see how fast I can get the little chopped-up carrots to move before I can no longer resist and bring the soup to my mouth. It tastes familiar, like home, comforting me from the inside out. I feel nurtured by the flavor as it seeps into my tongue. I look up to see my grandmother, or, as we call her, our Lita (short for Abuelita), still working on the soup as if she is still mastering her craft — firmly holding a spoon in one hand, and a hammer in the other.

The hammer lay resting in her hand as if it belonged there, held against her hip. Almost as if the tool was an extension of her. The wood was scraped and scratched as marks fell like teardrops down the handle. The metal part of the hammer was dented and bruised from the poundings it gave and took from the projects of love she endured around her home. I stared at my Lita as she held this demeanor that was both calm and demanding, almost like she was immovable.

I saw her like a sprout might view a willow tree – elegant and strong. Swaying and moving in peace as wind and trials came her way, yet she never wavered. Her roots sunk deep into the ground and held her up strong, with a sense of wisdom that you could see written and sketched in her like the bark of a tree. I admired her strength. I felt safe in her home as she laid me down for my daily nap which I was quite reluctant to do. As I was caught glaring around the room by her, where she lets a faint chuckle out before closing the door behind her. The lamps were dimly lighting the room around me, as the headlights around the fan were off; making the room equal parts light and darkness as I lay my head to rest and finally shut my eyes.

I am awakened by a harsh, constant beating on the wall, frustrated by the noise that brings me discomfort. I slowly open my heavy eyelids and try to remember what day it is, as I remain disoriented from my nap. I look around the evenly lit room which fills me with a sense of calmness before I go towards the door and try to follow the loud banging that disrupts my peace. Not only do I see my mother sanding the floorboards of the kitchen but my Lita tinkering with the wall as she is hanging a frame of the Virgin Mary. Her short, curly, gray hair stood on her head sticking out frizzy but somehow in perfect order. Her brows furrowed as she stared at the frame to see if it was perfectly even. The wrinkles she possessed from years of work and love she gave were brought out as she adjusted the portrait. Her earrings dangled loosely from her ears as she wore elegant hoops swaying back and forth. All the while she tilted her head back and forth like a bird making sure the picture was perfect. She smelled like home, of basil, vanilla candles, and sawdust. Both my mother and Lita worked tirelessly to make her home better than it was the day before.

They spent hours a day renovating my grandmother’s home, leaving no detail dismissed. Every nook and cranny of that house was cared for and attended to, much like me. I hardly ever saw either of them sitting with their feet up on the coffee table. I never saw them caught red-handed with greasy fingertips from the potato chips they consumed. Their relationship was built on strength. I always saw them preparing meals for me and my sister, as they ran around the kitchen. I saw them constantly cleaning the space where me and my sister played. I saw them making the beds in which we rested. Sometimes I wanted to tell them to slow down and take a seat, but I never dared to interfere in their efforts. Mostly for fear they would make me join them.

It’s nearly 10:30 pm and I hear crashing against the wall and I have a test in my freshman year math class tomorrow – that I was in no way prepared for. I take my headphones out as my head falls depressingly into my hands as I wonder what kind of chaos is occurring in my home. What on earth? My mother always found the most inconvenient

times to start projects around the house. This was just one of the many. She was hanging out portraits of our family along the stairs, each with their own unique frame. I was doomed for this test from the beginning, and I knew this wasn’t going to be of much help. She had been buzzing around the house since I got home from school: making dinner, laundry, cleaning the living room, cleaning the fireplace (which was exceedingly impressive to watch), painting the basement, and lastly hanging pictures up around the house. We had just moved, and my mother was trying to make it feel more like home.

Sometimes I wish she would give herself a break from the chaos, not only because she deserved it – but because it would give me some peace and quiet. Nonetheless, my mom was a force of nature when it came to hard work. Let’s just say I often found myself dusting and vacuuming alongside her often unenthusiastically.

I always knew where my mother got her knack for hard work; it wasn’t rocket science. My Lita, a Mexican immigrant. She was wholeheartedly and without a doubt the bravest and most admirable person I knew. I imagine throughout her journey to America that she was tired, I imagine she was scared, but I hope she never felt alone. I can see her in my mind, a young woman with her husband, my Lito, and their beautiful, young, feisty daughter — my mother.

With their bags packed, coming to a country that didn’t want them, all to fight for the life they deserved, a fulfilling one. I imagine all of them in the rural area of downtown Kansas City surrounded by family and friends on the same journey as them. I see my Lita opening her home to those who needed the support and care that she needed when she first immigrated here. My mother would always tell me stories when we visited my Lita’s of how full of life it was. The house was a two bedroom ranch off the freeway. Small but cozy, my mother said she often shared a room with someone until they had enough to get on their feet. That was the type of woman my grandmother was. A compassionate, generous woman who opened up her home, even when she too was struggling. So, when I’m safely tucked in bed, in my room in the suburbs of Kansas City, where I feel at peace and comfort. I think of her, I think of the sacrifices, and the leaps of faith she took. To not only give herself a better opportunity but to give her daughter one. I will forever be grateful for the role her daughter plays in my life. She has been an incredible mother to me, constantly helping me understand my heritage and providing me with the opportunity to live the life I want. It grounds me like the roots of my past, reminding me who I am, and who I come from. I am solely a benefactor of the trials she went through. The privilege in my life is never lost on me, and I have my family to thank, for granting me that privilege.

“Every girl needs a level and a ruler Em,” my mother said before leaving to move me into my new college dorm.

My mother. One of a kind she is. But like most mothers, she wears the pants of the family. The unspoken glue. I love my dad, but anytime I had a broken lightbulb, had to get an oil check for my car, or learn how to properly hang a picture, she was who I went to. Like most immigrant parents she showed her love through acts of service. She would help me make my bed in the morning, cut me fruit before bed if she knew I was stressed about an exam the next day, curl my hair before a school dance, and teach me the basics of how to take care of myself. It took me a while to realize that this is how she expressed her love, but after a while, I started to understand her. She shared lots of characteristics of my grandmother, but the one I find most intriguing is their strength. My grandmother taught my mother what my mother is teaching me.

The importance of hard work and more importantly how to wield a hammer. They were smart and skillful women who didn’t rely on anyone else for their success. A trait I admired.

I’ve always known that my fair skin and lack of an accent has granted me the passage where my family was denied. My mother keeps the story of my family alive, she leads the legacy. She would tell stories to my sister and I of the hardships she and my grandparents went through. They first landed in Texas where they worked tirelessly in cotton, strawberry, and tomato fields, underpaid and undervalued. This caused my face to burn up, leaving me to have resentment for the place where everyone was supposed to be afforded that idea of the American dream. If anyone deserved it, it was them. They worked from the ground up, to grant themselves the opportunities they deserved. My mother had to learn a completely new language and help my Lito and Lita study for their citizenship test – where they passed and became citizens of a country that they could make their own.

I’ve always been proud to be Mexican, thankful even. I know where I come from, and I know what I believe in. My heritage was something that easily I defended, and honored, like second nature. I was always a timid kid, kept to myself, and lacked any backbone when it came to standing up for myself. My family was another story. It was the summer before college, and I was at a bonfire with friends. Talking, we brought up skin conditions, as people do. Without thinking I mentioned how me and my mother have eczema, a small detail but relating to the subject at hand. Without thinking, I laugh.

“Where’d she get that, the fields?” a boy shouted.

My heart dropped into my stomach, my face burned from the inside of my gums to the tips of my cheeks where my smile lines faded. I was no longer laughing. Everyone went silent. I looked at him with as much disgust as I could bear. Didn’t he know what it was like for her? Didn’t he know the things my family had to sacrifice? I thought to myself how he’ll never know, how he’ll never understand – his ignorance almost made up for his words, almost. I looked around to see if anyone was thinking what I was, yet I was met with pale faces smiling with their jaw on the ground, holding back laughter at the appalling thing said. Instead of thinking about how isolated I felt, I thought how lucky am I to understand. I never found myself jealous of him, never jealous that his parents weren’t ever denied access to restaurants, never jealous that his grandparents never had to sell everything that they had. Because I thought of the character my family had, that he lacked. I thought of the strength, courage, and complexity my family had – that my heritage had. I was thankful for that.

I was gifted this unique perspective that I think allowed me to develop a sense of empathy and understanding. I was able to understand the privilege I had, while hearing first hand the struggles and obstacles that my family went through. I knew I was treated differently than them, I knew things were easier for me than it was for those who came before me. A part of me always wondered why I was so lucky. Why was I lucky enough to be granted these opportunities? To grow up in white picket fence neighborhood, to have my own car at sixteen, my own room, to even get the opportunity to go to college. I realized it wasn’t luck, it was the hard work that built the foundation for me to grow into the person I am. To grant me the opportunities to flourish and expand my branches – leading me to a small town in Iowa.

My mother wasted no time constructing my new home in Iowa – my college dorm. She zipped around while me and my dad watched in awe. She managed to hang my mirror, and picture frames of national parks all around my room. A little adventure within every 11×9 inch portrait that hung above my bed. The little assistance that we could offer her would only get in her way. I saw the same bruised hammer that I remember seeing rest easily on my grandmother’s hip. It fits almost perfectly in my mother’s hand as she builds all around her. She then of course told me everything I needed to know about keeping my room up to standard. Everything I needed to know about how to operate the new washer (that neither of us had seen before). She made sure I knew that I needed to wash my bedsheets every two weeks – something I knew but never did. What to do if my air conditioner broke, and how to fill my car with oil and coolant.

Everything I needed to know about living alone for the first time, she knew. She has always been a constant in my life. She is why my room in college didn’t feel too much different from home – she poured the same amount of love into each. The same amount of love my grandmother poured into her own home. My room is now a place I can go to and escape the busyness that happens all around me. A place where I can sink my roots into, and grow as my own person – all with the help of my mother, who made it that way.

“Bye Mija, I love you” my mother said as I walked my parents back to my car.

My mom hugged me a little tighter that day. We were never the emotional type, nor the hugging. So, this hit a little differently. I matched her strength as she hugged me. Wishing for our time together back. I would miss her. I would miss my mom. In a way it felt like a part of my grandmother was leaving alongside her. As I always saw so much of her in my mom. I had to remind myself that I am a product of my maternal side. That they were both a part of me, and they would help shape me into the woman I was becoming.

As I exit the perfectly lit room of equal parts light and darkness where my disproportionately large eyelashes bat heavily. I admire my grandmother much taller than little five year old body. Like a sprout to a willow tree. I stumbled towards where she hands me the hammer that lay so perfectly on her hip. She gently leads me to the clean kitchen with freshly sanded floorboards as she sits me down next to a block of wood and nails. For practice, fun, or maybe even a lesson, my Lita had my sister and I practice hammering nails on a large block of wood. The nails started slowly and firmly sinking lower, and lower in the wood. I am no longer tucked away peacefully in bed, but am embracing the hard work that brought me here. My mother may have not loved the idea of my sister and I being granted a hammer as four and five year olds. But I will forever remember that as a moment to symbolize the weight of the work and challenges that brought me here. So, now when I’m feeling frustrated when I’m awakened by my mother hammering God knows what in our home. Rather than annoyance, I remain grateful for her hardworking heart and the opportunities that my family fought so hard to obtain.

The home my mother and my Lita had meticulously crafted and renovated became the new home of my mom’s cousin, his wife, and baby boy, David Michael. Curls much like my grandmother. My Lita passed away from cancer, but I know her presence remains here. My mother has always told us to look for her in the rainbows. Unironically, the home that she built and loved so deeply was full of life and color. The outside of the house was filled with greens, yellows, and reds – which I’m sure the neighbors loved. The best thing that I can compare it to, was the girl from the book, “A Bad

Case of Stripes” by David Shannon. The colorful house was always a safe place for me to go. So, when I look into the sky after the rain and I see the colors fill the sky, I like to imagine her home there. Where I assume she’s doing what she loves: working away.

So, at 10:30 at night, when I begin to run down the stairs and chuck my headphones on the ground, I leave my math study guide to throw my mom’s hammer out the window. I pass by a picture of my grandmother. Time almost slows for a moment, everything just fades away from my line of vision, and all that is left is her. She sits peacefully on our back deck with her feet up on a chair, with a white flower in her hair. She was beautiful. I admired her strength and her boldness. She made space for herself in this world, but always left room for others to grow alongside her. The pressure I face to live up to her expectations for the life I would lead in America has never felt daunting. Rather, I am so grateful that I am the girl who is the product of the hardworking women who came before her. So, when I see my mother working tirelessly like the clock is ticking, I see my grandmother’s spirit alongside her. So, now when my mother “disturbs” me with the beating of the hammer, rather than waking in annoyance and misunderstanding – I wake up with a grateful heart for the women who made me who I am.