Christina Igaraividez - Music, Memories and My Abuela

 

 

As an only child, I grew up being raised by my single working mom and my grandparents. But if I'm honest, I was raised by my grandma. My grandma and I were like two peas in a pod. Everywhere she went, I went too. I loved listening to her sayings and stories. Some would be old adages in Spanish that I'm sure she brought back from Mexico, like “Ponte un suéter,” [audience laughter] which means put on a sweater that she would say in even 90-degree weather. While others were meant to teach you a lesson, like, “¿No quieres comer? Entonces come cacao,” [audience laughter] which means, oh, you don't want to eat this? Well, then you could eat shit. [audience laughter] 

 

Yeah. I learned a lot of my life lessons from grandma. She taught me my first language, how to drive and even got me out of middle school fist fights, because she just had to be there. I mean, who wants to kick your ass when your grandma's standing right next to you? But out of all her sayings and stories, one always sticks out from the rest. We were always a very musical family. So, I remember my grandma being in the kitchen washing dishes and humming a little song and saying, “¡Cómo me encantó el violín.” How I love the sound of the violin. 

 

I don't remember whatever prompted this, but I do remember in the fourth grade, our music teacher asked us what instrument we all wanted to play. Around the room I heard kids saying, “Flute, clarinet, flute.” When she came to me, I said, “I want to play the violin.” I was so excited, because I knew grandma always kept talking about how much she loved it, and I wanted to make her proud. I ended up falling in love with it too. By the time I was in sixth grade, I could play any song by ear. And by seventh, I was so good that our music teacher at our school on the far south side of Chicago had taught me all that she could. Instead, my music teacher sent me to take classes at the All-City Orchestra in downtown Chicago. 

 

All City was this place that attracted kids from all different backgrounds and neighborhoods, all equally as talented. Once I got through that audition, I couldn't wait to be just like them. But I was also 11 years old. So, when that first practice early Saturday morning came along and my alarm went off, I'm like, “Do I really want to do this?” But just as I started complaining, my grandma got in my face and pumped her fist at me and said, “Échale ganas.” Give it your all. You know, like a coach and a boxing ring. That's all I needed to keep me going every Saturday morning. 

 

She would drive me at first, every weekend. But it was also around this time that her driving became a bit erratic. She started getting into these frequent fender benders and lost her way to a store nearby. So, just to be safe, my mom had my grandpa take over the driving from then on. He drove me 10 miles each way, which may not seem far to some, but for me, going to All-City was like this whole other world. It was my secret too, because to my friends back home, playing the violin wasn't cool. 

 

See, where I came from, it wasn't the worst neighborhood, but I definitely knew what streets not to walk through or not to talk to that kid down the block who always smelled like weed. It wasn't uncommon for a friend's sister to end up pregnant at 16. But practicing for my first big show with All-City at Orchestra Hall took me away from all that. I remember the night of the big show is finally here, and I'm wearing my nice black pants and white shirt, and I get up on that stage and there are these bright lights in my face, and I'm thinking, this must have been what Selena felt like. [audience laughter] 

 

So, I'm squinting, looking for my family filing into their seats. I see my mom, my grandpa, my grandma, my aunts, my uncles, my cousins. Because us, Latinos, travel in packs. [audience laughter] I'm fairly certain I won a prize for selling out the most seats. [audience laughter] So, we get started. I'm playing my little heart out and so hard that the horse hairs on my bowstring are falling off, but it doesn't matter. Every time we get a pause, I'm looking out into the audience, looking for my grandma's sign of approval. It's easy to see her, because she's the only one in the audience bopping her head to a Bach concerto. [audience laughter] 

 

When it's all over, I remember thinking, now that I knew there was so much more to explore outside of my hood, I wanted to go further. And that night, I also remember grandma being overly exhausted, so we had to cut our celebrations early. I went through with my plans of going further. And at 13, I chose the furthest high school I could. It was called Whitney Young Magnet School, and it was where all the cool kids from All-City went to. It was where you had to take a test to get in. And later, I found out it was where Michelle Obama went to high school. [audience cheers]

 

Yeah. But my mom was like, “Going to All-City was one thing, but going to school that far? No.” But with my determination and mostly the help of my grandparents, we convinced her. Before I knew it, I was a student at Whitney Young. And this time, I proudly bragged to my friends, “I go to Whitney Young. Sorry, I can't hang out tonight.” [audience laughter] I was still part of the orchestra at school. And at one point, I realized the violin had opened up this new confidence in me, and opened up doors for me that I never thought I could walk through. Because I wasn't just playing the violin. I was pushing myself hard and taking honors physics and AP English and math. 

 

I had that voice in my head from my grandma, just saying, “Échale ganas” Give it your all. But I also noticed that I wasn't coming home as often. And one time, when I was home, I was sitting in my room and I remember hearing my mom talking to my grandma downstairs. And in mid conversation, my mom asked her, “Tell me your name, repeat your phone number.” I just picked up the phone to call my friend and ignored I ever heard anything. And that happened pretty often, me ignoring anything off with her. Sometimes I felt guilty, but I didn't feel guilty when I chose to stay in the city to go to college, because I'd be close enough in case my mom really needed me, but still far away, because I chose to live on campus. 

 

But every time I did come home, I started to notice grandma's sayings and conversation became less frequent. And in turn, I started speaking to her less and less to avoid her, repeatedly asking me the same questions over and over again. But one time when I was home, I noticed she wasn't there at all. I asked my mom, “Where's grandma?” And she was like, “I thought she was with you.” And so, we both go downstairs and we see the back door wide open. So, we get in the car and drive around the block and we see her sitting on some stranger's front stoop. My mom gets out the car and starts yelling at her immediately, “No te largues.” Don't leave us. 

 

When she gets in the car, I start yelling too. “¿Qué te pasa?” What are you doing? She kept escaping and forgetting things and losing almost everything. Each time, my mom and I would yell at her for different reasons, my mom, out of frustration from being her caretaker and me yelling at her, as if yelling at her would force her to change her behavior. One of the last times she escaped, when we all got home, I think to calm all of us down, my mom put on Pandora to one of these old Mexican stations. It was like magic. Instantly, my five-foot grandma jumps high from her seat, and starts dancing and belting out every word to these old bolero songs. And in that moment, it was like she was never gone at all. I knew she was sick, but I just never wanted to fully accept it, because she had been so strong her whole life, I thought maybe she could just get over this too. 

 

Sometime later on, I was driving my mom and my grandma to one of grandma's many doctor's appointments. I'm sitting there in the waiting room of the neurology department. And this feeling of uncertainty, and fear and guilt just overwhelmed me to the point where I just couldn't take it anymore. So, when my mom came out of the room, I finally asked her, “What's wrong with her?” She turned to me and told me in a way like it was just another day. He just prescribed her another pill for Alzheimer's treatment. It wasn't until then that I finally accepted it. When I did, I felt angry and useless. I was so angry that I had wasted so much time not speaking to her that I had forgotten what it was really like to be with her. 

 

Because during this whole time, I kept pushing myself further. I was no longer a violin player, but I went after any and all of my dreams of acting and writing and traveling and moving to places like New York, San Francisco and now LA. But as my world was expanding, her world was diminishing. And who knew how long it would be until she would forget who we all were. So, the last time I went back home to Chicago, I decided I had to tell her all the things that I wish she knew. And so, we're sitting on our couch one night, me and my mom and my grandma and my grandpa, and grandma starts talking, like, saying real sentences. 

 

Instead of our usual tell me your name, repeat your phone number, I'm looking through my grandparents 50th wedding anniversary album, and I point to my grandpa next to me and I ask her, “Do you know who he is?” And with this big smile on her face and this confident tone in her voice, she says, “Pues si.” Of course, I know this man is my friend. And without missing a beat, my grandpa just says, “Well, maybe one day you let me take you out on a date.”

 

Everyone's laughing while I'm sitting there holding back tears, wishing that I could tell her that I got my bravery from her, that I got my determination from her and that her words and her sayings helped shape the entire course of my life. But I didn't think she would understand any of this. So, instead, I just turned to my mom and I said, “I miss her.” I'd like to still think though that whenever she hears the sound of the violins in her favorite mariachi song, she still thinks of me. Thank you.