The Way to a Granddaughter's Heart
Growing up, traveling to the Dominican Republic had always stirred up feelings of anticipation and anxiety. Unlike other children my age, it wasn’t the act of flying that scared me, but rather the congregation of people that awaited me at Santiago International Airport. My mother continuously emphasized the importance of exchanging hugs, smiles, and idle chit-chat with every person there for us. The only exception to this rule was my grandmother: my mamá hugged but rarely smiled, and idle chit-chat was just not her way. She preferred to affirm her love through elaborate meals. My fondest memories of my late mamá all include carrying out some menial kitchen task under her watchful eye. At the time, helping out was an annoyance, but I’ve belatedly come to realize the impact these moments had on me. As a woman of few words, my late grandmother often used cooking to forge a connection with the grandchild she did not get to see often.
Upon arrival at my father’s childhood home, a clamor of sounds more intense than those we had left behind at the airport greeted us. Loud music reverberated throughout the walls of the colmado, a deli of sorts, next door. As the welcoming crowd settled down on the porch, the scents of lunch wafted out through the open front door. The air filled with the pungent smells of meat, garlic, and herbs my grandmother liked to grow in her front yard. As usual, I was immediately forced into the kitchen to help out with food preparation. Whenever this happened, I was struck once again by the bittersweet feelings of anticipation and anxiety.
Unfamiliar kitchens are scary places, and although I had been in this particular one quite often, it still felt very foreign to me. My grandma’s everlasting silence did nothing to alleviate this distress; if anything, it multiplied it. My mother’s side of the family had always been firm believers in vocal encouragement. Therefore, I sincerely believed that was the only way to demonstrate how you felt about someone. I never got that from mamá, which led me to seek her approval desperately whenever I visited.
Unfamiliar kitchens are scary places, and although I had been in this particular one quite often, it still felt very foreign to me.
I made myself useful in any way I could. I handed her the kitchen tools she required and diligently watched as she handled gargantuan pots of stewed meat, rich beans, and perfectly fluffy rice. All the while, preparing a medley of side dishes to accompany this main feast: fried plantains, a variety of salads with homemade dressings, yucca fritters, and bread. She would never let me do anything of substance, and I preferred it this way, as the thought of making a mistake around her mortified me. I carefully carried out the simple tasks assigned to me, too anxious to ask if I could handle the food directly.
A few years before her passing, mamá was able to visit our house in New York for a change. Although she wasn’t a fan of leaving her home very often, medical reasons propelled her to make use of her visa. She was the guest this time around, but that did not stop her from seizing the kitchen as if it were her own, and of course, my mother called on me to help her every time. One morning, as she was slicing potatoes for breakfast, I overheard a phone conversation she was having with one of my aunts back in the Dominican Republic. My aunt asked her what she had felt on the plane ride here. She gave an answer that was all too familiar to me: “Anticipation, with a hint of anxiety.”
Now that I’ve gained some distance from my childhood feelings of mamá, I realize our similarities. I am thankful I overheard that conversation because, without it, I may not have discovered the pieces of myself that deepened my connection to her. Her introverted demeanor is something I can much relate to when I find myself having to recharge after socially draining situations. Her way of demonstrating love through actions—not words—is also something I practice with my loved ones. Perhaps this is all purely genetic, or maybe I happened to pick these things up from all of that time spent in her kitchen in Santiago.
By Scarlett Liriano Cepin
Illustrations done in collaboration with the New Media Artspace at Baruch College. The New Media Artspace is a teaching exhibition space in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Baruch College, CUNY. Housed in the Newman Library, the New Media Artspace showcases curated experimental media and interdisciplinary artworks by international artists, students, alumni, and faculty. Special thanks to docent Jose Daniel Benitez for creating artwork for this piece.
Check the New Media Artspace out at http://www.newmediartspace.info/