Well Worth the Sacrifice

My mother is a saint.

Growing up, she was the kind of mother who would literally give up the last morsel of her favorite food to give it to her children. She sacrificed her dreams of becoming a doctor to be our mom. Like many other mothers, she became our taxi driver, short-order cook, fashion designer, hair dresser, sounding board, therapist, nurse, advocate, among many other things that are too numerous to list. If you were to look up the definition of mom in the dictionary, you would find a picture of my mom in it. As she usually says: "There's just one mother, and that's me".  But a lot of sacrifice went into being that kind of mother, and that's why to me, she is nothing short of a saint.

A lot of the mothers I have been blessed to know are like that. They are perfectly happy to sacrifice their own wishes and dreams on behalf of their children's.

Not me.

I am a selfish mom. I love my kids beyond all limits of imagination, but I cannot fathom giving up so much of my own self for these two little creatures that sometimes just don't appreciate ANYTHING.  No, I won't give you the last bite of my cupcake just because you want it. No, I won't clean up YOUR mess just because I'm mom and I'm supposed to. No, I will not change the channel to watch yet another mind-numbingly boring Disney show. No, I will not sacrifice my summer to your desire to play summer baseball...

And then we have a weekend like this weekend, which was long and, ironically, full of my sacrificing my free time to shuttle little critters back and forth between multiple sporting events. A weekend full of pressure, as oldest child tries out for one of the much coveted spots on the all stars baseball team, and tries very hard not to show how anxious he is about making it. A weekend made all the more stressful after a game where said child's Sunday travel team was slaughtered and said child overheard an adult in the other team call them "the crappiest team ever".  And when he tells us with his little voice breaking up that he felt hurt and offended at that comment, well, heck, I was then hurt and mightily offended myself.

After a small part of me was secretly harboring a desire not to have to run all over God's creation to take this child to the many tournaments that making this team would entail, I now felt a raw, very personal ache for him to make that team. Because, lets face it, he is a good kid. A kind, decent, hard-working boy who actually asks very little from anybody, and all he really wants is to play ball. So, when we finally got the news this morning that he made the team, I could not wait for him to get home from school so I could tell him. And his reaction was well worth all the sacrifices that are sure to come.

I'm a happy mom.

The Point of No Return

Tuesday, January 7, 2014.  The morning routine starts a bit out of whack, thrown off by the Polar Vortex that transformed the usually mild winter of our little corner of rural Maryland into a frigid wonderland, with sub-zero wind chills. In the continental United States, the weather was the news of the day.  But it was news from another, faraway place that froze my heart solid.

The news came of yet another murder in Venezuela. Another number. Another statistic that colors my homeland in ever darker hues of black, as if that were even possible. But this time it was a public figure. The news came of the murder of Monica Spears, a 29-year-old actress, former Miss Venezuela, and above all, mother of one. I didn't know her. I didn't even ever watch her soap operas or saw her win her crown. And yet, I cannot erase the image in my mind of such horrendous turn of events, the image of a 5-year-old found injured in a car, next to the dead bodies of her parents, who were shot dead in front of her.

The Venezuelan diaspora—those Venezuelan citizens living abroad—is estimated at 1.2 million people. That is 3.5% of the population. By all measurements and statistics, the Venezuelan migrant has been characterized by being highly skilled, educated, and professional. This exodus, better known in Venezuela as "brain drain," has intensified in the last 14 years, the result of young people fleeing a country that no longer offers them a future, a country whose government—or lack thereof—has strangled entrepreneurship, innovation, opportunity, safety, decency, and security out of the lives of ordinary citizens. Our rich and prosperous history as a country that became great by welcoming immigrants from all places, a country that opened its arms to all people, is long gone. We are now a country that exports its most precious resource: its young people. The world is now peppered by 1.2 million people who work hard, and usually succeed, at adapting to their new homelands, but that even as they are grateful for the opportunity they have, cannot help but to live their lives longing, yearning for that which is familiar, for those 912 thousand Km² that beckon them to come back, that whisper in their ears, late at night, when no one is watching, asking them to return. And like sailors following the sound of the siren's song, you make plans, you buy tickets, you get on a plane, full of dreams, and hopes, in the company of the family you have formed in your time abroad, giddy at the idea of showing your children everything you have been telling them about since the day they were born, when the first lullaby you sang to them was Gloria al Bravo Pueblo. You bring your husband, and your U.S. born daughter to spend the holidays home. Your home. You proudly show her the beauties of the mountains, of the plains, of the terrain that makes your homeland the true wonder that it is, that makes you believe in the existence of a Creator, because such magnificent beauty cannot be the result of an accident. And while you traverse its landscape, fate decides that you should become one more among the thousands of people who fall victim to the crime that is crippling the nation. Your car breaks down, and while you wait for help, death arrives, in the shape of misery, ignorance, indolence, and impunity. Six close-range shots aimed at you and your family, including your 5-year-old daughter, because you locked yourself inside your car when they came to rob you. Only your daughter survives. And for all your efforts trying to instill in her your love for the motherland, the last memories she will ever have of your home are memories of horror, distress, and desolation.

Venezuelans have many traits that set them apart. Tenacity is one of them. Some may call it stubbornness. We are dead set on maybe someday returning. We all harbor the hope of going back, even if for just a little while, to rekindle that fire, that invisible, primal connection that keeps us attached to the homeland, and that doesn't loosen its grip, no matter how long you have been away. But, like an old childhood friend now living in Australia said, one by one, we are beginning to discover, that there are some things that signal our own personal "point of no return."  That one event that tipped the scales for you. That one thing that told you, once and for all, that there is no going back. That the land of your dreams, the country of your past is forever gone.

This year will mark 20 years since I left. Twenty. Half a lifetime. On Tuesday, January 7, 2014, I read the news, and I heard the sound of a door closing behind me, and with that sound, my soul shattered in a million little pieces. I was left bereft.

On Tuesday, January 7, 2014, I reached my point of no return.