Darkroom: A Memoir in Black and White

Epilogue: Long Night’s Journey into Day

Epilogue LONG NIGHT’S JOURNEY INTO DAY 240 Dallas, TX, to Buenos Aires: 11 hours only 3 A.M.! he south american continent lies dark and somber below us. T it’s my first trip back to argentina since we immigrated. ben, my 21-yearold son, is my traveling companion. most of the passengers sleep. repeated glances at the route monitor convince me that we’re only crawling. not I. clouds prevent the slightest wink of city lights from peeking through. but will we ever get there? July 2005 there’s no moon. 241 for so long, it was her endless stream of correspondence that kept family ties from dying out. mama’s last visit to buenos aires was three decades ago. tap tap tap tap tap Then came the digital age, when 2nd and 3rd generations of the family on both continents became acquainted. it means so much to me that you’re going. Hola, prima! daddy, who visited argentina repeatedly, would’ve applauded my long-delayed return and ben’s first of many trips to the old country. ! 242 in 1992, when daddy had surgery, I stayed overnight with him in the hospital room. he could not stop talking. he could not stop recounting the horrors of his boyhood. he suffered anew his mother’s death. he relived the moment when his step-grandmother turned him and his brother out. after that, they slept in a haystack and dug for scraps in hotel carbage bins. the arc of my life owes its primary shape to a long-ago decision to immigrate north. I think about that on this sleepless flight. then my mind jumps to another wakeful night. 243 he’d told them at churches, mostly around the alabama black belt. I went along on a few of these engagements, but without fully enjoying myself. once, on our way home from one of those services, daddy let me sit on his lap and briefly drive the country road. the headlight beams passed through a flurry of moths. my father had returned to his customary self, not the vulnerable person he seemed to be behind the lectern. of course, I’d heard these stories before. I felt peaceful. his journey from privation to opportunity was like that of immigrants the world over. I didn’t know that yet. 244 beyond that, it’s impossible to speculate just how the family’s immigration changed the arc of my life. I have a settled life. I am a beneficiary of my immigrant ancestors’ collective courage. at 18, I became a naturalized american citizen, and in 1976, I married. we have three children. suppose my family had never left argentina. these three human beings wouldn’t exist! Ben Jude Caitlin 245 at 19, I was a studio art major at a state university, but it didn’t feel right. neither of them extracted any promises about my going back to argentina. I just wanted to. it gave me none of the joy I used to know at my mother’s kitchen table. I dropped out of college and married young. in discarding my education, I tossed the prized pearl of my parents’ migrant journey. I promised daddy I’d go back, and I did. mama lived to see me honor the promise. 246 every image I have of argentina is faded, borrowed, inherited, outdated, or imagined. it’s been years. 44 mama painted buenos aires in lovely tones. I want to see it for myself. and indeed, this happens. 247 I will also see the argentina that daddy experienced. among these are cartoneros, who roam the streets collecting discards to recycle. at least, that’s what I observe. I used to think of racism as a specialty of the American South. how wrong I was. They are mostly Bolivians and Paraguayans. I’ll catch reflections of his incan forbears in Buenos aires’s growing immigrant population. their presence stirs resentment in some quarters. ñ He will come to mind when I spot triguenos toiling at society’s thankless jobs. ñ IN MY PARENTS’ LONG ABSENCE,the demographics have shifted. The newest arrivals, with their bronze complexions, occupy the lowest stations once held chiefly by triguenos. 248...