Henry Suarez

I was so accustomed to calling my dad’s mom, Mamita, that I seemed to forget she had a real name. I once hailed a motoconcho in our little town of Castillo.

When he asked where to, I said “adonde Mamita Suárez”

Instinctively he responded “¡a la casa de Doña Lupe!”.

Esa misma.

Maria Guadalupe Suarez, Mamita as we called her. A diminutive and soft-spoken woman, with a mind as sharp as any I had ever seen.

She liked to stand with her hands clasped behind her back, surveying any room she walked into looking for irregularities. If she felt like something was too good to be true or seemed off, she wouldn’t say a word but you could read in her eyes that she wasn’t buying it. Calling people out was not something she feared though, always reminding my dad when he was too rigid with me and my brothers, “asi mismo eras tú de travieso”.

My aunt always tells the story of a lady that lived in our building. Doctors had discovered a ball in her stomach, “la bola de Juana.” No one knew what it was but it sounded scary. My aunt told my grandmother about it and immediately she retorted “si, una bola de nueve meses.”

“No diga eso Mamita, que usted no sabe.”

Sure enough, that’s exactly what it was, a little ball that kept growing in size, developed into a fetus and several months later Juana birthed.

In the back of her house, she had a little quiosco and whenever we visited the Dominican Republic she would love to sit and tell us stories of the past. Once she told me that the day my parents came home from the hospital with me, she and my grandfather called the house and asked that my dad let them hear me cry on the phone. I found it odd that you would want to hear a baby’s scream, most people run from them, but these are the little things you do when your family is miles away in a foreign land.

During one of my visits, when I was 6 years old, I had gone down to the river with a few of my cousins. Walking into the house I waved hello to her and an older man standing next to her. I made my way to the bathroom. When I came out she pulled me by the arm and said I needed to run after that man and ask for his blessings or "besarle la mano." He was my grandfather's brother, my great uncle. I cut through the house, out the front door, and caught up just before he walked past the front gate. He was a sweet man, smiling and chuckling to see me winded and out of breath. “¡Esa Lupe no juega!” I walked back in and she let me know that the next day we'd be up early to go visit him and his wife.

My father is the fourth of eight siblings, six of which were boys. She had six nueras. Something that sticks with me is that she never embodied the evil mother-in-law or "la suegra metiche" that you see on TV or hear about. It's possible that I'm remembering through the lens of nostalgia, which always seems to shed a positive light on things.

To Mamita, it was always important for a woman to value herself and be a leader within her family. She always preached "la mujer tiene que tener su clavito", a little money on the side for things she wanted or needed. Her place was always in the home, as she raised her eight children and then became the caretaker for many of my cousins. This didn't keep her from realizing that the world around us was changing, and always encouraged my mother and aunts to go out and work. Don't allow yourself to ever be completely dependent on anyone. She even recommended my mom make pastelitos and go sell them, volunteering herself to watch over us.

 After the birth of my youngest brother she came and spent some time with us in Queens. My dad was recovering from back surgery and my mom spent some time recuperating from pregnancy. Part of me was very excited at the thought of Mamita staying with us, another part of me was worried as hell. My mom has always been an adventurous cook, willing to try out different recipes and experiment with new ingredients. With Mamita, you were getting a real campesino menu, viveres accompanied by some protein. We discovered root vegetables that we didn't even know existed. Before then I had no clue what a "rulo" was, it looked like a guineito to me. She made sure we would never forget and knew the difference.

I vividly remember a Dominican Mother's Day celebration that we had for her at my aunt's house. Since my grandfather's death a few years earlier, she hadn't spent much time in NYC. For many of us, this was the first gathering of our extended family. At the time five of her kids lived in Queens, they were all present with their kids. My father's cousins came from Boston and Jersey, close family friends were invited as well. The plan was to keep this a secret from her, so one of my uncles took her out for the day. He kept her out as long as he could but she was antsy to get back and be in the apartment in case anyone dropped by to see her. When he could no longer contain her, he phoned to say they'd be there in 10 minutes. Arriving at the building they rang downstairs and someone buzzed them in. They cut the music so that we could hear them coming, once we heard the elevator doors open everyone assumed their positions and the lights went off. She opened the door, the lights come on, and immediately Sergio Vargas's "Madre Mia" starts playing. Looking around at all these faces, the tears just poured out and she sank into my uncle's chest. There’s not a time I hear that song that I don’t think of that moment.

Her birthday was two days after 9/11, so when we called to wish her a happy birthday, she was insistent that we move back to DR. “Cojan para acá, que es más seguro.” She felt we had been in NYC for long enough and we needed to go home.

Two years later for her 90th birthday, we had a huge celebration in el campo. The only one of her children not present was my uncle Feliz, who had unfortunately passed away a few years earlier. Almost all of her grandchildren were there and each of us took a turn crouching down in front of her so she could feel our faces. She had gone completely blind by this point, but hearing our voices and running her hands over our faces, she recognized each one of us without fail. Making sure to point out how fat I had gotten.

The house was packed, so the women were given the beds. All the men slept on mattresses thrown on the floor, right on the floor, or in some cases the backseat of a car. No one minded because the point was we were there together, for her.

On the day of her birthday, everyone from around there was present. In preparation, they slaughtered goats, cows, pigs, and Guinea hens. The chickens got off lucky because they didn’t find how to work them into the menu. Multiple kitchens were put to use, anafes everywhere you looked. We couldn’t even use the quiosco because it became a makeshift kitchen.

Instead Mamita held court in la galería. They had brought over her older sister who was 93 and also blind. They sat there telling us what it was like when they were children. Going down to play at the river, the same river we were all going down to bathe at because there weren’t enough bathrooms or water in the tinaco for all of us. They spoke of the little wooden shack they grew up in, on a road not accessible by car. The house where she lived now, was built much later by her and my grandfather. More importantly, they spoke of the joy they had as children, living together, and how she was glad for me and my cousins to have that. Even in our new land, our new home.

I was there when she passed away at 92, I consider myself fortunate to have spent that time with her. I was in DR and for the first time ever I flew through Santiago and went directly to Castillo instead of arriving through Santo Domingo. I spent four days with her and she asked me about everyone, remembering minute details about each of them. I had brought my camcorder and recorded a message from her to the family, telling us how she cared for us and asking that we always keep a strong bond and care for each other.

The next morning I left for the capital and promised I’d be back before I flew out. One day later as I was en route to see my other grandmother in Bani, my cousin called me and said I had to come back to the capital, “se murió Mamita.” We were about 15 minutes from our destination so I didn’t want to turn back right away. I told him to go on without me and I would meet him there. Later that afternoon, I made the drive back with my uncle, my mother’s brother, in time to go meet my father at the airport. 

Eerily, on the video I recorded, the moment immediately following her message to the family was a shot of the pickup truck leaving the house with her casket in the back. She’s been gone 18 years and while the recent pandemic has not allowed us to see each other as often as we’d like, the family bond is still strong. Our WhatsApp chat has been running for as long as the app has been out, rarely quiet for more than a day or two. Our cousin's outings and get-togethers are a testament to her vision for our family. Rare is the occasion that we get together and don’t mention a story or an anecdote about her. She was the backbone of our family, keeping us together was always of importance to her, making sure that we never forgot where we came from.