Like Father, Like Son: Part 1
“Where are they?” The question floated into the dark night, with no reply.
Two young men, brothers not much older than boys, stood by a dirt road that cut through the sandy brush. They looked around impatiently, listening for the sounds of an approaching vehicle, instead hearing only crickets and the faint flow of a river.
As the minutes dragged into hours, the reality that no one was coming for them became clearer and clearer.
“What should we do?” asked Javier, the younger brother, the sound of worry creeping into his voice.
“We could go back, I guess,” replied the older brother, Cecilio. “Nobody is coming, and we can’t stay out here all night.”
“But we just spent all that time to get this far. I don’t want to have to do it again,” said Javier.
“Well, it’s either that, or we try to make it into town walking and hope we can figure out where we need to go. That’ll take hours,” Cecilio responded.
“I guess we don’t have a choice,” Javier said, begrudgingly. “Let’s head back and we’ll try again tomorrow.”
The brothers started walking due south, working their way towards the river in the moonlight. As the two approached the sounds of gently flowing water, the faint glow of city lights grew brighter to the south.
It was September 1979. Javier Fuentes and his brother were at the Rio Grande and were heading back to Piedras Negras, Mexico. They had just made it to America for the first time, and they were already leaving.
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“Do you see it? I can’t see it.” The noise of the bustling airport drowned out any chance of a response.
The man who had asked the question watched as the luggage belt made its way around in a never-ending loop, displaying the same unclaimed bags, over and over. His wife stood behind him patiently, their 10-month old daughter strapped to her back like the precious cargo she was. She guarded their already-claimed baggage piled high on their carts.
“Why is it taking so long, Betina?” the man asked his wife.
“It’ll come. There were a lot of people on the flight,” replied Betina.
“I know, but we still have to catch the next flight after this. Why did they book us a flight with a self-transfer?” the man asked, exasperated.
“Hey, they paid for the flights so I’m not going to complain about it,” Betina responded. “Besides we still have like ten hours until our next flight. It’s fine, Jonathan.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I’m just nervous, I guess. Big day,” Jonathan said in a slightly agitated tone, turning towards his wife. “I just want to get checked in and heading towards the gate.”
“I understand, believe me. Just be patient and the bag will come, just like all the other ones did,” Betina replied softly, trying to work her husband’s anxiety down like only she knew how.
Jonathan sighed deeply and looked back at the luggage belt just as an old beat up, maroon suitcase with a bright green and blue ribbon tied to it came down the chute.
“There it is!” he exclaimed, bending his knees and hunkering down like a shortstop waiting for a ground ball.
Jonathan grabbed the handle on the suitcase as it came within reach and hoisted it up onto the less encumbered cart in one fluid motion.
“Alright, we have to change terminals, so let’s go,” Jonathan said as he pushed one of the heavy carts towards the exit, wife and daughter in tow with the other.
It was September 2014. Jonathan Fuentes and his wife and daughter were at John F. Kennedy Airport in New York City. They had lived their entire lives in America and they were leaving it behind.
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“There’s no place like home. Home is where the heart is. Where I hang my hat is my home. You can’t go home again.”
The idea of home is a funny thing when you look at it. So many sayings about the place, but none of them can really seem to agree what it is.
What is home? How do you define it?
Is it the house you grew up in? Where you spent your childhood running around in candy-fueled sugar highs, skinning your knees and getting into mischief?
Or is it the bedroom you locked yourself away in when your first love broke your heart in high school? You put on your sad songs and let the tears soak into your pillow as you wondered if you would ever love again, finally succumbing to the exhaustion of sobbing and sleeping away the angst.
Is home that first apartment you rented with your best friends, the ones you could never live without? The apartment where the arguments and passive aggressive comments filled the air after you realized spending too much time with someone is a bad idea.
Perhaps home is where you raise children of your own, hoping they make less mistakes than you did. The place where you have to tend to the skinned knees and broken hearts, knowing that no matter how much you want to help right then and there, time is the only thing that will heal.
Whatever you decide what home is, one thing is common throughout: you will leave it one day.
You might leave like my father, a poor kid from a big family in a house that’s too small, looking for something better. Or you could leave like I did the first time, a pissed-off teen on the verge of manhood who packs up his life in a beat up car and leaves.
Sure, we could be like Warren Buffett and buy our childhood homes, but it’s never really quite the same in the end. Once you step foot out the door with the intention of starting a new part of your life, a new place becomes home.
This is what I really thought about when my father told me about leaving the little patch of desert sand in Mexico where he grew up. With only a middle school education and the desire for something better, he made the arduous trip to America. He worked hard, laborious jobs for little pay and eventually made his own home with his own family.
It’s a story that generations from all over the world have told, the chase for the American Dream.
So, what was I chasing when I cast off from the land where I grew up and went abroad, searching for my place in the world?
Much like my father, I left for a chance at a better financial situation. I didn’t have to endure the same back-breaking, hand-hardening manual labor he did, but I left all the same. I made my home in a new land with my family, something I’ve done many times now.
That’s the thing about home. However you define what it is to you, it’s that for only so long. You can touch its walls and breathe in its smells, but there will come a time when you can’t do that anymore. Even if you come back to the same place, you’re not the same person.
Maybe that’s why we left, my father and I. We sought out better opportunities, sure, but maybe a small part of us knew that we had to go if we were to become the people we needed to be. Had to “spread our wings.”
Or maybe we went looking for answers.
