Jeremy Carballo Pineda. Photo by Brett Villena. 

How do you tell your childhood friends you’re moving schools because you got evicted? You don’t. You lie through your teeth until it becomes second nature. What do you say to a college peer who asks about your birth country even though you have no memory of it? You lie through your teeth until it becomes second nature.

Time runs astray as you reminisce about a time when it was just you and your mom—Maria. You were her first child. She had you at 21. She had her whole life ahead of her, like you do now. You two were raised alike—well, to a degree. 

You attended public schools in North Carolina, never skipped a free meal at school, laughed along when a white kid called you “beaner,” but kept moving forward. You are the oldest of three, and the first to have a home away from home. Maria is the oldest of three. Maria has two younger sisters. Maria’s mom, your grandma, worked as a janitor for the local hospital. 

On occasion, when your grandma needed an extra hand and her monthly check arrived, she and Maria would walk down the street to the outdoor market and buy fresh cheese. She literally needed an extra hand—as a kid, your grandma fell from a tree and her left arm was amputated. 

Maria played the role of the eldest sibling in a working-class family a little too well. She won a scholarship to a private high school in Nicaragua. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She borrowed her neighbor’s skirts and shoes to fit the dress code. She was the only kid from her neighborhood at private school. Maria had never been surrounded by so much opulence before. Don’t get so happy—the role of the eldest always comes first. Your grandma needed her to work. A scholarship can’t pay the rent. She dropped out, began working, and took night classes at a local high school. She graduated after many long nights. You wish you could hear her tell her story; you can’t help but tear up as she smiles through it all.

Before you were born, and after graduating from night school, Maria settled in Costa Rica. Let’s just say that Nicaragua isn’t flooded with opportunities. Currently, your aunt in Nicaragua can’t afford to pay for her toddler’s diapers. Although, that doesn’t reveal much. Maria couldn’t afford your siblings’ diapers in North Carolina either.  

When you were three, Maria and you walked through the smoldering deserts of Mexico. That was when she cared for you. She could not bear to raise a child in her birth country. And you could not bear to stop crying when you lay in the bed of the blue pickup truck. It was covered by a plastic tarp, you two were hiding underneath, headed north, away from your grandma, away from your birth country, Costa Rica. The tarp screeched as the wind tested its endurance. She held you close and put her hand over your mouth. Border patrol’s ears are attuned to a distressed child’s voice. Her hand tasted like a saltine cracker that’s been dropped in sand. Your tears must have slipped in. 

When you were bright-eyed and four, you experienced one of Maria’s “firsts.” You were there for many of her firsts. She ate her first burger and fries with you. You two were in New Jersey, in a Wendy’s, soon after your exodus from Central America. You wore a buzz cut—the cheapest haircut. Cheeks chubbier than the Michelin Man’s. You used to smile ear to ear. Your cheeks would overpower your slender eyes. Your eyes would disappear from joy. There’s no need to see when lighthearted ignorance is penetrating the air. You and Maria had caramel skin. But New Jersey isn’t that sunny. The desert’s rays must have caramelized the both of you. 

Your time alone with Maria came to an end in second grade. You were seven. Giovanni, your brother, came into the world. You were still learning English then; Dora the Explorer became your tutor. You and Maria had settled in a small town in North Carolina, Lincolnton. It had a vibrant Costa Rican community and Maria became a cook at a local Hispanic bar. She hated it. But the experience came in handy, years later, when she cooked for you and your siblings. 

Giovanni was always by your side, and you were by his. You changed Giovanni’s diapers. You were the only one who understood his gibberish when he was learning how to speak. You slept by his side. You taught him how to read. You taught him how to write. You two have the same nose. Both of your apexes drip over like a teardrop. An eternal reminder of your blended reality. 

You and Giovanni shared many living spaces over eleven years. Living spaces—a euphemism for cars, family friends’ houses, women’s shelters, bunk beds, sheets on the floor, mattresses in different rooms. But you don’t remember all the locations, so “living spaces” fills the gaps. Through every eviction, every new school, every new living space, you were there for Giovanni. He turned to you when he needed clarity. 

In the absence of clarity, you turned to God and pleaded, “Let the suffering end, let the tears end, save us.” It didn’t matter that Maria would take you and Giovanni to church three times a week. Nothing changed. You realized, Only I can make it end, I will end the suffering one day. 

You calmed yourself and thought, Memento mori, you will die one day, and the ordeal will be over. Until then, you are the oldest and you will commit to your role. 

So, you calmed Giovanni. You assured him there would be better days. 

You knew the story would repeat itself every day, every week, every year. You knew a retrograde was inevitable, waiting to unveil itself at any second, so you slept in perpetual fear. You never admitted this to Giovanni. You wanted to preserve his joyful ignorance for as long as possible. You wanted him to forget about the fighting, forget about the solitude, forget about God, and find peace within himself. 

So, you lied to him, lied to yourself. And you continued to lie. And you never stopped. 

This is the first in a multipart series about the author’s experiences as an immigrant to the United States from Central America. Jeremy Carballo Pineda is a DACA-mented senior at Duke University.

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