I Know a Woman Who Was Born Twice In a City She Wasn't Born In | Chronicles Of The Young Immigrant Women

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The year is 1935 and a ship just anchored in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Three Italian ladies in their dirty dresses and tight shoes are setting foot in their new life. They're 21, 15 and 12 years old respectively. Their parents found a spot for them to escape the war and I still don't know the reason why the family didn't come together. Later on, and Freud will explain it better than I, this had a tremendous impact in the way my dad was raised. "Italy invaded Ethiopia!" they heard an Italian man scream in melancholic excitement, as they walked down the ramp. The girls were tired of hearing about Mussolini, the sound of his name reminded hunger and fear so they decided not to hear any more news about their land. Besides the pain of being an immigrant in the land of Getúlio Vargas, the girls grew up to be happy, funky and free. Don't ask me how they ended up marrying military men, I'm trying hard not to mention Freud again. Long-short story, the fifteen year old girl became my dad's mom and then my grandma. I didn't have the chance to meet her or hear her stories or complain about the back problems my dad and I got from her. The rumors are that she wrote poetry. So did my dad. I guess writing is the only good thing running in my Italian blood, because unfortunately all the health problems I have came from that ship. I'm glad having disproportionate boobs and back pain is not the only thing we had in common. Grandma died young in a breast reduction surgery. My mom decided to reveal this little secret when I decided I would do one myself. By the way, my mom didn't get along with my dad's family and for that I don't know a lot. In a way is good–– I can create my own version of the story, like I did in the first paragraph. When I was little I was secretly obsessed with my dead grandma, I had a doll that looked like an old lady and I gave it her name. I'd sleep with it every night until my dad died too. My grandma's older sister, a very talented artist, also died very young. My siblings and I shared the room where we hung the crying Italian Pierrot she painted and dedicated to her sisters. My mom always thought it was too much of a sad picture to be in our wall, yet she never took it down. My grandma's youngest sister is the closest to us. She was the one who embraced the Brazilian culture the most. Yet, she didn't give up on her two Italian last names like her sisters did. Her cucina is no mama mia! It's still Rome, but during carnival. She comfortably lives in Copacabana and refuses to move out. Never tell sad stories and curses like the true carioca that she is. Whenever she talks about her sisters, it's always to make them look like the best women in the world. She was like my dad's second mom and "loved him more than her own son" in his words. Burying my dad was extremely hard for her, it's been 11 years and still every time we talk about him, she cries with a smile. My siblings and I don't see her as much as we would like to. I remember the first Christmas we spent together after a while; the same night we figured she lost some hearing; she bursted into tears while looking at my sister's face. Aunt grandma couldn't stop screaming while measuring her nose and eyebrows. It's because my sister was basically born from my dad's spit, all of my mom's work doesn't even show. I miss that night, even the part when we spent 25 minutes at the door waiting for her to come open, as she couldn't hear the knock or our desperate calls. Just because (or specially because) of her excitement when she finally let us in, like that was our first attempt. I haven't seen her in a long time. The last time we talked was on facetime, when my aunt (my dad's sister) died. "I keep burying everyone!" she said and chuckled. Two weeks ago I learned that she contracted the COVID. Italy's collapsing and my first thought is: "she will died with the country she was born in." Immediately I decided to write this and use my thought as the title of this chronicle, in an attempt to get rid of the guilt I was feeling for not being there. But here I am, happy to be editing the last paragraph right now. It's with relief that I delete my goodbye words as she is strongly recovering. I can end this saying she got sick with the country she was born in, but in 1935, Rio de Janeiro gave her the magical power of living. It will be really hard to take Ilse Romano out of Copacabana.