“Parental Politics”
Abby Sharer
“¡Abby! ¡A cenar!”
My host mom Patricia’s voice wafts up the stairs into my room, along with a smell I don’t quite recognize—chicken, maybe? I slam my laptop shut and bounce down the narrow staircase, my sneakers squeaking on the freshly polished wood. I enter the kitchen and take my usual seat in the corner as Patricia flits around the room, comfortably situated in the narrow galley kitchen. A stereo in the corner plays Bon Jovi, her favorite band, cranked slightly too loud. Patricia adjusts her hearing aids and gestures to the stereo with a soup-stained spoon.
“Turn that off, will you?” she said in Spanish.
I oblige, and the kitchen is plunged into silence. My host mom begins whistling as she finishes cooking, blowing a stray lock of long brown hair out of her face. She explains that she’s making a traditional Chilean dish, pantruca, that looks to me like a hearty chicken noodle soup complete with thick, eggy noodles and red chili flakes. I silently set the table, nodding as she explains the merits of cuisine from the south of Chile where she grew up.
“La vida es una ruleta.” A man sings outside, serenading the neighboring houses with a tune about life being like a roulette wheel. The voice belongs to my host dad Cristóbal, announcing his arrival just in time for dinner. He bursts through the kitchen door, the floor tiles groaning under his weight. He crosses the room in two strides, and with a confident “con permiso” excuses himself as he squeezes his large figure between the table and the wall, plopping into a chair across from me. He readjusts the floral tablecloth gracing the space between us and grins before starting to speak.
“Almost nine! Time for the news. But maybe I should change out of my gardening shoes?” While he spoke he leaned over and turned on the small television wedged next to the fridge. As if on cue, the triumphant Tele13 music blares from the TV, the volume turned up so that my host mom Patricia can hear the program without having to adjust her hearing aids. The shoes are forgotten. I shift my attention towards the screen, a repurposed computer monitor with an antennae perched on top. Patricia attempts to start a conversation as she serves us bowls of soup, but my host dad objects, gesturing at the screen with one hand as he pushes his unruly dark hair back with the other. We settle into silence, marked by an occasional outburst from Cristóbal as he watches the day’s headlines.
*
“¿Alguien va a traerme un café?”
Cristóbal’s nightly request for coffee booms throughout the small house. My host mom sighs before shuffling to the hot water heater. She flicks it on with a casual gesture and returns to the table, settling into a chair. The conversation is halting: during commercial breaks she asks about my day, I ask about hers as the news returns in the background. My days abroad have started to blur together as I settle into a new routine, the peaks and valleys of the first three weeks flattening as I slowly adjust to life in another country. The boiling water heater pulls Patricia away and I glance at Cristóbal, slumped into his favorite armchair in the next room, only a few feet away from the kitchen table. Upon receiving his coffee he slurps it loudly before emitting a loud “GRACIAS PATTY” to thank my host mom. She sighs and returns to the table with her own cup of coffee.
“Have you ever been in love?”
Patricia’s tone surprises me more than her words. I look up, confused by the drop in pitch of her usually chipper voice. Her eyes are locked on mine as I fruitlessly attempt to scrape up the last drops of soup in my bowl.
“I guess so? I mean, I love my family of course but…” I pause and focus intently on the soup bowl before continuing. “…I guess I believe in different types of love. But maybe I haven’t been in love love yet, so I don’t know.”
My voice is flat, my Spanish halting as I search for the right words to convey the nuances of how I felt. I give up on the soup and sit back in my chair, grudgingly bringing my eyes up to meet Patricia’s. She stares intently, her lips pursed in a smirk. As she’s about to speak Cristóbal intervenes, groaning as the news story changes from la Roja, Chile’s national soccer team, to the day’s crime report. My host mom scoffs as the broadcaster relates tales of robberies, vandalism, and increasing violence against women.
“These news stories, always so dramatic! You’d think nothing good ever happens here.” Patricia’s previously muted voice has returned to its normal volume and Cristóbal picks up on the change in mood, always ready for an argument.
“Gorda, Santiago is a huge city. Bad things happen every day. Maybe not here, but they happen. That’s why they’re on the news, which I can’t hear when you’re talking.”
His pet name for Patricia, which translates to “fatty” in English, still strikes me even after hearing it tossed around for the past few weeks—I resist the urge to wince. Patricia and Cristóbal both turn to me as I sit motionless, eyes glued to TV footage of a backhoe ripping an ATM out of a grocery store entryway and dragging it down the street.
“What do you think of all of this?” Patricia asked in Spanish.
I couldn’t respond immediately, and take a few moments to collect my thoughts before clearing my throat.
“I, uh…it’s a lot I guess.” My eyes dart around the room as I speak, trying to look anywhere but at my host parents.
“When you keep responding like that, it seems like you aren’t interested in anything.” Patricia speaks hesitantly, her head cocked to one side. Unsure of how to respond I smile with pursed lips, deciding to stay quiet yet again – just another night at home. Cristóbal clears his throat, preparing to speak again. He ignores my host mom’s comment, as well as my shifting in my chair. I decide to make my exit, clearing the dishes from the table before biding my host parents goodnight. A few minutes after settling back into my homework I hear the stairs creaking. Patricia appeared in my doorframe seconds after.
“Can I come in?”
Before I can respond she shuffles into the room, taking a seat on the edge of my bed, coffee cup in hand. Cristóbal could be heard below, chuckling at whatever antics were being covered on the news. Patricia settles into her spot on the corner of my bed as I squirm in my desk chair, wringing my hands in my lap.
“I just wanted to say, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable earlier.” Patricia was looking me directly in the eyes. “I know Cristóbal has a…well, a strong personality. But he means well.”
After a pause I smiled, and told her I knew that. “My own family dynamic is pretty quiet, I’m just not used to having such a loud presence in the house I guess. And I’m still getting used to everything here…” I trail off as Patricia sat up straight, suddenly animated.
“You’ll get there, I’m sure of it.” She smiles and pinches my cheek. “I grew up in the South, totally different from this big city. And now I’m here with Cristóbal, we’ve been married for 25 years and I can’t imagine life with anyone else. And besides, you’re only three weeks in. Soon enough you’ll love it here like I do.”
Cristóbal’s voice echoed up the stairs. “La vida es una ruleta.” Life is a roulette wheel. Patricia and I both laugh in response, and she pats my leg on her way out of the room.
“Buenas noches mija,” she wishes me goodnight before giving a warm smile.
“Buenas noches mamá,” I respond, wishing my host mom—my mom—a good night.
Just another night at home.
***
