(La Abuela is the oldest living member of her family, and because of this she was visited by a lot of her relatives that travels for hours to give her gifts) I'm delighted you brought me on this trip to visit my family. I got to see many of them that I remembered and so many new faces. I'm glad my family is growing--they will continue to live, and that makes me happy. — in Tactic, Alta Verapaz, Guatemala.

Thank you for bringing the rest of my muñecas from the US. I really missed them. I'm going to change their clothes, bathe them and look at their hair--it's a mess.

La Abuela, today is my 30th birthday and what better gift than to take her our and enjoy the day. The first thing she did when she saw me was to hug me, kiss me, and give me her blessing. Tomorrow I will take her to see her family, something she has been asking for months, and when I told her tears came out of her eyes.

Today is my last day here in the US, and I want to thank you for all the memories we have made. My physical body will no longer be with you tomorrow, but I know you will remember all the conversations we have had. Don’t be sad for me and please don’t cry. I am going back home, and no one should be sad for a person that is going back home. Que Dios de bendiga y que siempre te cuide—

I haven’t told you this because I didn’t want you to be sad or worry about me. A few months ago, on my birthday, my mother came to visit me. After we recalled our best memories and as she was leaving, she asked me to go with her. I almost did, but I hesitated. It felt like I truly wanted to go with her. She made me feel warm and full of energy. She was standing in front of me just like I remembered her—she even had the last huipil we bought together. I got scared, and I started to cry, thinking I wasn’t going to see you again, and I told her I didn’t want to leave yet. She just smiled at me, and I felt her wiping my tears away—that made me feel at peace. I told her I wanted to go back to Guatemala and see the rest of my family one last time. She made me feel like I could do it. Like I needed to go back home, and you know how much I want to go back home.

I am almost 85 years old, and life has grabbed me by the hair and tossed me all over the place. At times I thought of giving up, but I never did because I was not alone. I had my children to fight for. Now I am old, and I can see that all of my struggles, all of the heavy labor jobs, all of my pain paid off. I have been given the opportunity to hug my grandchildren and even my great-grandchildren—this is one of the few things I will take with me one day. It's the start of a new year and the opportunity to make new memories. As I look into the future I can see the smiles of my future family that has not been born yet, even when I know I won't meet them, I know they will be prosperous. Feliz año nuevo a todos y que Dios los bendiga.

I have decided to return to Guatemala. I have been living here for two years now, and the United States has treated me with kindness. My time with my family and in this body is almost up—I feel slower and with less energy every day, but I’m still here looking into the future. I need to return to the land that gave birth to my mother’s mother and my children. I need to go back to my land because it saw me laugh and cry. I don’t own anything in Guatemala, but that doesn’t matter because I will be buried into the earth that I call home. I want to go home—I want to see my mother again and walk with her as I used to when I was a little girl when I held her hand. I’m not sad to say goodbye. I will be waiting for all of you so we can walk forever.

Today I don’t feel like talking. I want this moment to be what it is. Tomorrow we will remember the past—all that was beautiful and all that made me cry.

I remember my first love (da un suspiro), I was working as a maid and we hardly saw each other (baja la mirada), (sonríe) he was the one who showed me how to kiss, back then I was so innocent (con cara de pícara), I hated always asking my boss to let me see him so most times I would sneak out just to be able to feel his lips (sus dedos tapan su boca y se queda pensando, perdida en el recuerdo).

One morning, when I was eight years young, after I found a beautiful tree to use as my bathroom, someone grabbed me from behind and forced me onto the ground. Before I could see his face, and before I knew it was the husband of my oldest aunt, I started to scream, and both of his hands threw themselves at my mouth to shut me up. He told me not to fight him, to stay quiet, that he was going to love me, to act gently, that I was going to feel what the stars felt like and that I was going to ask for more; my thought were all over the place, I didn't know what was happening, I knew he wasn't going to be 'gentle' with me—I could feel all his weight crushing me, his yellow teeth, his bad breath: his sweat dripping all over trying to drown me. I fought him. I kicked, scratched, and pushed at whatever I could. I was half-naked; mi traje típico was hanging on a nearby branch. As he was on top of me I heard him unzip his pants, I was scared—crying—but I didn't give up. I must've been screaming at the top of my lungs because many of my aunts and uncles came to help me; they found him with his pants on his knees, trying to force himself between my legs. He was taken to the village, everyone humiliated him, they punished him, and he was banished for life. After that, my mother wasn't the same as she started talking about giving me away to another family for my safety.

As an 11 years old girl that worked as a maid, I didn’t have many dolls, I had one, but for like a day, the daughter of my boss gave me her oldest doll. Before going to bed I made her a sleeping gown, I braided her hair, I made a special spot for her in my bed, we even talked about how we were going to divide the next days chores, I kissed her, and I told her I was going to name her Chiqui (this used to be my name back when I lived with my mother). When I woke up my boss was in my room screaming at me about how I dared steal from the people who gave me a job and who were going to send me to school as soon as they could. I was fired, my few belonging tossed out the back door, I just picked them up and went looking for a job again.

I remember my first week as a tortillera (I think I was 13 years old). I couldn’t find a job that offered pay and a place to sleep. I worked standing up, in a small shack that didn’t have any vents, so the heat of the wood on fire made all four of us sweat like crazy—getting used to the smoke was my first challenge, then came the pain of standing up, and after that, the heavy blisters on my hands popped, because I made tortillas by hand my wounds never healed, and at night the pain was unbearable; I didn’t tell anyone, I just cried by myself that whole week. The owner of the tortilleria was kind enough and gave me a few blankets to make my bed on the hard floor. I practically spent all day and night in the same small shack until the pain slowly turned most of my body into a rock without feelings.

My children have been the best gift God has given me. I have endured every hard job, every mean boss, and sometimes hunger—just so that they could enjoy more food. We didn’t have much. What we did have, we enjoyed to the fullest because it was all we had. Now my small family is growing, and I’m blessed to be able to kiss my great-grandchildren.

Three generations of Guatemaltecas in Oregon.

"When I was a little girl, my mom used to take me on walks after a long day of working the café plantations. She used to talk to me about her ancestors and when we had our land. A few days after our last walk, she took me to a rich landowner to work as a maid. She told me she could no longer feed all of us and that in my new home, I was going to have food and a good education. As the years went by, I saw my family less and less, and I never got the education my mother told me I was going to get." This is only a small part of my grandmother's biography I'll post later.

Mientras disfruta de un raspado de tamarindo La Abuela dice que este lugar (La Pulga en Hillsboro) se parese un poco al Mercado del Guarda en Guatemala solo que este esta mas chiquito.

Cuando tu mamá te regaña porque no quieres comer solo La Abuela te consiente.

La Abuela asked me if I could take her to the store and all she bought was a bag of lettuce. When she was in Guatemala, she would go to El mercado, a 20 min walk, just for a box of matches.

Today La Abuela was practicing a new word she learned. When I got up, and she saw me, she said, "José shit" then she started laughing and said, "shit, shit, José loco shit."

La Abuela was scolding the ducks because the bigger ones were taking the food away from the smallest. As we were walking away, she was sad because the ducks looked hungry. Now she wants to feed them every day.

Today we visited a local U-Pick Peach Farm because La Abuela was craving the traditional platillo guatemalteco of Duraznos en Miel. She thought no one saw her when she was eating a peach.

"I just wanted to test out the electric recliner. It looked comfortable, but I wasn't expecting this to happen."

Every other morning, no matter how cold it is, La Abuela gets up extra early to wash her shoes and other clothing. She doesn't trust the washing machine to clean correctly.

La Abuela showed us her skills as she was the one to collect the most blueberries. She was so excited to the point she didn't even want to leave the farm.

La despedida. La Abuela had been living in district 7 for the past four decades. Many of her friends stopped by to say their goodbyes as La Abuela has a few days left in the country that saw her grow.

Today was a hard day for La Abuela as she had to say goodbye to her parakeets. We found them right home, but seeing them being carried away broke her routine and her heart.

La Abuela got approved for a 10-year visa. Now its time for her to start saying her goodbyes as she will leave all that she has known to start a new life in a land she has only heard stories of.

La Abuela decided she wants to apply for a US visa and visit the land where her son and daughter live. I have talked to her about how different the food is, but she doesn't care. She wants to go, and I took her passport photo.

“I got this little virgin as a gift; I don’t remember if your mother gave Her to me or someone else. I think I got Her when you were little or a few months before you were born—but that’s not important. She is very special to me. Once, one of my church friends saw Her and asked me to borrow Her because I had told stories about how She would light up at night and how She was different because She was lit all night and not just a few hours like the others. My friend took her home, and the first night She was lit for a few seconds, the second night not at all, and by the thirds day, my friend brought Her back to me and told me how She never glowed. That night I put her in my little altar and started to pray, and like always, She was glowing—all night, every few hours I got up to check on Her and always She was glowing,” my grandma told me.

Yesterday la Abuela visited one of her friends she had not seen in a couple of months because the mayor changed the bus routes to district 18. Her friend told me she remembers when I was little (less than two years old), and la Abuela would take me almost everywhere she went—how la Abuela gave me all I asked for and how she never made me walk. La Abuela and her friend talk for nearly five hours as they both cried when it came time to say their goodbyes.

Antigua Guatemala. "I have always loved horses, but I have never owned one. When I was a little girl, I think I had a friend that had a horse, but I never got to ride on it."

We went to the mall to window shop, and La Abuela talks to the mannequins when she likes what they are wearing, then she starts laughing.

UPDATE: After showing grandma these photos, she told me she didn’t know she had that many gray hairs.

Last night La Abuela was telling me what she remembered of her childhood, “I wanted to study, I told my mother to take me to school, but I had to work to help my family if I was given the opportunity to go to school I would have been the best student there.”

In a small container, La Abuela keeps all the matchsticks she has used to recycle them when she needs to pass fire from one burner to another.

La Abuela is an independent woman. Today I was trying to wash the dishes, but she didn't like how I was doing it, so she took over.

For most of the week, La Abuela is alone, and her only companions are her Parakeets. She scolds them every morning because they poop on their food and water. They have a love-hate relationship, but most of the time, she tells them how much she loves them.

GUACALIANDO: La Abuela doesn't like to use the shower because it wastes too much water, and she would have to shower with cold water. Every Saturday at 6 am, she starts gathering water; it takes her a few buckets to get all she needs. She then moves on to warm up a pot of water so that it's not as cold. By 9 am, she's finally ready to take her shower, and by 10 am, she is done. It makes her another our to brush her hair, and only after it's dry, she starts braiding it.

El comal promised La Abuela to always hang from the wall as it stands guard to ensure he is still available to warm up her tortillas.

La Abuela loves her table stove; because of this, most of my characters own one. Every Tuesday, La Abuela methodically cleans it. First, she removes all its parts, then she washes them and dries them. With un pashte, jabon, and warm water, she gently washes the main body of the stove. Before reassembling it, she adds some cucaracha poison to ensure that the pesky little creatures don't make their home in the furnace again.

La Abuela hates having her picture taken. I will need to find ways to capture her story without directly showing her that I'm taking her photo.

I finally make my way to Guatemala to work on my thesis. As usual, I make my way to la Abuela's place. One of my hopes is to get to know her better and hopefully record her story.