About 11 years ago we had a family at my school from Venezuela. They were here for one year; Vicky, the little girl, was four years old at the end of the year when they moved back.
A few months ago, we got an email from Vicky, saying that she didn't know if we remembered her, but she was 15 now and was coming to visit Boston and wanted to see us (my boss Rosie and me). Of course we remembered her! She was a quiet girl with a big smile, and her mom made us a cassette tape of Venezuelan songs when they left.
The other day Rosie and I met Vicky and her family at our school. They had had two more kids since we had seen them, so we got to meet Julio, 10, and Beatriz, 8. When Vicky hugged me, it was a real hug, tight, and not quick and perfunctory. The younger kids got hugs too, and I wasn't sure if it was their Latin culture or the culture of our school that made it so natural. It didn't matter.
Whenever we get visitors from long ago, it seems as though time stands still. Suddenly, we were back in 1998. I went over to our music cabinet and in about 3 seconds put my hands on the Venezuelan tape and passed it around. We got out the photo album and found Vicky right away. She and her mom sang bits of some songs they remembered, and we all sat down for a pizza lunch.
The conversation turned to their hometown of Caracas, and they mentioned how dangerous it was. They told me that you couldn't ever take the subway or walk down the street, because you might get shot or kidnapped. Vicky's mom told me about something called "Express kidnapping", and Vicky explained what it was. She said that someone would get kidnapped in the morning, the kidnappers would demand ransom from the family, the family would get them the money in a few hours, and by nighttime, the kidnapped person would be returned. Express kidnapping. I remarked about how sad it was that a 15 year old girl was telling me this, that she knew things like this happened. The younger kids nodded, because they knew it too.
It seems that Boston, while a dreamland compared to Caracas, wasn't the safest place either, at the end of their stay. Vicky's dad told a story about how they were trying to sell their car before they moved. They had a sign in the window advertising $500 for the sale of their clunker.
One day the dad got lost driving in a sketchy neighborhood and was stopped in the middle of the street by a man with a gun. He demanded the car, but said that he would pay for it. The dad was, of course, shocked and scared, and told the guy if he had the money, he could have the car. The guy gave him the money, and the transaction was complete. Rosie asked, "How did you get home?" and he replied, "Crying."
Despite sad stories of violence, we had a great lunch and a wonderful visit with Vicky and her family. We learned that the trip was a present for Vicky's 15th birthday that she requested, with our school listed as an important stop among their travels. I told a friend about the visit, and he remarked, "Your school is like a friend factory." It is. And a family factory too. We are a family, and visits like these only reinforce the feeling. I work at a very special place.
