LITMIR.BIZ

      Vivian at the age of eight, with her parents and her brother. Managua, Nicaragua, 1962.

      I was enrolled in a semi-boarding school, taking classes from 7:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. and arriving home at almost 7:00 p.m. since the school was on the outskirts of Managua. I was the last one on the school bus route. During lunch they served me beans with weevils! Obviously, I put them aside so that I could eat, but many times some nuns forced me to swallow them. I would hide them in my uniform bag and show them to my mom when I got home.

      Mother Valeria taught one of the classes. She used to say that I had a call from God to become a nun. When she gave the class, she would look at me and raise her eyebrow. As we lined up for recess, she would ask me if I had already felt God’s call. It gave me goosebumps! I was in sixth grade at that age, so I did not understand the significance of this vocation, but I felt the urgency of Mother Valeria to fulfill her mission to get more followers for her congregation. This situation frightened me so much that it added pressure and a new fear to my life. It was clear to me that I did not want to become a nun. But Mother Valeria believed that, like her, I was “feeling that divine call.”

      I have always had enormous faith. God has been my island and my refuge. However, Mother Valeria’s obsession affected me. My grades dropped. That pressure disconcerted me, making me feel very insecure.

      My mom was completely devoted to us. She was always happy and never complained about a thing. Everything she did was for her happiness and that of others. The only thing that worried her was the burden of loneliness my grandparents had been left with. Every time a letter arrived from Cuba, we celebrated, because it brought news of our beloved homeland. We would sit around and listen as it was read aloud. We laughed and cried.

      In 1968 my grandparents, Manuel and Isidora, left Cuba via Mexico to come live with us in Nicaragua. My dad traveled to Mexico City to receive them. All I needed now were my other grandparents, Pachín and Turiana, and to be able to recover the time I lived without the special love and tenderness that only grandparents can give. I left them when I was 7 years old and I saw them again when I was 14. The reception at the airport in Managua was unforgettable. I hugged and kissed them. Seeing them there seemed unreal. They couldn’t stop talking and laughing. That reunion revitalized my life. I recovered part of my family. They came to live in our home and were immensely happy with us. However, one day Mom told me: “Vivian, it’s better not to move older people because they are used to their lives.”

      Soon we heard about my grandfather Pachin’s death on the island. My grandmother Turiana endured a year of solitude before traveling to Nicaragua in 1969. She moved into our house when I turned fifteen.

      Vivian on the day of her first communion. Managua, Nicaragua, 1963.

      Vivian at the age of eleven. Managua, Nicaragua, 1965.

      We moved to Bolonia, a more central location in the city of Managua. We were there until we built the house in the same neighborhood where we had lived for five years.

      When I turned sixteen, I told my parents that I wanted to change schools. I wanted to go back to the American school, and they agreed to it. This made me very happy and it was a good decision. I attended classes from 7:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. I drove my car to get there and made other friends, who were people with more open minds. There I met my great friend, Rogelia. I finished learning English and graduated. In the meantime, Dad had started his own company: Distribuidora Interamericana S.A. – DIASA, the largest food distributor in the 1970s in Central America.

      I really enjoyed my teenage years and lived unforgettable moments with my friends. Every day was an exciting adventure. I was assigned the task of faking the written excuses that our parents supposedly sent to justify our absences from school. I had a special skill in mastering different handwriting styles and copying our mothers’ signatures. There were so many fake messages that we were discovered and sent one by one to the principal’s office, because there were just too many coincidences. We were sat down face to face with the principal, who kicked up a fuss and threatened to call our mothers. We were suspended for three days. Immediately after, Rogelia called her house to warn Chepona, a domestic servant who loved her very much, spoiled her, and did everything she asked her to do, so she would pretend to be her mother when the school called. This woman went straight into her imitation of the voice of Rogelia’s mother.

      The school principal, still not satisfied with the explanations that Chepona gave, asked my mother to meet with her. Since my mom didn’t speak English, I served as her translator, taking advantage of the situation to say the opposite of what the principal was telling me. For example, the principal would say, “Lydia, your daughter doesn’t pay attention in class,” and I would translate for my mom, saying that the principal had affirmed that I was an excellent student. The principal would continue to list her complaints: “Lydia, your daughter is late for class,” and I would say, “Mom, don’t listen to this lady . . . she is a little crazy,” and I would tell the principal that my mother assured me that she would keep me in line from now on. That scene would have made anybody laugh.

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