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Nose Bayan, Tony Kids, Kando is thus in For the past year, my dad has been asking me for one thing and one thing, only to take him back to his native Peru. The last time he was there. It was fifteen years ago.
I Piscalco.
My dad's memory is increasingly fragile, but there are memories, especially of his motherland, that he holds on too tight. He tells me he can't wait to go to the beach, that he wants to eat fried fish and picarones, a classic Peruvian dessert that looked like doughnuts but taste even better. The fact that we can communicate this way in Spanish, my dad's native language is really special. But it wasn't always this way.
From Fudro media and PRX, It's Latino Usa. I'm marien Rosa today in Espanol. A story about language and memory. Like many people growing up second generation in the United States, Anita Flores wasn't raised speaking her father's first language, Spanish. She felt connected to her Peruvian heritage through food, through inca gola, of course, and by visiting her grandparents in Miami. When she actually had to speak Spanish to her paternal family,
she struggled to get her words out. But as Anita grew older, she realized language does more than communicate ideas. It helps you narrow long physical distances, strengthened ties, and prisons memories. Here's Anita with her story.
So this story takes place over three trips to Lima over the course of fifteen years. Let's start from the beginning in two thousand and seven.
He's from the contents andraises Yamusita.
And Via the last time my dad visited his home country. I was there too. It was our first trip to Lima together. We're in Barranco, a historic and bohemian district of Lima, on a narrow street lined with apartments and a few single family Housessinashina. This is his first time back since emigrating to the US over thirty years before. I'm nineteen years old, about the same age my dad was when he left Peru. He's showing me the home
he grew up in. It's quiet here, other than the rooster on someone's roof.
The summer.
Before this trip, I had taken a film class in college that involved us making short films. So now it's my mission to find art everywhere with my camcorder. It's a cloudy winter day in Lima, mid fifties and humid. He is showing me the beach, part of the large and deep Pacific Ocean he grew up going to I don't have siblings. I'm a child of divorce, and the only family I have left on my father's side in the United States is my father. After walking for a bit,
we grab a taxi. Soon after we hoppen, my dad begins to chat with the driver.
Oh.
He tells him that he hasn't been to Lima in more than three decades. He left in nineteen eighty one at twenty years old. I can't imagine starting a new life in a new country so young. My dad is five to six, just a bit taller than me. He has brown skin like Mayabuelo, with big, expressive eyes like Maabuela. Like George Costanza, He's stacky with the remains of what was once an incredible head of hair. Unlike Costanza, he is kind, open to having a conversation with anyone, and
extremely huggable. My dad, who is fifty three on this trip, is my idol. He is the reason I love to travel and try new food. He's the reason I drink eight glasses of water a day and like to meet new people. In two thousand and seven, I'm in a country I've never been to, and I'm not a fluent Spanish speaker. I'm freaked out.
What is this music? You like it?
Yes?
Is it wrong that I'm watching TV and English in Peru?
My mom thought it would be better for me to learn Spanish after I learned English. She's a Jewish woman of Russian and Lithuanian descent who became fluent in Spanish after studying in Madrid for a year. In retrospect, she realizes I should have learned both languages at once. For my dad, he kind of just went along with it. My parents got divorced when I was twelve, and I primarily lived with my mom in Connecticut until moving to Brooklyn for college. My best friends of the time were
not Spanish speakers. Really, the only time I was speaking Spanish was with my dad. I would get so frustrated and barrassed when I'd mess up that we'd often end up just speaking in English. I wonder all the time how different my life would be if I had learned Spanish as a kid, if I was fluent. Now you act different on camera. I act different behind the camera. I use it as a shield to separate me from everyone. That nervous laughter it comes out whenever anyone addresses me
behind the camera. I'm at my uncle Chita's restaurant. It's mostly tables outside in the backyard, not a huge place, which gives it a homie feel. Wa Cheetah is sitting with Dad and I'm holding her chubby white cat meat cheek. He distracts me from my deep anxiety about how fast my thespeaks. Everything out of her mouth sounds like one long, sing songy word that I can't understand. Butcha notices me filming.
My shame about the fact that I'm not a fluent Spanish speaker keeps me quiet, which is sad because I'm an extrovert. Through and through, I meet my cousins Catherine and Fiorilla at my aunt ple Chita's restaurant. They're only a few years older than me. Their heart shaped faces and jet black hair remind me of my dad. Catherine is tall and thin, at least that's how I see her compared to me. She wears dark denimed jeans that actually fit. Suddenly, I'm thinking about the fact that my
pants are baggy and that I look frumpy. Do I look frumpy? They ask me many questions, but I am frozen. I answer Sie and no to questions that require more than a one word answer. Catherine is inquisitive, and I feel like I'm giving her nothing back. My dad tells me the only way to learn is to make mistakes, but I can't handle the idea of my family hearing me struggle in a language I should be fluent in.
I should be fluent. I've been hearing this for as long as I can remember, from elderly Latina ladies asking me for directions to my eleventh grade Spanish teacher, mister Collins, who would tell my dad at parent teacher conferences, you speak Spanish, Anita should be better in class. After our trip, my dad exchanged email and contact information with Catherine, Fiorell La Pocha, and the rest of the family. I leave with memories, but not much more Spanish than what I
went in with. Catherine emailed me. I never responded. I just let everyone go. It made it that much easier to think to myself, I don't speak Spanish, so what's the point. A year later, in two thousand and eight, I moved to New York for college. I focused on building a career for myself in the film and television world. My trips home became less and less frequent. Life went on. In twenty thirteen, I'm paying rent for my Brooklyn apartment
by working hard as a production assistant. One chilly November day, I'm putting a call sheet together for an upcoming shoot, and then I get a phone call that changes everything. My dad in Connecticut needed life saving surgery to replace a leaky heart valve. He then had to stay in a rehab facility and ended up getting really depressed, his memory weakened. He started forgetting to take his antidepressants and heart medication. He was showering less. He forget to pay
his bills. Some years earlier, Mayabuelo had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's and my grandmother with dementia. What's the day diference between these two, I'm honestly not one hundred percent sure does it matter? I see them as equally agonizing. Alzheimer's is often hereditary. Was it coming now for my father? One day in twenty sixteen, I was on the phone with my dad. I brought up the fact that he had mentioned wanting to return to Lima with me. He
had no idea what I was talking about. I got off the phone and cried because I knew something was wrong. The year later, I was standing waiting for my Greyhound bus back to New York when my dad's doctor called me to break the noose. At age sixty four, my dad was officially diagnosed with dementia. Soon after, I moved my dad into an assisted living facility in Connecticut. The road ahead was frightening. More than one hundred miles away
in Brooklyn, I became a long distance caregiver. This means that though I'm not living with my dad providing his day to day care, I'm his health and financial power of attorney. I manage his money, make his doctor's appointments, plan for emergencies, hire other caregivers to take him to those appointments, pay his bills. The list goes on and on. In twenty eighteen, just one year after his diagnosis, my dad can't remember what he had for dinner the previous day.
And anything he can't remember sends me into a spiral. I can't let him see me cry. So on one visit, I go into the hallway of his assisted living facility and I called John, my husband, who back then was my boyfriend. I tell him I feel like my dad is slipping away. I've become a video and podcast producer. So John suggests I ask my dad questions preserve his memories. I wipe away my tears, go back to my dad
and ask if I can interview him. He immediately says, yes, do you remember when you were in Lima for an earthquake?
I remember, I think was Maysay first. It was may Say first, nineteen seventy.
Over the next few months, I start recording videos with him, asking all sorts of questions. Have you ever met any famous people?
Yes, so Jesse Jackson one time.
That's right, I say, Jesse Jackson, Hello, Hello, de Paddigar.
I wonder if I'll have kids, and at this rate, will my dad still be around if this day comes? What if these videos are all I have to show them? I start really getting into it. So does my dad. I remember how funny he is. You're a big farmer, so am I? Yeah, yeah, loud loud farts.
I think that that's that's kind of the fun My mother.
She could be in the in the kitchen, in the bathroom, but far away and you can't hear, and she said, excuse me, gussies.
I struggle, but I start asking questions in Spanish the best I can. His eyes light up.
Uh aura est is me h going mm hmm, don't where don't they your practica espanol?
Okay?
I know that the earliest memories are often the ones dementia patients hold on to the longest. And now I wonder what big things held get first? Good he forget English? What if Spanish is the only way we can communicate? Someday I want to speak Spanish. I want to stay connected with my dad.
To dyna una vida mui and in my opinion, guando erra mujjoven dynae muchos.
Mixing up my verb tenses. I asked my dad to tell me about the many jobs he had when he was young.
In Uayor.
My dad tells me about the radio show he hosted from New York in nineteen ninety two, local news and music from Peru. He would play musika Cyoya, Peruvian waltz, gondor basa. He even breaks out his radio.
Voice stay floris in staas Informacionario America.
Maybe it was always in the stars that I too would one day work in audio Peru.
The Tora familia mitiao.
See he has many memories of his family in Peru, cousin Boa, his neighbors, and other people he knew that have since passed away. It's hard for me to wrap my brain around the fact that he can't remember what he had for breakfast, but he remembers the address of the home he grew up in. Being a long distance caretaker comes with a certain amount of guilt. I feel bad when I'm not there, which is most of the time.
And I also constantly think about the fact fact that once he's gone, there will be no one left that would connect me to my dad in the United States. I have this entire family in Lima that I haven't attempted to contact in over a decade. I'm losing my dad slowly, but I don't have to lose my family.
Coming up on Latino, USA, Anita decides to reconnect with her family and with the language that holds the key to her father's baby memory. Stay with us.
Yes, I'm so happy that you are celebrating your thirty years. I just wanted to thank you so much from the bottom of my quote, Dawn. The stories have touched me and many of us and are henter Familia. It's just really inquiring the fact that Natia constantly pushing forward stories that many of us can relate to, especially people of color, and career stories that for me in particular, being a
member of both communities is very meaningful. So with that said, I want to say salud ahead to thirty more years and many more to come.
Hey, we're back, and before the break, we heard the story of Anita Flores and her journey to reconnect with her father's native language Spanish. Here's Anita with the rest of the story.
I want to get back in touch with my dad's family. But how I look through my dad's papers. He's the kind of person that writes important information on a receipt the back of an envelope napkins. Miraculously, I find a list of emails in a journal buried underneath a pile of old newspapers on his tiny kitchen table. I try every email address, and everyone bounces back except for one, Catherine's.
She was my inquisitive cousin who asked me many questions when we met, the one who emailed me right after my first visit to Peru, and to whom I never replied. I decide to write.
Her my cousin, Catherine wrote back to me less than twenty minutes later, after having not spoken for eleven years.
I'm working with audio now, so instead of filming everything as I did in the first trip to Lima, I now keep sort of an audio diary, and these voice notes are my records of that first attempt to reconnect with my family in Peru, solo without my father's help. Catherine writes to me with so much love, the way you talk to well family. She gives me a full breakdown of all our relatives. The first and last time
I saw Catherine, she was in her early twenties. Now twelve years later, she sends me an update on her four year old son.
Quenta memas tea.
That's funny, Catherine asks me if I've gotten married yet. The conversation turns serious soon though. I tell her about my dad's diagnosis and how I'm taking care of him. Get amost visitor la familia in Peru. Pero aora is dificile, lociento parami alciencia, estes annos pasados, estava avert aver gonzadomanol, And just like that, more than a decade of silence is over. We write to each other a bit more, and then emails turn into WhatsApp messages.
Oh la.
Demandovelis.
Catherine sends me updates on her life. She lovingly coaches little Thago, my nephew, to send me kisses. We start speaking on the phone, and then it hits me, I've been missing out on this family, this love because I was self conscious about my Spanish the last time I went to Lima. My dad planned the trip, but that's no longer an option. I need to create my own bonds with my family in Peru, and I won't be able to do that while I'm caregiving for my father.
I make the difficult decision to go back to Lima, this time without Poppy. Cousin Katherine offered to let me stay with her. It's January twenty nineteen when I get to Catherine's salmon colored three floor house she shares with her sister Fiorilla. I meet my nephew Thiago. He's a little shy at first.
Oda.
Yes, I also meet my four year old niece, Makareena. She's my cousin Fiorilla's daughters. Hey, she has a laugh that makes my heart melt. We're playing with her tiny new kitten Bandido Tom, named after Tom of the infamous Tom and Jerry. At first, it's scary here without my dad, but then it's not scary, it's it's wonderful. I have a headache every day because I've never spoken this much for this long, but my family sees me. There's no camcorder this time. I'm using an iPhone now to record
moments with my family, but I'm not hiding. I have no choice but to speak. I capture as much audio and video as I can to share with my dad. When I'm back, I have every member of the family send their love to him.
I'll lamassos.
When I get back to the US, I rush to visit my dad in the assisted living facility in Connecticut. I have so much to share with him. What did you think of all those videos I showed you, Well, they are very emotional.
Here to see my families, my friends so many years, and.
I hope I can't go there to Pru soon we can go together to crew can see them.
Seeing the faces of his cousins and nephews expressing their love for him, it ignites something in my dad. He starts calling Potra, Jesus and Catherine every week. How would you feel if we switched you to You know, I can get you a calling card, but it's much less expensive than long distance. Do you know what a calling card is?
Yeah?
A calling card?
Well in pendo.
Card see Bubby see As soon as it's twenty twenty two and my dad's phone bill has skyrocketed, he forgets that he's making call Salema multiple times a week. One month his bill is six hundred dollars. I get rid of his long distance and switch him to calling cards. He's also started having balance issues, falling out of chairs, out of his bed. We've gone to the er a few times now. He has a bed guard and a chair with arms that he can't fall out of even
if he dozes off. My Boppy's dementia progression is like a rubber band. The timeline stretches out, but at any moment it can snap back and things can change fast. He needs to be prompted to shower, get dressed, eat and take his meds. But he still has his memories of Peru. And one thing has become very clear as he now asks me the same question over and over,
when can we go to Lima? It would take me a full year to fulfill my dad's biggest wish, a medication schedule, a plan with his memory care doctor meal, prep a wheelchair for the airport constant supervision. But it's happening. Fifteen years after our first trip together to Lima and four years after my first visit without my dad, We're all going back, my husband included. My dad is.
Elatedita Comota to Yo Pappy heat Tamata to John Tembo records, Totius is tamutus. He is don continent, say this, and he's been calling family in Lima multiple times a week to remind them we're coming.
He loves to call me right after and be like, they're so excited we're coming. His energy is very kid. On Christmas Eve, Hi.
Anita's me Dad, I as you know, I have my suitcase. I'm very excited at all the trip because Chelse's like a week away.
Now, there's no time like the present, Especially with a disease like dementia. It's not going to be easy, but it's happening this time. I'm more confident speaking Spanish. I've been taking online lessons, so is my husband. This is not scientific, but I feel in my heart that speaking to my dad in Spanish is soothing, It's familiar to him.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
It's late March twenty twenty three and we're packing Dad and heading to the airport tomorrow.
What do you think is true?
Hmm.
Dad is acting like he's getting ready for a first date. He's nervous. Should I bring dress shoes? He asks me. I'm nervous too. I feel like we're all at the top of a roller coaster, just waiting for the plunge, see especially La. And we decide it's too hot for dress shoes and Lima's eighty five degree weather. As we bring my dad's luggage downstairs about to head to the airport, residents at the assisted living facility excitedly wish my dad well. He gives a security guard a handshake and a hug.
They know exactly where he's going because he's been telling them four months.
Outa esperando.
We're at the airport in Connecticut, two hours to go before we can board our flight to Lima, so I whip out my H one N recorder to kill some.
Time to bien emosino, but see and also and feelful.
Dad and I are both very in our heads right now. He wonders what this reunion will be like. I worry that I'll resort back to my nineteen year old self and just let my dad and husband talk the whole time while I obsess over if I'm being a good caregiver. None of us sleep on the plane. My dad doesn't watch TV or listen to music. He asks me multiple times to show him the little map on the screen that tracks how close we are to our destination.
Jo Hip just okay, yama alima, that's.
Lima.
It seems like something has clicked for my dad. He's pockative and relieved after plenty of anxious pacing at the airport. We're here. It's us into right into It's midnight. As we leave the airport, I see a man holding a sign that has my name on it, which makes me feel like a celebrity. Cousin Catherine has arranged a driver to pick us up and bring us to her house. We pass a woman holding a large Peruvian flag as she greets a loved one. I know it's not for us,
but it feels like it is. I Catherine opens the door and immediately gives my dad the biggest hug It's a lovely feeling to return to this house and have it feel familiar. The next morning, I wake up sweating birds like these will be my alarm clock every day at six thirty am for the rest of the trip. A climate pattern called El Nino has made early autumn and Lima unseasonably hot. I soon come to learn that the sun will be our enemy from ten thirty am
until four pm every day. AC units aren't really a thing in Peru's homes, but Catherine has every fan running.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Before we move to the airbnb we rented for our eleven days stay, my prima treats us to a big homemade breakfast. Her sons, my nephews, Joaquin and Thiago, are at school now, so it's just the four of us, which puts me at ease, myself feeling more relaxed speaking Spanish in a smaller group. She makes us fresh juice with mango and maraguya cote.
Wow.
Catherine fixes my dad a Peruvian tamal sandwich, something he hasn't had in twenty years. So I can only understand half of what my cousin is saying. Being here together feels really natural. I take the words I understand and piece them together like a puzzle. Ayer Jannio estamos in Fermo, Inmo and fermos iyaorabien esta in Fermot.
We know almost dying.
No, I feel fine, but I'm extoco communic comericyvez. Look at Melia, John and a Medicinas.
I knew this trip wouldn't be easy. We did our best to prepare, but you can't prepare for the exact moment everyone gets stomach sick, or how awful I'd feel from just five minutes in this insane heat, or the moment Dad wanders out of our airbnb on his own. That's happened twice now, John, that's sick, some kind of stomach bug, or maybe drink some tapwater. And so I was on domestic duty, laundry and also making sure my
dad was fed and had his pills. And let's say, at the core of my exhaustion, it's just the constant reminder that he is in decline. You know, he only really has the energy, or at least yesterday, only had the energy to sit. It's like he's not there. I just didn't I didn't expect it to be hard in the way that it is. Oh and I guess it doesn't help that I'm sick right now. My heart hurts
from watching my dad seemingly disappear into his illness. This extreme al Nino heat makes it hard to plan outings to the beach. During the day, when my dad is at his highest energy is also when it's too hot to go, So we head over at sunset.
See.
Dad's not as talkative as I assumed he'd be, but I figure once he gets a whiff of that ocean breeze, he'll be transported back to his child.
Gay Guy era sup the Lape.
See.
In the past, Dad talked about going to the beach with Butcha and Jesus when they were kids. He's told me repeatedly that he dreams about this beach. But now he's still and quiet. It's happening the thing where he's just staring. I feel like I'm sitting next to a duplicate of my dad, except this dad seems empty.
I am enough.
Yeah, it's not reacted the way I expected, which is okay.
Just feel bad. I don't know it makes him sad or something.
It feels like my dad needs some kind of key to unlock a memory. I thought the beach would be the key to everything. But maybe the key doesn't work because the memories aren't there anymore. He's looking for the past, and I'm looking for words to communicate. We're both searching for something. We're about to do a big sit down dinner with every family member that I've met, and I
am extremely nervous. I'm starting to look for words and Spanish in my head now, like I can collect them and save them for later.
Please pray for me, especially Almente AQI reque this, I say, oh Ano, pero commos secocnfrijes anti putros picarones.
This feels nice. I'm just having a conversation with my family. I couldn't have imagined this when I first came to Peru at nineteen.
In Sespon, I've gathered the courage to sit at the kids table with my niece and nephews. I'm conducting important research here, finding out how they think my Spanish.
Is yes, yes, yes, they yes no. Fiago gives me a ten where they're lying to me. I also asked my cousin Fiorrella, what she thinks of my Spanish and how it's changed from the first time we met fifteen years ago.
And this is the.
Amil comus is all along.
Boya practica andes todavida pero pam Yes. Most important is sing la confidantes important.
Learning Spanish has shown me a love from a kind of family I've never experienced before, the kind that eats huge meals together, that talks about food while we're eating, that sends WhatsApp messages of cats, felice vines, memes and voice messages. And though my Spanish isn't perfect, it's good enough that I can connect with my family. I can speak to my dad in his mother's tongue, the language he learned first and maybe forgets last. We're heading to
lunch at my Dia Jesus's house. The door is open for us. When we get to her place, Dad lights up in a way I haven't seen in a very long time. He's smiling, laughing, talkative. They act like siblings. His susa is making a joke. Daniel, do you recognize me? Being able to joke about my dad's memory breaks at tension and makes me feel less alone as a caregiver, which is nice for every time Boppy gets quiet and
disappears into his dementia. There are also the energetic, happy moments when he's still my dad, like when we're on our way to eat anticucos and picaresco with the family after spending the day with everyone at Pocha's house. There's nine of us making our way down the steps past al Pente de losuspiros. As the two of us are walking together behind our big family group. I ask him what this trip has meant to him?
Who significant muccu or emoes demsel borbera pasalo borberto paso to muco recordos spero tratun no bevid precincti, Jose palo pfio bevitd precincti.
I'm realizing that perhaps family is what brings my dad to life now. They are the key to everything. And though I wonder all the time how different things could have been if I had tried to stay connected fifteen years ago, none of that matters. My dad tells me that he wants to live in the present now and that's all we have. It's our final day and lim our flight isn't until that night, so we have a big lunch with my cousin's nieces and nephews when we
say goodbye to Catherine, I am crying. My dad brings me in for a hug and tells me it's okay. He feels like my dad. Though I'm taking care of him now, he's still my father. It's sad to miss family, but it's really nice to have a family to miss. I still struggled with my Spanish, and though it isn't perfect, I didn't hide behind my dad this time. The memories I have of Lima fifteen years ago are moments of
anxiety and regret Beneson. Memories of my aunt's telling stories about my dad, memories of flying paper planes with my nephews, memories of countless meals together. I take comfort in the fact that no matter what happens, my dad is a part of me. As long as I keep in touch with my family and speak my father's tongue, I'll always be connected to him. I've got a long way to go, Beroes. I just had to look up if I use that verb correctly, which I did. See progress.
This episode was produced by Anita Flores and Julia Rocha, who was edited by Andreanroes Crusado and mixed by Julia Crusoe. The Latino USA team includes Marta Martinez, Mike Sergeant, Daisy Contreras, Victoria Estra, Patrisa Subanan, and Elizabeth Lento Torres. Our editorial directory is Fernanda Santos. Our director of Engineering is Stephanie Lebau. Our associate engineers are Gabriel Lebiez and JJ Carubin. Our
marketing manager is Luis Luna. Our theme music was composed by Sanger Rubinos, I'm your host and executive producer Marie Na Posta. Join us again on our next episode. In the meantime, look for us on social media and acquordad not Yes Chao.
Latino USA is made possible in part by the Heising Simons Foundation, Unlocking knowledge, opportunity and possibilities more at hsfoundation dot org, the Ford Foundation, working with visionaries on the front lines of social change worldwide, and Latino USA thirtieth anniversary episodes are made possible with support from our legacy sustainers, the Brett Family Foundation, Alonso Comtu, Carmen Rita Wong Vamos Enterprises,
the National Association of Hispanic Journalists, April Gessler, doctor Elmo Randolph, Belinda de la Libertad, Angela Garcia Simms, and Priscilla Rojas. Additional donors include Grace Sanchez and Maria A. Camacho.
Okay, I'm gonna worry about being locked in later and just finish this.
All right.
Uh?
I feel like I am. I don't know if I closed it wrong, but I feel like I'm London. Are you kidding me? Oh good? I'm glad we're recording all of this too,