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“That’s a beautiful name. Why call yourself Julie?”
“Easier,” she shrugs. “People take it for what it is. They don’t comment or inquire.”
“What was it like, moving here?” I ask, quickly adding, “If you don’t mind me asking.”
She sighs. “Hard.”
It’s all she says, and I take that as a cue to move on. But then, to my surprise, she takes a breath and keeps going. Elbows rest on the table, her hand loosely cups the glass as she twirls it back and forth slowly.
“Maybe not hard at the beginning. I didn’t really get it at the beginning. But soon enough I was asking to go home. I was wondering how long we were going to stay here. Except this was home now. It felt like I had been suddenly plucked out of my comfort zone and dropped into a new place, one where I didn’t know anyone or anything, and I didn’t speak the language. None of us got it at first, but we adapted as we went on. My cousins and I are all close in age, so we stuck together. I kind of fell into that role of caring for them. I was handed a lot of responsibility, and I was expected to follow it. We figured things out together. Watched a lot of MTV and American TV shows at friends’ houses.”
“And you never had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
She laughs at that again, a sound I never thought I could care about so much. She’s letting her hair down a little bit, and I feel like I’m getting caught in the web of it.
“You know how they say it takes a village to raise a child? It really does. I remember my parents working so hard all the time. They would rely on neighbors to babysit, or friends they made at church to take care of us in a pinch. I mean, it was thevintagenineties so a different time, but they really did lean on that village, so to speak.
“But it was difficult. Everybody assumes you can just move to this country and get all the benefits and steal jobs and whatever else everybody wants to yell about, but there’s a lot of legal drama involved. There’s a lot of uncertainty, there’s a lot of paperwork. And money. So much money. There are so many hoops to jump through. It is afight.”
Maybe it’s the change of scenery that has her opening up and sharing all of these stories, but I can’t help but listen closely as she draws me in.
“And I would be remiss to not mention all the other cases that weren’t like mine. That were harder because they were detained and waiting, hoping for an answer. For something. We had such a hard time, and yet we were some of the lucky ones.” She takes a sip then gets quiet, letting the conversation fall into silence.
“Sorry. This feels strange to be telling somebody about,” she says, sitting up straight, like she was in a trance before, and she’s snapped out of it. “But I guess it’s been so many years at this point, maybe I’m just removed from it enough.”
“Thank you for sharing it.”
“There’s a very tangible self-preservation that I think remains in me.” She furrows her brows. “My whole life was hesitation. My whole childhood was balancing what I could and could not do, unlike my friends who were free to do whatever they wanted. So, it’s easy for everybody to say, ‘Just go for it! Just do it!’ but the trauma doesn’t forget that for many years you couldn’t. You just couldn’t do any of it. The trauma doesn’t forget that.”
“What made you want to do this?”
“I don’t know. I think I wanted to channel some of the bravery from my family? Or create a life I can be proud of? Or try to find something to bring me joy? Take your pick.”
“All of the above,” I murmur. I feel like I could be the one saying those things.
She lets out a big breath, a forceful whoosh. “I need a shot.”
My eyebrows lift. “Well, okay then.”
T comes over then, balancing several shots in her hands. “Ask and you shall receive.”
“Seriously? Are you lurking in the shadows?” Julie asks incredulously.
“Of course, I am. I hear the wordshotand it’s my cue to appear.”
Julie takes the glass warily, lifting it to her nose and sniffing it. “What the hell is this?”
“Chuck Norris. Cheers losers!”
I grab the glass and shoot it back in one quick gulp, the liquor burning all the way down. My eyes water slightly. I see Julie do the same, watching her throat as she swallows, glassy eyes mirroring mine. I try to savor the mess of flavors only to detect something which I think is …
“Jesus, is that hot sauce?” She slams the glass down on the table, making a grimace.
“Ugh, that was awful.” T winces, too. “So. Gavin’s brother. We meet again.”
“Agostina,” Julie says in exasperation.
“What? I’m being friendly,” she tells Julie defensively, then turns to me again. “Manny heard Gavin say you’re a dance instructor.”
