My mother is visiting me for the first time since I moved to New York. Aghheheehaghhhh!!!! Ring the alarm, this is the sound of Annabelle crying, eiiiiy!
Some of you may know that this is a paradigm shift, this phenomenon that's going on right here. My mother is very much into her comfort zone, her morning walks with the gals, a quiet breakfast, then handling the usual family biz, as is my father. Although he's a little more bold and borderline bombastic about the whole routine. I have been asking my parents since I made the move: Why don't you want to is it me? It's New York! It's amazing- the sights! The food! How is it that you haven't visited me yet? To which my dad simply replies with I live here. This is the same answer that I'd get when I wanted to visit friends' houses for sleepovers and slumber parties; where everyone else's parents didn't seem to mind while my dad responded with You have a house and a bed already. All across the state of California, and deep into Central Mexico, cousins, uncles, aunts, etc. all take the same approach, with the fortunate exception of the Luna clan, my consanguineal East Coast transplants. Clearly, the traveling gene transmuted itself into my sister and I as a deformity from the long comfortable-wherever-they-may-be Quezada lineage. I never debated it, mostly because I understand where this comes from. Because of a place where matured acculturation intersects with anxiety regressing, I am getting a visit from mommy and an opportunity to convince her firsthand that I'm not crazy for having resettled...Then again, let's not hold our breath. One step at a time.
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