Red
As a child, I would frown when my mother would say: “you may be born an American, but your blood and soul belongs to Peru.”
Raised in a Peruvian-American household, I was taught in elementary school to honor the American flag and bear the colors red, white and blue with pride. At home, my parents taught me the worth of our history, how to pay respects to my indigenous ancestors and recognize their national flag; red for the blood-deep bond to the country, white for the peace within oneself and others.
However, I was the definition of an Americanized brat who often overlooked the teachings of my Peruvian parents. I ignored their fantastic stories of the ancient Incas, dismissed their native values and waved away their foreign beliefs. I was an American, therefore, a better person. They had beans for dinner, I had cheeseburgers. They had pan flute music, I had Bruce Springsteen. They came from a rotting third-world country, and I was raised in the glory of Uncle Sam.
When I was 12 years old, my parents purchased their first house. Located in Duarte, California, the minuscule house barely contained our presence. To celebrate, they were determined to take a trip to their native country.
Annoyed that I had to leave the comfort of my English-speaking country, abstain on McDonald’s for dinner, and miss re-runs of “Full House,”, I refused to move out of my bed on the day of the flight. I wrestled my father in the car, in the LAX parking lot, and the airport terminal. Defeated, my dad shoved me into a window seat and fought to buckle me in as the plane ascended into the clear sky.
When we landed in Lima, I met my grandparents for the first time at the airport. They had soft, puckered, brown faces that reminded me of shelled walnuts. Their hugs smelled of old moth balls and harsh, dish-washing soap; the kind that dried out your hands. My grandparents displayed their love by over-stuffing me with deep-fried guinea pig, home-grown beans, and rice cakes from the Peruvian Amazon. The food wasn’t the same comforting feeling of the greasy, quarter-pounder from back home, but it satiated my hunger and homesickness.
A week into our stay, my parents decided to march onto a plane that went straight into the heart of Cuzco, a city in the Peruvian Andes elevated at 11,200 feet above sea level and once ruled by the Inca Empire. The Spanish conquistadors once called it “The City of Gold.” We were to visit Machu Picchu, a 15th-century fortress situated on an Andean mountain ridge and built at the height of the Inca civilization.
“This will be for your own good,” my father said, “Machu Picchu will make you appreciate the beauty of our culture and become proud of your roots.”
“Our flag is also yours,” my mother replied, “You cannot deny the Peruvian spirit that resides in your veins.”
A day later after their decision, I gazed upon the monstrous, green splendor of Machu Picchu. My parents dragged me from the comfort of my grandparents’ home to “have a real adventure.” Personally, I thought the adventure resided in my grandmother’s kitchen; I would scavenge for exotic, Peruvian sweets every night once everyone was asleep.
Disgruntled I had to do something physical other than shove food into my mouth, I wobbled behind my parents and tourists as our guide led us up a winding, hilly path. Panting, I forced my cellulite-covered legs to trek up the mountain, tumbling on cleverly hidden roots and skating down on loose, crumbly earth.
“This is so stupid,” I mumbled to myself, “I don’t want to be here.”
As I hiked my way up the mountain, I observed the shepherds tending to flocks of sheep, goats, alpacas and llamas. In my boredom, I eyed them hungrily, taking in the movements, characteristics, and physical traits of the animals. I stared at the curious scene until a gingery, red-haired llama caught my eye.
The llama was glorious. Its hair gleamed a fiery orange color under the hazy sun, and the fuzzy, curly mop on its head reminded me of my own. The llama munched lazily upon the dewy grass and ignored its shepherd with a pretentious, haughty attitude. This llama was sassy, and I loved it. I found some traits of myself in it, the stubbornness, the dense, frizzy hair and its thick, round stomach. My desire to befriend this llama overrode my senses, and I clambered up the hill to get a closer look.
I crept behind the ginger llama with the stealth of a ninja. The shepherd had lost all hope of herding it back into the corrals and left it alone. People stared as I tiptoed towards the llama’s backside, which was matted into a coppery, wiry, incredible mess. I decided to touch its fur.
The moment I laid a hand on my newfound friend, I was viciously spat in the face and punted on my left thigh. I flailed backwards toward the soggy, fresh earth in what seemed like slow-motion, and felt the baking sun mock me as it blinded my eyes shut. I landed butt-first in disbelief. I tasted the salty, tender tears roll down my ruddy cheeks and into my mouth as I gasped in pain when the initial shock wore away. I felt the agonizing ache of the llama’s kick mercilessly throb down my thigh. I wiped away the massive glob of spit from my eyes to face my attacker. It grazed tranquilly on a fresh patch of grass not to far from where I had fallen.
Thoughts raced through my head while I tried to make out the watery, distorted picture of the Andean mountains through my own tears and llama spit. Why did the llama hurt me? I meant no harm. Did I do something to offend it? Why did it spit at me?
Embarrassed I was crying, bruised and dripping with spit, I shrieked for help. A few tourist guides assisted me to find my parents; when we reunited, I saw through my parents’ words of comfort and tight hugs that they were not sorry for me. I saw right through their faces of false pity and perceived that they were jovial about my assault.
Once we were back in the States, they never mentioned the time I was assaulted by the ginger llama. I found this strange because my parents were unforgiving and enjoyed teasing me. I thought about the memory for some time, until I realized that this event perhaps occurred as a lesson that quite literally, kicked my ass in order for me to understand.
Until my twelfth year of life, I lacked all sense of appreciation for my culture, my parents, my indigenous people, my blood and my spirit. All the times I dismissed my parents and their background, it was a direct slap to the face. Hundreds upon hundreds of slaps. The equivalent of being assaulted and spat on by a ginger llama. All they ever tried to do was make me aware of who I am, where I come from, and how rich my history was. Upon recognizing this, I was overwhelmed with guilt, shame, and the bitter acknowledgment of my arrogance.
Years later, once I became more integrated into my Peruvian heritage, I apologized to my parents for dismissing their values, ignoring their customs and disrespecting their homeland. I now attended Peruvian parties, danced to native music, and learned the slang of the Peruvian ghettos. I made sure my Spanish had that special, sing-songy twang of the Peruvian accent. I gladly accepted my plate of beans and rice instead of giving into McDonald’s. I found myself humming to the Peruvian national anthem. I wore the Peruvian jersey instead of the American one when the World Cup aired on television. I appreciated the curves of the Andes Mountains and the tangled, intricate patterns of the Amazon rainforest. I fell in love.
I owed them much more than a shallow apology after years of insolence. I remember I bowed my head in shame as an unintelligible murmur spilled from my lips. My parents simply smiled and enveloped me into a warm hug that radiated with the power of my native ancestors and love of their Americanized Peruvian daughter. As I closed my eyes to enjoy the moment of peace, I saw the throbbing, blood-red color through my eyelids. The same color that runs through my veins and resides on both the Peruvian and American flag.
