SHE TRIPPIN'

My Abuelito Alfredo’s tomb in Sucre Cemetery. He’s buried amongst other vets/survivors of La Guerra del Chaco, a war motivated purely by political blunder wherein Bolivia lost a ton of land to Paraguay. 

I didn’t know he would be a tomb and not a grave. So, I’d bought flowers for a grave. Carnations and lilacs, I think. My Tío Gustavo brought us here. He’s a realist and shared he doesn’t come often because he doesn’t much believe in this ritual when he knows his dad’s mind and ephemeral parts are gone. He saw the flowers and thought it was a sweet gesture, but didn’t have the key. Thomas got on tiptoe and managed to slip in a carnation - my birthflower -  as seen above. 

The cemetery here is lovely because this was the first capital of the country. Many presidents, figureheads, and families of wealth are buried here. We saw my cousin’s wife’s family name had a huge monument and piece of land. Cray.

I wasn’t even especially close to my Abuelito cause I didn’t get to see him all the time, only visiting once a year til I lived in La Paz. I didn’t see him when his mind had left him. But I still cried a lot - is anyone surprised? - and asked Gustavo if he missed him. 

“One always misses their parents.” 

I don’t know. I just thought of playing in his gardens and feeling like I knew I was loved around him, but more than that… I had a big feeling like he was the last stop. For knowing more about where I come from and feeling sure I was getting an honest answer and I couldn’t ask him. Not getting to ask before he was gone. It’s a loss on top of another loss.

It’s strange. Even the way my Tío carries himself is reminiscent of my Abuelito even though he’s a doctor and my grandfather a war hero. Maybe something about the officialness of thier positions, who knows. It doesn’t happen all the time between parents and children, you know? They carry/ied themselves with that Old School dignity but were still major softies at heart. We stood quietly for a bit and shed a couple of tears, I think, just recalling his meals (I think it’s genetic why I can cook well with next to no instruction), his firm nature, and love of his children and grandchildren.

My Tío managed to muster the strength to bring us here in spite of having a yet-to-be-named neurological disorder that keeps him in great pain any time he moves more than a block or two. Can you imagine being a doctor and no one, not even you, can figure out what’s happening to you? 

My Tío was also the only Spanish descendant person on this trip with a rational outlook on the huge social changes sweeping Bolivia as indigenous groups wrestle with what it means to have recognition as equals and political power from their government for the first time. Namely, that it was bound to happen eventually. We compared the political situation to South Africa’s and the benefits of Nelson Mandela’s story to add a sense of gravitas and legitimacy v. the challenges for Evo to inspire without a similar inarguable life challenge like imprisonment.

I just want to say I’m really grateful for my Tío Gustavo.