Hollywood, 1969
My life of a nomad began in Bogotá Colombia where I was born. By age two with my parents and two siblings, we moved to the Basque Country in Northern Spain, Gernika, where my father is from, and at age six we emigrated to Hollywood, California. My father had initially traveled to Colombia in his early twenties, with a group of his childhood friends, all victims of the Spanish Civil War and the bombing of Gernika. They were poor, uneducated and looking for a better life. My father opened a bakery called, Gernika, and though it became very successful and he had met my mother in Bogotá, he dreamt of a life in the United States. Dad had avoided his childhood distresses in movie theatres watching all the great Hollywood films of his time so on that boulevard he opened his first cafeteria. The struggle to maintain a business without speaking the English language forced him to close shop and work for hire, while my mother attended beauty school. I began to dream of becoming an actress early on, and at age nine I landed my first starring role in an independent film, Big Sister. Also wanting to make contact with my roots, Colombia, I lived there with an aunt and her family, for a year while attending a private Catholic middle school. When I returned to Los Angeles I barely had enough time to spend with my new little baby brother before traveling again to Gernika where I lived with another family of my father’s for another few years. My parents in the meantime had moved back to Colombia to help out an aunt who had become widowed with five children, and had taken over my father’s original business. I lived in Bogotá with them for another year before finally returning to Los Angeles, where I completed my high school studies, while working as a journalist and on-air anchor, representing my school in both, English and Spanish. After my second year at Los Angeles City College Theatre Academy I was cast in Walter Hill’s 48 Hours. Wanting to become a great serious stage actress I moved to New York. My life has been a constant balancing act between creativity, personal life experiences, and connecting with the truest parts of me; my culture, history and sensibilities. In my late twenties I found myself in Barcelona having just starred in a CBS series, with child and husband. That was the begining of a new stage in my life, a wonderful, enriching and transforming period that took me from amazing personal heights to challenging interior questioning lows. Eventually single-motherhood in New York City taught me lessons of courage, tenacity and humility. But with patience, enormous dedication and great faith, I raised a daughter I am very proud of. Her name is Caterina, and she is currently in Germany doing her Junior year study abroad program, on full scholarship. My partner, Bob, of six years, is another one of those rare blessings who has brought so much happiness and stability to Cat and me. I’m entering a new phase, with writing and acting work that is begining to flourish again, and so much more rewarding than ever because of it’s maturity, awareness, and confidence. My parents still live in Los Angeles, and when I don’t see them on the west coast, I meet up with them in the Northern part of Spain for a few weeks of love, nature, food and wine.
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“I can’t remember that far back mom. The photographs I see of me when little confuse my imagination,” Caterina explains. “Do you remember your earliest sad moment?” I ask her. “Just blurt out the first image that comes to mind.” She blurts out, “I think it’s when Yaya Pepita died,” her face saddens. “I remember we were in New York, and Dad called us from Barcelona, we held each other tight and cried. It was a strong feeling that lasted forever because I can still see your eyes confused and teary eyed, but I can’t remember anything more.” Cat makes me realize that what lingers on is the emotional experience, and the image is just something that connects us to that emotion. “Was I four or five years old?” Cat wants to know. “No Cat, you were already seven when that happened.” She stays quiet in thought. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t seen so many photographs so I could have a better memory of my past,” she reflects. I wonder if there isn’t some truth to her statement, as I recall the Shaman’s belief that a picture steals the soul of the person or that a snapshot captures the subject’s energy, their state of being, their information, their DNA. Sometimes it’s a tool for good use, and other times for harm. A psychic can look at a photograph in an intuitive reading to discern a crime, and unravel a mystery, while a vodoo practitioner can manipulate an image to distroy someone’s wellbeing. I’m not certain how potent any of that can be in the face of a person who consciously walks in step with truth. I also believe that prayer is a real force, and helps to develop inside us a detector to shield us against harm and evil. Growing up our nightly ritual was to kneel and pray with my mother and siblings, holding hands and reciting an Our Father and a Hail Mary. Across the street from First Presbyterian Church of Hollywood, on Gower and Carlos, one night after our prayer practice, already in bed when I hear my father making noise, I come out to discover that he is packing his suitcase. I can still see the huge suitcase standing on the same spot where we had just been kneeling. I run to my mother who lays immobilized in bed pretending to be asleep, but of course wide awake. I tell her with heightened urgency, and she wispers back, filled with fear and shame, “go and speak to your daddy and ask him to stay.” I run back out, confused, staring at the suitcase, and his pain, “daddy, please don’t leave us.” I remember begging him and crying. Dad was very gentle, and nice about it, “I have to leave.” He lifted me in his arms and I wrapped my grip around his neck, hard. I felt devastated watching him take for the street in the middle of the black night. These images are preserved as mental photographs; the green color of the rug, the cream shaded drapes, the grid heater on the floor, the door opening and closing to the sounds of the crickets.
I’m always impressed when I speak to my daughter, though young and innocent she always, always, always makes so much sense to me. Yes, a photograph does disturb one’s organic image of an experience and weakens the muscle of recall, but a moment of consequence where emotions receive a shock, remain forever inprinted in our mind’s personal iPhoto.
Deconstructing my Being / a collection of memories and thoughts...