7 O’CLOCK VIEWING TRANSMISIÓN EN VIVO: GIRL THANKS NOVELAS FOR CITIZENSHIP. by SAMANTHA PARADISO layout ADRIANA TORRES & REBECCA WONG
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n the village of Santiago where my family is from, children are born from stem leaves. Seedlings scattered about the terracotta clay. Leathered, weathered, dirty hands lay their palms upon the earth and wait for the subtle rumble of heartbeats scattered about. Vast acres of land plotted for the sole purpose of birthing offspring. Once they begin to bud, children, planted like seeds, emerge from the earth like a spindly vine, reaching for the sun’s rays. Come spring’s harvest, they’re uprooted along with the guandu, arroz, and yucca. Freshly pulled, they’re then swaddled in banana leaves and handed off to their respective mothers to carry out their lives, often in poverty.
mother and father locked eyes from across the room and instantly fell in love. Cue the montage. Giggles over ice cream. Hushed whispers on the bus. Lots of intense eye contact. There was just one thing getting in the way of their Nicholas Sparks romance. My dad was leaving for America in two weeks. Rationally, mother followed.
My great grandmother’s home in the mountains stands atop a hill, rich with plantain trees, orange trees, lemon trees, and culantro bushes; lacking in electricity, plumbing, and luxurious commodities. Wooden walls and tin roofs, dirt floors and little riches, this is my family’s origin story. Where my great-great-grandmother, great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother were all reared, and all eventually left to look for something better.
Though once inseparable, my parents eventually split. And like the numerous other immigrants in this country, my mother came to America without any resources. She struggled to train her tongue to speak a language that was foreign to her. An unoriginal plot, but one shared by many. Yet when she turned the television on, she found solace in her friends La Madrastra, María la del Barrio, Esmeralda, Teresa, and Rubí. And as I transitioned from a diaper donning toddler with a staggering gait to a mischievous chamaca, my mother indoctrinated me in this ritual. Every day after school, I would run home from the bus stop, trample up the stairs, and heave my body onto the couch just in time to tune in for the next episode of “Rebelde.” And after that, it was “Amy, la niña de la mochila azul,” and “Carita de Ángel,” and “Gotita de Amor.”
I’m reminded of the plot of novelas on Univision’s channel 45, bookended by “Al Rojo Vivo” and “El Gordo y La Flaca.” Amidst the electronic trills of the dimly lit arcade, my
These novelas tell a tale like no other, throwing daily conventions of race, class, gender, or reality out the window. In that one hour, viewers are no longer in their home, but
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