A tear escapes from the corner of a deep brown eye, trickling down her face. She wipes it away and fixes her gaze out the plane's small window, staring at the vast black sky. Below her, the Atlantic Ocean stretches between the beloved home she is leaving behind and her dreaded destination. She fidgets with her hands, shifts in her seat. Beside her, her mother appears calm, prepared––everything that Beatriz wishes she could be. Another tear escapes despite her best efforts to fight it. She peers out into the night again, and her mind begins to drift.

She is back in Medellin, Colombia, a day earlier, August 18, 1979. Her family's spacious home is filled with people––all of her closest friends and relatives. Bright light floods through the rooms. Music and laughter float through the air, drifting out onto the open patio, where guests are chatting and taking in the August sun. Inside, more guests bustle about, helping Beatriz and her family complete last minute preparations.

Eighteen-year-old Beatriz is smiling; she is at home. If only she could stay.

“Por favor, cuiden a mi gallina,” she reminds a neighbor. Make sure you take good care of my hen. “Ella necesitará mucho cuidado.” She'll need plenty of attention.

“Tan pronto como usted se vaya, voy a hacer la gallina en un guisado!” the neighbor jokes. As soon as you leave, I'm going to put the hen in a stew! As Beatriz's eyes widen, the neighbor reassures her, “Por supuesto, cuidaré la gallina.” Of course, I'll care for the hen. No one can take care of her as well as Beatriz can, but that is out of the question. Tomorrow, she and her family will leave for America. And there is nothing she can do about it––she's already tried.

Mama, please just let me finish high school… then I will go to America with you. Two months, mama, I only have two months! Beatriz had pleaded to no avail.

We have already applied for the visa, Beatriz. We have to go now, or we lose our chance. Think of the opportunities there. Think of your father. Beatriz, however, didn't want to think of her father, couldn't think of her father. All she could think about was leaving behind everything she held dear––and it terrified her. Everything familiar and good would be replaced with, as Beatriz saw it, new and bad. She wanted no part of it.

“Por favor,” she had begged every day. Please don't make me go. She sobbed, she bargained, but in the end, she had no choice. Now, her friends and neighbors are here for a going away party, though a celebration doesn't seem appropriate. Beatriz and her family scurry around, getting everything in order, right down to who will keep the pets that they leave behind.
As it turned out, the hen suddenly died that same day––as if the animal had sensed that things would never be the same, as if her death were some kind of omen that all of Beatriz's fears were about to come true.

Snapping back to reality, Beatriz feels the tears start anew, and her hurt turns into anger. How can her parents do this to her? How can they believe this will be for the best?

Her family arrives in New York, their first destination, around one a.m. Beatriz slowly forces one foot in front of the other, departing the plane with her brother, mother, and father. The airport is busy; she feels suffocated by the people surrounding her. Too many people, too many people. Her Uncle Pastor and his family are waiting in the airport, and they rush over to greet her and her family. Beatriz, however, is in a less than jovial mood. The car ride from New York to Massachusetts the next afternoon does not help to improve it.

She sits, slumped against the window, watching the buildings pass by. It is about twelve o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, and the beautiful August weather provides a sharp contrast to Beatriz's spirits. Detached, she solemnly watches the buildings pass by. Suddenly, a subtle movement catches her eye in an alleyway. Her eyes widen in shock and fear as she realizes what she is seeing––a man stands poised, knife in hand, ready to take on some mysterious foe.

Beatriz shrinks away from the window. This is the wonderful America for which my parents have chosen to abandon our home? This is the place where nothing bad is supposed to happen? She sighs. Surely, it wasn't necessary for her father to leave his job as a mechanic in Colombia for this. A shiver runs through her body and she closes her eyes, wishing for sleep…and home.

Beatriz! Wake up! Her eyes snap open and she searches the dark room for the voice calling her. As her vision clears, she sees her mother standing over her. It's almost time for work. You need to get ready. Beatriz groggily sits up in bed, wiping the sleep from her eyes and glancing at the clock. 5:15 am. Forty-five minutes until both she and her mother begin their shifts at the Lincoln Company, a textile mill in Lowell, their new home.

She drags her feet to the floor, trudging through the three-bedroom apartment that is shared by eleven people: her uncle's family of seven and her own family of four. It is quite a switch from the sprawling house she lived in only a few weeks ago, with just her immediate family. Her father and brother have already left for work; she will not see them until the end of the day. She gravely gets ready for the day ahead––a day like every other since she's arrived in America, a day she dreads.

At Lincoln, she will work with a fabric machine for eight hours in the sweltering heat. The mill is dirty and poorly ventilated. There are no fans––they would ruin the material. Beatriz comes home covered in dirt and sweat, her body aching from the physically demanding work.

Her fellow workers are not like the Americans she has encountered before. Those who visit Colombia are what she considers the “hippie” type; they are kind and accepting, open-minded. Here, the people are rude and judgmental. She dislikes working with them, being forced to get along with them. At the end of her shift, she cannot wait to get back to the apartment on Moody Street, where her mother will prepare to go to her second job, and Beatriz will go to her room and cry.

To her friends back home, Beatriz does not cry. Talking on the phone, she puts up her best front, though she is ashamed of the way she is living. I love it here! I'm making my own money. I've already bought a stereo and a television. In Colombia, women don't work. Her friends are in awe. You're so lucky, Beatriz! We're jealous. You must be so happy. Their words secretly break Beatriz's heart––she wants to tell them that she'd give up all of her money to be back home. But she doesn't tell them. She forces a smile into her voice. Yes, I'm happy.

Twenty-four years later, Beatriz is, indeed, happy. After finding a beautiful home and starting a family in Lowell, she has come to consider it a very special city––not at all what she expected from her first impressions. The bitterness she felt as a teenager all those years ago has transformed into gratitude toward her Uncle Pastor and her parents, whom she now believes did her a favor by bringing her to the U.S. Now, her heart is divided between Colombia, her original home, and the home she has found here. Now, when she speaks to her friends of her happy life in America, she is telling the truth.