Janna Cunnion
Ecuador 2020
The evacuation was the messiest of exits: a sudden, panicked, tearful, middle-of-the-night commotion. The president of Ecuador was closing the roads in an hour, leaving no time for traditional Latino goodbyes that require you to hug and kiss each person before leaving. We had to get to the airport as soon as possible. I and two other volunteers sobbed as our host uncles hurried us into a van. My host mother and her sisters whispered, “Dios le bendiga,” as they each signed the cross over our heads, and my host mother stuffed a piece of bread into my coat pocket. It was this squished, mushy roll I rediscovered in my pocket over 24 hours later—at a hotel in Miami, having gone over a day without sleep—that seemed to say so much. It was the evidence that I had left Quito and my host family behind.
Like many moms, my host mom had never let me leave the house without a dozen other consejos, or words of advice, and often her daily goodbyes were paired with a recommendation of something to bring with me. They usually sounded something like, “It’s cold out, wear a scarf! Take mine!” or “It’s sunny; remember sunscreen!” “Remember to hide your phone; don’t get robbed!” or “Take some snacks for you and your friends!” My host mom –much as my actual mom– was always offering things, both tangible and intangible, as expressions of attentiveness and care. She selflessly did whatever she could to ensure that I wouldn’t get robbed or sunburnt, or that I wouldn’t ever be too cold, too hot, or too hungry.
In our final goodbye, however, with the world drowning in uncertainty, there was little advice she could offer. It was this moment of her tucking bread into my pocket and praying over my bowed head that sent a shiver down my spine: what does it mean when a mother, with all her wisdom, love, and intuition, can only offer God’s blessing and a piece of bread? Whatever problems moms cannot solve are the things worth fearing. My heart sank, as if it knew this before my brain could think it, or my tongue could articulate it. My host mom could tell me how to prevent mosquito bites, but she could not prevent me from being forced out of the country. She could give me directions to the bus stop, but she could not keep the roads open until we made it to the airport. She could remind me to take an umbrella so I wouldn’t get caught in the rain, but she could not tell the president to let me stay. She could do and did so many things that could keep me out of harm’s way, but she could not stop a pandemic. Still, amid the turmoil, she was compelled to leave me with something, so una bendición y un pan it was.
There I stood, in the Miami Airport, unkempt, tired, wearing a jacket that was much too light for March in New York, and holding a smushed dinner roll in a sandwich bag. On the last leg of my flight home, I was one of eleven passengers on the plane. I cried for the entire two hours, unable to stomach that I was on a plane headed home. My sobs were stifled by the N-95 mask the Peace Corps had given us—the ones that were meant to be worn after volcanic eruptions, not for preventing the spread of viruses. The air I exhaled fogged up my glasses. I felt pathetic and sorry for myself. For the first time in months, I felt completely alone.
Out of an abundance of caution, I could not even hug my parents when I got home. I went straight to my childhood bedroom, took the roll from my pocket, and left it on my nightstand. I was taken by how out of place it seemed there. How did a piece of bread from Ecuador make it to a bedroom in Westchester County? Still, in the same way a child might bring a family photo album to summer camp, it provided a sense of comfort.
My host mom was much of the reason why I had had a good experience for the short three months I was there. I had thanked her a million times for her hospitality and warmth during my stay, but I always felt like it fell short. I want to return to Ecuador and thank my host mom for all she did. I want to thank her for the bread.
