Casey O’Brien, a regular contributor, recently travelled with her mother, novelist Joanell Serra. They searched for a missing Oaxacan angel, and for connection to their past.
Joanell
My mother, Casey’s “Nana,” raised four children, stray dogs, nieces and nephews, while fighting a formidable foe – severe and progressive rheumatoid arthritis that ravaged her joints. Having a large family both fulfilled her every wish and extinguished her dreams. For while she thrived on being the matriarch, the PTA president, and the lector at church, she also wanted to ditch the suburban limitations and travel the world. The wealthier families around us took vacations to places my mother couldn’t find on the map – Lima, Barbados, Puglia. On a teacher’s salary, our grand adventures were limited to camping up and down the east coast.
When close friends returned from one of their intrepid adventures they brought her gifts; she cherished them. The tea cups from England, the fabric from Peru, the Christmas ornaments from Germany. And, most importantly, the angel from Oaxaca.
Oaxaca is known for a type of shiny black pottery called barro negro. It traditionally comes from a town outside Oaxaca city called San Bartolome Coyotepec. Locals made pottery from a greyish clay they derived from the soil. But in the early 1950’s, an artisan named Rosa Real discovered that by polishing the clay pieces before they were completely dry and lowering the temperature, the clay became a shiny black. My mother, who kept a potter’s’ wheel in the basement, throwing pots despite her inflamed knuckles, was enamored of the luminous dark angel the neighbors presented to her.
Our angel hung above a mirror in a narrow hallway that ran from one end of the house to the other, traversed by the six of us plus animals and guests all day. We carried backpacks, children, hockey sticks, magic wands, transistor radios, and laundry baskets, often stumbling into one another, elbows bumping, plates dropped. The angel resided above it all, peacefully, for years.
Until she fell.
Does it matter how the incident happened? Did my sister roller skate down the hallway? Was I myself deep in a book, as I meandered through the chaos? Was one of the other siblings burning popcorn, the dark smoke pouring from the kitchen, and was my father yelling?
The crash occurred. Walls shook. My father roared. In the silence, the smoke clearing, my sister stood above smashed pottery. The angel herself stared up at us from the ground, missing several appendages and one of her precious wings, but her face a placid one, in a state of peace despite her sudden fall.
My mother did not share this peace.
She fell to the ground on swollen red knees, refusing our help as she gathered the pieces. She lifted the broken statue carefully with both hands and held it to her heart, tears rolling down her cheeks. She announced, with grave and dramatic pause, “She was the only thing I ever cared about in this house.”
The words, once said, hovered in the emptiness. All eyes were on my sister, who quickly joined those of the grieving – not for the angel, but for how quickly we’d all been thrown out as favorites. While my mother eventually recovered, the story became lore. The day Leslie broke the angel, “the only thing mom ever cared about.”
In February 2019, my own daughter and I arrive in Oaxaca. We are here for no reason and many reasons. Casey is a travel journalist; I am woman escaping the long winter of rain. We both love Mexico, and we want to see the revered Oaxacan crafts. And yes, while my mother passed years ago, when Casey was just a baby, I have an urge to replace that angel. The one-winged guardian still sits on a high shelf in my own home, watching over my own large family, many friends, several dogs, and general chaos.
Casey
I weave through the stalls lining the plaza, taking in the brilliant and overwhelming color that is Oaxaca’s calling card–woven blankets, basket purses, handmade toys. I’ve been in Mexico more than a month, but this is only my second day here in what many consider the country’s cultural heart. My mom flew in from San Francisco, and the sunshine fills her up. She is the best version of herself here, something we share. Over the last five weeks I have spent in Mexico, I have felt myself opening up effortlessly and fully in ways I didn’t know were possible.
We speak of my grandmother, whom I know largely from photographs. She died when I was only a year old–I’m told that I learned to walk as she took her final breaths. I have always believed that as she passed, she handed off her legacy in a kind of cosmic relay, giving me the strength to make my first steps across her hospital room and into the world.
I was eight when I first attempted to communicate with Nana, whom I believed firmly was watching my every move, waiting for me to fulfill whatever mission she had assigned me. On a sweltering July afternoon I took sidewalk chalk and wrote Nana a letter on the driveway, hair clinging to my forehead with sweat. I knew Nana was living in heaven from my Catholic schooling, and I was hoping she would see it from up there. I asked what she’d like me to be. My patient parents left the letter on the driveway to allow me to “process my delayed grief.” It was eventually power-washed away by our gardener, my celestial messages morphing into a rainbow stream to the gutter.
This much I know: she was strong, she was an exaggerating and amusing storyteller, her door was always open to friends and neighbors, and she loved to travel. She did make it to Europe before her death at 63, she did not make it to Latin American where my mother and I have found so much to enjoy. Her life was cut remarkably short, partially because of the inability of medicine to treat the disease ravaging her body.
It is difficult not to see my own path as what hers might have been with better care. I am disabled too, chronically ill like she was. But at 23, I have traveled to seventeen countries so far in my life, some for months at a time. I get to write stories for a living, a privilege I don’t take lightly. And that’s what led us here, to the Zocalo in downtown Oaxaca, Mexico, a world away from that hospital room in San Francisco, or her kitchen in New Jersey.
The chronic illnesses I deal with are much less debilitating here, due both to the drier climate and the sense of fulfillment I feel. My mother eyes an intricately embroidered shawl at one of the artisan stands and I encourage her to buy it–it looks beautiful on her–and I am pleased to note that when I reach into my bag to get her wallet, my joints don’t stiffen from bending down and I don’t feel vertigo when I get back up. I feel strong.
As we walk I take note of possible avenues for stories in my head, noting artisans I want to return to and speak with, and restaurants that look to serve traditional or interesting dishes. I snap a photo of a public art display about a conflict between local protesters and the national police, a reminder of the omnipresent political tensions in Mexico. I’ll come back later and find out what, exactly, happened.
But of course stories aren’t only one thing I am looking for here. I also want to experience the unique cuisine, the colonial architecture, the world-class art, and the incredible natural wonders. And to find the angel, a “whole” replacement for my dramatic grandmother’s precious angel.
Families stroll by in the Zocolo, stopping to buy snacks on the street: tacos, elotes, ice creams, churros. The street performers, the young couples hand in hand, the babies clinging to bright balloons and the tiny abuelas with their feet stuffed into patent leather shoes all make the Zocalo feel like a constant celebration. I wish Nana could have known it.
We spend a week in Oaxaca. We eat in the chaotic warren of the market, explore art museums and cathedrals, and even see petrified waterfalls; we walk miles every day and learn the city by foot. As we walk, we talk–about my mother’s life, my grandmother’s, and mine. We discuss the challenges that face Oaxacans, like poverty and political disenfranchisement, and also the remarkable richness of the region’s culture.
We visit different artisan collectives, stall after stall of intricately designed tin hearts, colorful fabrics. and the signature black Oaxacan pottery, shining in the light. Many have angels, but none are exactly right: they come in pairs, they are baby cherubs instead of full grown seraphs, they are boys (my grandmother’s had a distinctly feminine look).
I think I have fulfilled my grandmother’s mission: to live so fully, so completely, that the house is full of treasures, collected from your travels. But collect more than that, I hear her voice in my head. Collect memories. Collect stories–as many as you can. Share them all.
Nana’s angel remains elusive, not so easily replaced. But perhaps the point was the journey of the search, remembering Nana frequently, enjoying our time as mother and daughter on earth. In this magical place, we feel her spirit.
