The Circus is in Town

Caramel popcorn. Pink cotton candy. I can’t remember when I last tasted those kids’ favorites. I bite into the sickening sweet cotton candy and wonder what it is I’m putting into my system. My 4 year-old grandson sitting next to me shoves wads of cotton candy into his mouth with his fingers. His 10 year-old sister is intent on digging into the box of caramelized popcorn and then passes it to me. I pull out a handful. And then another handful.

We’re at the circus. The schools are on winter vacation and I’ve invited the two youngest of my four grandchildren to the circus. The Flying Farfans. Based on the advertisements, I have high hopes for this circus. My son says he remembers me taking him to the Ringling Bros. Barnum and Baily Circus at the Oakland Coliseum. “But they don’t exist anymore, do they?”

In the car on our way to the circus, the youngest asks, “Will there be clowns?”

“Oh, I’m sure there’ll be clowns,” I say, “But no elephants, lions or dogs like there used to be.”

“They were mean with the animals, so they’re not allowed in the circus anymore,” says his wise older sister.

We enter the large red and yellow striped tent and take our seats in the gallery section. The popcorn and cotton candy are about gone by the time the show begins. Music blares out from vibrating speakers just beside us. Dance routines. Juggling acts (they need more practice). Prancing clowns (not nearly as funny as I remember them). A young boy performs balancing acts. An elegantly- costumed woman walks about the center ring on top of a large ball. Impressive, as was the act of two young men striding inside two large metal rings that revolve in the air.

The grandkids watch wide-eyed the grand finale, the trapeze act. Their heads tilted high, they follow two acrobats soaring through the air from opposing swings, meeting midway and connecting with their hands. Several times one misses his connection and drops into the net. These must be the Flying Farfans.

As I watch, my mind wanders. Who are these circus performers? I try to imagine the kinds of lives they lead, traveling from place to place. Based on movies I’ve seen featuring circus people, I imagine them living in shabby trailers, mending their worn costumes. Today the main women performers appear to be middle-aged, though they are fit and smile throughout their acts. Is that smile just for us? The boy juggler looks to be about fifteen. I wonder where they are from. The announcer informs us that some performers are from Ecuador. The clown who greets us at the entrance is clearly Chilean.

Back home, I do some research. The Farfans are several generations of family trapeze artists. The original trapeze act was featured at the Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey Circus years ago. This performance today strikes me as hybrid, modified continuation of the family tradition, incorporating Latin American artists, and that over the years has struggled to live up to the fame of the original Farfans.

At home the kids talk nonstop about all the wonders they’d seen.

The Fourteenth of July

To most people, the date refers to Bastille Day, but for me it has a very different, personal significance. Forty-six years ago today I arrived in Santiago, Chile, to be with my then boyfriend, Santiago, now my husband.  And I’m still here. That day I never imagined that I’d be spending almost my entire adult life here, more years that I lived in the States. I was just living the moment.

    Yesterday I chatted with an American friend here, who also hadn’t expected to be living over two decades in Chile. I threw out this question to her: what is the difference between an expat and an immigrant? Why are we considered “expats?” Is it because we are light-skinned and speak English? Is it due to our reasons for coming here (not fleeing violence or hardships)?

    Most of us “expats” feel like we’ve lost something and feel an ever-present nostalgia within. But to come to terms we also know the importance of identifying and appreciating what we’ve gained: new perspectives, different cultural values, thinking and expressing oneself in a different language. Over the years I’ve come to realize that a sense of place, this place, has grown within me. As I traveled north and south, I learned to identify local birds and their songs, and flowers and trees and their fragrances, unique to the varying landscapes. I miss the rich natural world of my California home, but have learned the importance of bonding with this Chilean landscape where I find myself. Big city living does not make this easy. I must work at it: appreciating the light and shadows on the slopes and peaks of the Andes, planting shrubs and trees pleasing to bees in my garden, scattering crumbs for the birds, noticing the fall colors and the purple glow emanating from flowering jacarandas in spring.

jacaranda tree

    My Scottish great-uncle, Robert, immigrated to Chile with his wife, Elizabeth, in the 1800’s to settle in Valparaiso. I wonder what her “expat-immigrant” life was like. What means did she use to adapt? After several years, our youngest son recently returned to Chile with his American girlfriend. A repeat act. This globalized world will make her adaptation experience different from mine or Elizabeth’s. Yet she is still far from her family and must adjust to speaking and understanding a new language, perhaps the greatest difficulties of all, true whether you’re an expat or an immigrant anywhere in this world.

Hard Times

Today is the Fourth of July, a grey, windy day, rain on the way. Snow falls gently on the visible slopes of the cordillera. Not celebration weather. I hear from a friend in the States: “Happy 4^th of July, hard as it is being part of this USA right now.” Yes, it’s hard. At lunch with four American friends we discuss the situation in our homeland, all of us in a state of disbelief.

My small attempt to commemorate this day is to send WhatsApp Happy Fourth messages with a photo of fireworks over Washington D.C. to sons, grandkids, friends living here in Chile.  Years ago, I made certain that my two sons, born in Chile, had double nationality. Now, as a small reminder of their heritage, I send the photo to my 13 year-old twin granddaughters who now have cell phones. The twins lived in the States as infants and have American passports.

When one twin responds “Que lindo,” she clearly has no clue where the photo was taken. I realize I hadn’t put a title on it,” so I write back, “Happy Fourth of July.” The other twin writes, “Wow! Where are you?” She also does not recognize Washington, D.C. I answer, “Happy Fourth of July. Those fireworks are in Washington, D.C.” “Oh. Happy Fourth!” she texts back.

Although I’ve lived in Chile for 46 years, the United States continues to be “home” to me, and I am deeply concerned about the current state of affairs there. I hope and pray that Americans in these hard times remain strong in fostering the values and spirit of the Declaration of Independence and a return to civility, honesty and tolerance in in that wondrous land.