A Letter to Elia June
For anybody that doesn’t know my family, you should know that my grandmother Elia was one of the most incredible women to ever walk this earth. She was a mama of six and got to meet 12 of 15 of her grandkids. For about 20 years, I was the baby girl in my family. 7 boys were born after me and then a little over three years ago, I had to pass my title to Elia June Santoyo. Something I was overjoyed to do. It was short-lived because two years later, she had to pass it to Lux who as of now, remains with the title. Sometimes, all I can think about is how much my grandmother would’ve loved them. I think about how much I wish they could know her.
Anne Lamott wrote that sometimes the best writing takes the form of a letter to a loved one. So I wrote one. I wrote a letter to the babygirl I passed my title to, who I wish could meet her fierce grandmama. I wrote it in hopes that one day, she’ll be old enough to wonder about her and she’ll get to read this for herself.
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Elia June,
You’re almost three years old at the time that I’m writing this. You’re talking so much and telling everybody what you think. Lately, it has made me think about what you’d be like or say if you got to be around our grandmother. Or what you would’ve called her now that you know all of our names. Maybe you would’ve called her buelita, like I did, or Iya like Diego and Zion did for so long. Who knows what you would’ve come up with. Although you’ll never get to know her, in this life at least, I want you to have an idea of what it was like as a baby girl in her life.
First of all, she’d be on your side. For everything. You could be guilty of anything, but to her, you’d always be innocent. As a baby, you’d sit in this little rocker on the floor. She’d keep you asleep and at peace for hours by making it bounce with her feet. She did it for everybody, which is maybe why she had calves of steel. She would swaddle you in what we call a rebozo. It’s essentially a big Mexican scarf that she would twist and tie until you were secured tightly to her chest. As you get older, you’d notice her more. The ring she twists back and forth when she sits in the exact same spot on the couch staring out of the large windows in her living room. On guard, always. You’d notice the nude pink nail polish that’s always freshly painted on her finger nails. And when you’re a lot older, you’d think of her when you get your nails painted nude pink too. You’d see her cooking in large pots and on large pans because she only ever cooked for tribes of people. When it gets warmer out, she’d let you go outside and play but wouldn’t allow you to go past where she could see you from the porch or through the big windows. When the ice cream truck comes by, she’d give you money to get yourself something, and a little extra to get her something too. If you ever had to be at her house really early in the morning, you could just crawl into her bed with her and sleep. There’d always be a spot for you. Then you’d both wake up, get out of bed, and she’d share the bagel with cream cheese my grandfather bought her everyday.
When you get older and start doing more things on your own, she’d check in on you. She’d tell you “Echale ganas.” There’s no direct translation for it but it essentially just means “Go for it.” You would be busy but whenever you get the chance to slow down, she’d be sitting there, looking out the window with food made in the big pot or pan she cooked in that day. You could call her for anything. She’d always pick up because nothing was ever more important than us. She’d be stern on weekdays. She needed tough love to diligently get us through the week. Weekends were for partying and you’d sit next to her at church on Sundays.
I know for a fact that this doesn’t do her justice but I’m hoping it captures a sliver of the magic that was in her. You’ve inherited the name of one of the most powerful women I’ve ever known. And so far, I already know that you’ll have some of her magic in you too, even if you might not know exactly where it’s coming from.
- Julissa