When Your Mother Finally Leaves the City You Call Home
Mom’s the last of our immigrant family of seven to move out of Queens
It was a crisp February day, sunny and blindingly bright. The mounds of soiled snow and ice hugging the curb signaled that it was the right time to head south to the promise of warm air and green vegetation.
It was a perfect day to move out of Astoria.
Mom’s exit was a milestone for our family; she would be the last of seven to leave the Queens neighborhood. We first arrived on a bright orange Braniff airplane in 1967, heading straight for Crescent Street. At that time, the neighborhood around Ditmars Boulevard — from 21st Street to Steinway Street — was mostly working-class Irish, Italian, and Greek, soon to be replaced by more Greeks, Yugoslavians, and Latinos.
My mother leaving Astoria seemed destined, a natural progression to make space for newer immigrants from Egypt, Morocco, and Central America.
As the children of the family, the five of us adapted easily to the new language and culture and began to thrive in Astoria, excelling at school. After our teenage years, we moved on to college campuses one by one, never to return. My parents’ marriage didn’t survive the cultural shift of moving from Bogotá, Colombia. Since their divorce, my mother has lived on her own, keeping a small group of close friends, many from the old country, while orbiting the lives of her children and, eventually, her grandchildren. Leaving Astoria seemed destined, a natural progression to make space for newer immigrants from Egypt, Morocco, and Central America.
An aptly-named Big John’s long-distance moving rig came to pick up my mother’s possessions. The maroon behemoth seemed out of place on her narrow street. With limited parking spaces made even scarcer by piles of snow, the driver attempted to squeeze the truck into the spot in front of her building. The driver, Pablo, was friendly; he spoke to my mother in Spanish, and showed the customary respect for the señora of the house, while they finalized the paperwork. His courteous approach helped my mom relax; she had been anxious about strangers handling her possessions.
The Irishman, prepping boxes in the apartment, was all business, quiet and attentive even while my mom gave him tips on how to pack. While we waited for Pablo to park the cab, he told me he had been with Big John’s for 19 years. The other crew member, the one I dubbed “the ox,” spit into his hands to add grip to his fingers dried out by the cold air. He stacked three heavy boxes, leaned them against his spine, and carried them piggyback down the two narrow flights of stairs and out to the trailer. Hand trucks would not work for the walk-up apartment.
The men propped open the building’s exterior door, making the marble stairs colder and harder. They were also wet and slippery from the dirty slush dragged in by their heavy boots. After the building owner, Sofia, complained that her first-floor apartment was freezing, I played doorman to keep some of the heat inside. The trailer easily swallowed box after box. Her stuff fit into the small loft space, and left plenty of room for their second load, also heading to North Carolina. The men moved everything my mother owned into that trailer in under two hours. As they were about to leave, my mother pleaded with Pablo to take good care of her belongings. With a smile, he responded that, of course, he would: “No se preocupe, señora.”
It was not yet noon when my mom headed downstairs to hand over the keys to the building owner. The recognition that their 25-year history had ended defused any animosity stemming from their landlord-tenant relationship. There had been friction; my mom’s long tenure meant she paid a much lower rent than anyone else in the small building. Sofia used my mother’s low rent against her whenever she asked for a repair. She would squeeze in digs — “You hardly pay any rent” — before she reluctantly agreed to get the work done.
For me, seeing my mother give the older woman a long goodbye hug accented the finality of the situation. There went 40 years in Astoria — soon our last name won’t even be in the phone book. Forty years seemed fleeting at that moment. We only get to keep the memories of growing up in Astoria: P.S. 122; Astoria Park and its Olympic-size pool; Immaculate Conception Church, with La Guli Pastry Shop next door. We’ll remember the holidays we shared with the Gomezes, Cadavids, Namurs, and our uncles, aunts, and cousins, stories that we’ll relish and embellish at family gatherings for years to come.
When we went back upstairs for a final check, my mother was glum. The apartment was broom-clean, spotless. She wouldn’t turn it over any other way. We grabbed a couple of small bags she would hand carry to North Carolina. She locked the apartment door from the inside and pulled it closed for the last time. “Vamos, Mauricio,” she said with the same stoic determination I knew from many years ago when we walked across the tarmac to get on that huge orange plane heading to New York. Back then, I struggled with a shoulder bag bigger than me and an overwhelming sadness, my dear abuelas waving from the terminal.
“Vamos,” she repeated. She was off on a new adventure.
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