by Cristóbal Salazar
I was eight when we left Cochabamba, though in my memory the moment feels older, as if I had already lived a small lifetime before stepping onto that plane. My mother said we were chasing opportunity. My father said we were chasing stability. I didn’t know what we were chasing. All I knew was that the mountains stayed behind, and I was expected to keep walking forward.
In Bolivia, the world felt close. The vendors who sold salteñas on the corner knew my name. The neighbors argued loudly enough that their stories became ours. Even the sky felt familiar, a blue so sharp it made your eyes water. I thought the whole world looked like that.
America was different. The sky was bigger but somehow quieter. People spoke fast, clipped, as if they were always late for something. At school, my name stretched awkwardly in other people’s mouths. Teachers paused before saying it, and kids shortened it without asking. I learned early that silence was easier than correcting them.
But there were moments of wonder too. Snow, for one. I had seen it only in movies, and the first time it fell, I ran outside without a jacket, letting the flakes melt on my tongue. I remember thinking, So this is what cold tastes like. I remember thinking, Maybe I can belong here.
Belonging, though, was not a single moment. It was a slow accumulation of small victories: understanding a joke in English, raising my hand in class without rehearsing the sentence in my head, helping my parents translate bills and letters. I became the family’s bridge, the one who could navigate grocery stores, school forms, and doctor’s offices. It made me proud and tired at the same time.
Sometimes I missed Bolivia so sharply it felt like a bruise. I missed the smell of fried yuca drifting from street stalls, the sound of my grandmother’s radio humming old folk songs, the way people greeted each other with warmth that felt like sunlight. In America, warmth had to be earned.
But I grew. I adapted. I learned that identity is not a suitcase you unpack once; it’s something you carry, rearrange, and rediscover. I learned that you can love two places at once, even if they pull you in different directions.
Now, when people ask where I’m from, I say, “Bolivia,” and then I add, “but I grew up here.” It’s the truth, though it never feels like the whole truth. The whole truth is that I am made of both places, the mountains that raised me and the country that reshaped me.
I am the child who left, and the child who arrived.
I am the story, still being written.
Art by Crist?bal Salazar. ?Chaos?
About the Author
Crist?bal is a Bolivian?born storyteller and artist, with a curious mind and an easy laugh. He immigrated to the United States when he was thirteen, carrying with him the mountains, music, and vibrant colors of Cochabamba that continue to shape his imagination. Whether he?s exploring new ideas or connecting with people from different backgrounds, Crist?bal brings a sense of openness and heart to everything he does.