Since her mother left, Evelin's preteen shuffle has given way to a sultry stroll. Those swaying hips unsettle her grandmother.
Sixteen is a risky age for a girl in her neighborhood, and Evelin is two years younger than her mother was when she first became pregnant.
Karen Flores is escorted to her 15th birthday party in El Salvador. Karen's mother, who lives in Virginia and could not attend, is among thousands of Latin American immigrants who send money back home to families.
(Sarah L. Voisin -- The Washington Post)
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A Mother's Support
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Immigrants and Separation: Post staff writer Nurith Aizenman is discussing the separation of one El Salvadoran mother from her children in order to make more money in the U.S.
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About This Story
This article was based on interviews with and observations of Maday Flores in Northern Virginia and her children and mother in El Salvador, where staff writer Nurith C. Aizenman and staff photographer Sarah L. Voisin spent a week in July. Other than for accounts otherwise attributed, the reporter and photographer were present during key events described, including Karen Flores' birthday party and a shooting that occurred outside as the family gathered for evening prayers. All interviews were done in Spanish.
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The grandmother has a plan to save Evelin from the same fate: Until she has landed her first well-paying job, there will be no dating.
Evelin offers no protest. And yet.
"Love. . . . Love forever," she doodles across her history worksheets.
School has never held her attention. She has had to repeat two grades and is with the 13- and 14 year-olds in eighth grade, a year below her younger sister Karen. Such a friendly, well-behaved student, Evelin's teachers lament, if only she would do her homework.
Evelin's grandmother, Carmen Flores, has no way of helping her study. An orphan who grew up sleeping on the streets of San Salvador, the 55-year-old woman knows only two letters: the "C" and "F" with which she signs her name. Evelin's mother, who used to rifle through her workbooks every night, can now merely ask an anxious "how's school going?" during twice-weekly phone calls from Virginia.
A few weeks ago, Evelin says, she answered with bad news: For the second straight semester, she had flunked science.
"It killed me to tell my Mami," she said afterward. The private school, Evelin knows, charges $65 a month in tuition for all five children -- eating up a chunk of the $450 her mother sends each month.
The school doesn't offer a lot in return. To study there is to swelter in a cramped, concrete-walled classroom while teachers shout over the screeches of children at recess in a fenced-in courtyard.
But the school is close to Evelin's house. To reach the public school she used to attend, Evelin had to hike up a trash-strewn hill where muggers lay in wait. Gangs have infiltrated the public school. Two months ago, a gunman put a bullet through a gym teacher's head.
Despite her troubles, Evelin has fun at the private school. Her sly, infectious giggle and habit of winking when she is telling a joke have made her popular. The teachers are energetic and affectionate, and so much closer in age to her mother than to her sweet but weary grandmother. There's the soft-spoken, smiley woman who teaches English. The loud, enthusiastic guy who teaches math. And her favorite -- the lanky, wickedly witty social studies teacher, Hector Alexander.
Although withdrawn around adults she does not know well, Evelin blossoms in the teachers' presence. She teases them, shows them photographs of her mother, wraps her arm around the English teacher's waist, and talks to all of them about things she does not always tell her grandmother.
But three days before Karen's birthday party, it was to Mr. Alexander alone that Evelin says she confided her most cherished secret.
"My mother is coming," she told him. "It's gonna be a surprise."
In the life of a Latin American girl, no event is more important than her 15th birthday. Evelin was convinced that their mother wouldn't miss it. The nuances of U.S. immigration law -- her mother has temporary legal status but not the permanent residency that would enable her to travel freely or fly the children over for a visit -- were lost on an adolescent girl.
Toward the end of the party, Mr. Alexander pulled Evelin aside. "So," he asked cheerfully, "which one of these ladies is your mother?"
Evelin hung her head. "Oh," she mumbled as her eyes welled with tears, "turns out she couldn't make it."
The pain tugging at her composure was all the more sharp because she had suffered the same letdown at her own 15th birthday party last year.
How could Evelin have set herself up this way twice?
"I don't know," she whispered between sobs a few days later. "I just get these illusions."
Learning Not to Cry
Karen's party had been over for four hours by the time her mother got through on the phone.
"Remember that from this day forward you're no longer a girl, you're a young lady," her mother admonished.
"Uh-huh," answered Karen, nodding.
