Comrade Teddy

When I was 8 years old, I was all nerves, with severe claustrophobia and an anxious, dry cough. And not the good kind of nerves you get before going on stage.

Most of the doctors said I was fine; some gave my parents fictional diagnoses, and yet another said I had a perpetual cold set on by stress.

“But what stress?” challenged my parents. “She’s 8 years old. She lives in a nice house, has loving parents and even has her own bedroom.”

One day, a package arrived at my house. It was big, big enough for me to fit inside. My ma signed for it and placed it in the middle of the living room.

“Where was it from? What was inside? Who had sent it? Was it a weapon? Were we in danger? “ My mind was reeling.

The answers to my questions were deferred. Ma was on the phone. If that wasn’t bad enough, it just happened to be her sister on the other line. So, I waited, impatiently, careful not to interrupt. I waited through to the end of ma’s telenovela; I waited throughout the weekend chores; I waited throughout our entire dinner; I waited throughout our Sunday bath time; and I waited until my hair dried enough to plait into two French braids, before putting on my pajamas.

Finally, my mom hung up the phone that was sure to garner a $150 bill, and opened the package.

It was from my cousins in the former island of a banana republic - the one that had won the war.

I was expecting new, shiny balls or hair conditioner or early Christmas gifts. But no.

Inside the box, were old, tattered blankets, my grandma’s wedding dress and various religious trinkets. I frowned at the box and its contents. My ma was in tears though. What were rags to me, were the most precious keepsakes to her from another world, another time. Silent tears started running down her face and she reached over and hugged me into the bundle of rags.

At that moment, I saw something in the bottom of the box. Something brown and furry and cute. I reached in and pulled out what looked like a teddy bear. He was medium sized, with deep gold fur and was dressed in camouflage fatigues with a green general’s cap. I had never seen a teddy bear dressed up like that. Like he was going to war.

Ma told me he was a comrade.

Another barrage of questions entered my head.

“Comrade means friend,” said ma as she wiped her tears and started tidying up.

“But why is he dressed up like a soldier?” I quizzed.

“To keep you safe,” she answered.

“Safe from what?” my voice started to tremble as my mind rflooded with tragic scenarios.

But it was late. I’d met my allowance for questions that day and was quickly escorted off to bed, with my new friend comrade, Comrade Teddy.

Years went by, and Comrade Teddy was always on alert. He kept the monsters under my bed away. He watched out for robbers at my window. He made me feel safe when I was sad or lonely. He even calmed be down during anxiety attacks.

He was always there, sitting in his green guerilla attire, leading me to safety and victory.

Then I turned 12. My family got a special visa to go visit my ma’s family. But Comrade Teddy had to stay behind.

Truth was, I was getting too old to be sleeping with a teddy bear. But secretly, I wasn’t quite ready to let him go. So, I’d place him on a small shelf during the day in case my friends or siblings came into my bedroom.

When we arrived in the birthplace of Comrade Teddy and my ma’s family, we were greeted and fed and forced to dance in the yard. My ma opened up a single suitcase full or canned tuna and toilet paper and doled it out like they were precious wedding gifts.

It was a sunny island with blue waters and a sea breeze that made it feel like summer year-round. The building’s which told of beautiful past lives were peeling away from the saltwater.

There were signs of revolution and martyrs painted everywhere. Some of them looked a lot like Comrade Teddy. It wasn’t just Teddy that was a fighter; all of my cousins and uncles, and even my grandpa were soldiers too. All the men were soldiers and some of the women, too.

Every time I brought up the war, everyone went quiet and tried to distract me with food or stories about sugar cane fields, so I never learned which side we were supposed to be on. But that was alright, because I knew if some country dropped a nuke or invaded the shores or launched an attack on the neighborhood for whatever perplexing reason, I was safe. My uncles and cousins would fight to the death, my ma would make coffee strong enough to wake the dead, and my grandma would patch up the wounded like she had done with my scrapped knee after trying to dance the Rumba with my aunt.

At the end of our trip, we said goodbye and returned home with kisses on our cheeks, tumbao in our ears, and for some reason, with the smell of tobacco on our clothes.

When I got home, something felt different. Comrade Teddy was sitting on my shelf, looking as dapper and as brave as ever. Then I realized that so was I.

I was confident and sure of myself.

I was a girl that came from a family of warriors from a beautiful, strong country. Comrade Teddy had been my strength, my security, my comfort, and my home for years, until I got to see it for myself.

I went over, and instead of kissing him on the head as I’d always done, and gave him a small salute, and whispered, “At ease, comrade. Thank you for your service.”