My mother arrived in Los Angeles in 1991, a year before the brutal civil war in El Salvador came to an end. She brought with her few belongings, including a work visa and memories of carnage and poverty. These scattered stories of pain and violence shaped my understanding of her distant home country growing up, a country I would not see until I decided to visit as an adult, much to my mother’s dismay. Her sporadic stories were steeped in trauma; the silences and shame that enveloped this distant place raised questions for me about why this country hurt my mother so much. When I was around two or three years old, we moved from my birthplace of Los Angeles to find a life away from a Guatemalan father who created strife in my mother’s life. My mom hoped to find a better life surrounded by our family in Long Island, New York, a hub for many Salvadorans.