Chameleons and Childhood Traditions. Reflections on Family, Loss, and the Art of Adaptation
A heartfelt reflection on family traditions, loss, and the art of adaptation. In this personal journey, Marcela revisits vivid childhood memories from Bogotá—from Sunday family lunches to moments of betrayal—and explores how these experiences shaped her resilience and identity. Discover the transformative power of change through the metaphor of the chameleon.
In this photo, Marcela is at a park in Bogotá, Colombia.
Every Sunday during my childhood until I turned 15, we had lunch at my paternal grandmother’s house, Abuela Rika. It was an obligation disguised as a tradition, and I enjoyed it. My grandmother was a great cook, and I usually got to choose the meal. Everyone in the family attended these lunches—all the aunts and uncles. Being the oldest grandchild living in Bogotá, I was the only child present for four years. We would all sit around a long, sturdy rectangular table made in Louis XVI style, topped with glass and covered by a beautiful embroidered tablecloth that we had to keep spotless—even when blackberry juice was the drink of the day. There was no separate table for adults and children, even when my siblings and cousins eventually joined these gatherings. I don’t recall what was discussed at the table; after the meal, we all took a siesta. Another great tradition. On one particular Sunday, when I was about 5 or 6, we were sitting in the living room after the siesta—all except my dad, who was still asleep in one of the rooms. I still remember where everyone was seated when he walked out, looking dapper and ready to go out.
My grandmother’s apartment was on the fourth floor of one of the 14 buildings in El Centro Urbano Antonio Nariño (CUAN) in Bogotá. Although the living and dining area was open concept with windows along the entire room, sunlight never directly lit the space. Two immense trees just outside in front of the building created a natural shade, making the room seem as though someone had dimmed the lights. It was a cloudy Sunday afternoon when my father announced from the living room that he was going out for a drive—a part of his tradition. We would have lunch together, take a siesta, and then my dad would go for a drive in our family car.
I don’t know how I understood what this really meant, but I did. I leaped out of one of the Louis XVI chairs in the living room—chairs that had been reupholstered several times because my grandmother didn’t believe in waste. That very furniture still adorns my aunt’s home in Bogotá, reupholstered for what must be the hundredth time. I told my dad I wanted to go with him, and he said yes. Not only did this make me happy, but it also made me feel grown up. I was going to sit in the front seat and join him on a ride in the car—and I would have the power to prevent him from picking up women.
We walked to the elevator holding hands, got in the car, and I settled into the front seat of our black, circa-1970s Volkswagen sedan. As we drove out of the gated community, my dad spotted a woman—something I noticed immediately. He drove closer to the sidewalk and began honking at her. I was mortified, wanting to scream but unable to find my voice. As we neared her, he told me to roll down my window. I hesitated at first, but eventually complied. With the window down, he asked her where she was going, and she replied that she was headed just to the corner store. He offered to drive her there, but she declined at first. He insisted, and finally, she agreed. Then he opened the door by my seat, invited her in, and told me to go sit in the back. And so, I did.
I don’t remember what happened immediately after, but I do recall returning to my grandmother’s to pick up my mother and my baby brother—who must have been 1 or 2 years old at the time. We walked back into that dimly lit room, and all I could think about was what I would do or say. If I told my mother what had happened, I knew she would suffer and it would spark a fight; if I didn’t, I felt complicit in betraying her. I still remember the overwhelming sense of betrayal that coursed through me.
This was not the only time I was asked to sit in the back, nor the only time I kept it from my mother so she would not suffer.
Recently, a dear friend told me that she has always seen me as a chameleon—someone who can change colors and adapt to any circumstance to thrive. I understood what she meant. She has been a friend for over 25 years and has witnessed many ups and downs in my life, including my layoff from a corporate job at a publishing house, which forced me to reinvent myself and transition from a corporate employee to an entrepreneur. Her metaphor of me as a chameleon resonated deeply, and I couldn’t just shake it off. Sorry not sorry, Taylor Swift.
Chameleons change color not just to hide, but also to communicate, regulate their temperature, and adapt to their environment.
As the years went by, my parents eventually separated and divorced, and my mother moved my two siblings and me to Charlotte, North Carolina. I experienced a culture shock like never before. At 15, I found myself in a new city I hadn’t agreed to move to, attending a new school, living in a new house, and following strict Christian rules. “Adapt or die” was what I kept hearing within myself.
During the first days in Charlotte, I resisted the change. I even called my dad to tell him we were staying and ran away, only to be found four hours later. I was confused, sad, and angry. Then my aunt’s husband told me not to cry for my dad because, after all, he preferred the whores to me. I was 15.
I adapted. I became a devout Christian, got involved in church, joined the youth group, and eventually became a leader there. I preached the gospel and even spoke in tongues. It wasn’t all rules and sadness, though. We lived with our grandparents, who loved and cared for us. My best friend from Bogotá and her sister came to live with us for an entire school year. I got my driver’s license, had my braces removed, and learned how to wear makeup. My dad once gave me a Gold Mastercard for emergencies, only to take it from me a year later and cut it in half right before my eyes—he never explained what qualified as an emergency expense. I was in high school, and buying makeup at Eckerd Drugs constituted as an "emergency."
After moving to Charlotte, we traveled back to Bogotá to visit my dad and our family on his side. We spent most of the summer months with him, where there were very few rules—no church, no preaching the gospel; just middle school friends, movies, birthday parties, and boys. Adapt.
Back in Charlotte, I became the mediator between my mother and father. Whenever my mother answered a phone call and heard the beep of an international call, she would throw the receiver in the air and shout, “Your dad!” One of us had to run to pick up the phone before it hit the ground so we could all speak with him. When it was my turn, my mom would stand in front of me, instructing me to tell him something—usually about money. I understood. Adapt.
When I was in Bogotá, my dad’s family would ask me about our new religion. I found myself explaining my mother’s newfound faith and her decision to move us to Charlotte. Adapt.
My dad never questioned us about any of this. He never spoke negatively about my mother’s Christianity or our involvement in it. It might have seemed like a cult to him, but he never objected. I remember the first time he visited us in Charlotte: he rented a cabin in the mountains, borrowed my grandfather’s car, and the four of us—my dad and the three of us kids—drove to the cabin. I was sitting in the front seat during that long, dark drive, spending most of the ride telling him not to let himself be marked with the 666—the sign of the beast—because it would send him to hell, and we would never see him again. I rambled about the Book of Revelation, warning him that if the three of us ever disappeared, it would be due to the rapture. He listened quietly, making no sound or facial expression. I can’t imagine what he was thinking. I sat in the front seat for the entire ride.
My dad died in 1996 at the age of 57. I will see him again.
After I divorced my second husband in 2003, my family felt relief—he was not a good match. My sister remarked that while I was married, I wasn’t myself. She couldn’t provide specific examples, just that “you were not you.” I can’t think of any particular instance that would show me how I was not me, but now I understand what she meant. Adapt.
Be a chameleon.
I suffered from kidney disease when I was little, endured a kidney infection, and passed a total of seven kidney stones in my life—the last one in 2003. A few years ago, during an appointment with a Chinese medicine doctor and acupuncturist in Miami, he explained that kidney issues are linked to fear, insecurity, and survival. While visiting my mother at the time, I shared what I had learned about my kidneys. She became very angry and, in a loud voice, told me that the only reason I visited her was to make her suffer.
This has never been my intent, but it seems to be my impact. I can’t challenge her beliefs, only my own. I can’t protect her from pain as I tried to when I was 5. I am learning to protect myself.
How have the family traditions in your life—both the comforting rituals and the painful moments of loss—shaped the way you adapt to change and transform who you are over time?
How have the experiences from your past shaped the way you adapt to challenges today?
What does the metaphor of being a “chameleon” mean to you in the context of overcoming adversity?