Chapter Five
Posted by Sandy on June 24th, 2008 filed in Sweetwater American ChaptersComment now »
It was 9:00 p.m. when I arrived at the Woodley Park-Zoo/Adams Morgan Metro stop. I squeezed my stomach muscles in an attempt to calm the hunger pangs.
Had I not decided to walk back to the Silver Spring Metro Station from Elena’s house, I would have endured the thirty-minute walk to my apartment. But my aching shoulders begged me to take a cab.
There were only a few cabs still parked on the street alongside the station. Unlike New York which claimed to be the city that never sleeps, D.C. managed to get a few hours of sleep each night.
A woman stepped out of a cab and said, “Miss, you need help with your bags?” She was wearing an Orioles baseball cap which was almost too small for her head.
I looked around. Four other people were standing near me, all men. Businessmen or up-and-coming politicians, I guessed, by the way they were dressed. Black suits, black ties, black briefcases, and perfectly cut short hair. Young men working late to show they had what it took. I smiled at them. They smiled back.
“Sure,” I said to the woman and lifted my backpack to her.
She opened the passenger’s door and set the bag on the floor.
“I can put the other bag in the trunk,” she said with a grin.
“That’s okay. I’ll just keep it with me if you don’t mind.”
“Sure thing. Get in and I’ll hand it to you.”
My mind played a trick on me. The backseat of the cab looked exactly like my bed—white sheets, down comforter, and a hundred pillows.
If only I could fall asleep for a couple of years.
I got in and waved goodbye to the men.
“On your way home from school?” Baseball Cap Lady said.
If I answered yes, she’d want to know which school I attended. If I answered no, she’d want to know from where I was coming. Either way, a second question was inevitable.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to be rude but I’d rather not talk,” I said.
Baseball Cap Lady nodded. Not another word came out of her mouth.
The head stomping intensified.
“Two little monkeys jumping on the bed.”
None of the other workers’ children had ever turned down an ice cream cone, Elena had said. Why would Elena remember me? She obviously met a lot of other kids. Something was missing. And why did she feel compelled to come to my rescue? I wasn’t the only freaky student at George Washington University. She hadn’t told me everything. What else was she hiding?
“Three little monkeys jumping on the bed.”
I rubbed my temples. Then I rolled down the window and took in a breath. Raindrops fell on my nose. April in D.C. meant cool breezes mixed with rain showers in the late afternoon or evening.
Elena had known Mami and Dihda. They never mentioned her.
My sweet parents, I miss you so much. You told me all about your lives. How you got here. Where you lived. Everything. But you never mentioned Elena. Why?
As the cab sped on, I rested my head against the cold glass and closed my eyes.
***
1986
It was a breezy day and Mami and I were taking a walk in Rock Creek Park. Bikers and joggers passed by us; every few minutes I’d stop and throw sticks into the creek. Mami immigrated from San Miguel, El Salvador with her brother and sister six months after their mama died of a heart attack. They were supposed to leave immediately because their mama told them if anything should ever happen to her, they were to get on a plane bound for America and never return.
“You’ll go to school in America, you’ll learn English and have beautiful homes,” she’d say to them.
“It’s not that mi mama didn’t think El Salvador was beautiful—she just thought America had more opportunities. Neighbors showed us American magazines in which men and women dressed in fancy clothes appeared on the covers,” Mami said to me.
“In the summer time you can go to El Cuco, and eat turtle eggs from the porch of your own rented bungalow on the beach. For dessert, you can suck on a ripe and juicy mango until your gums hurt from all the mango hairs that get stuck between your teeth. And you can also go hiking in Cerro Verde National Park, stare at Izalco Volcano and wonder how such a beautiful thing could have been created from basalt. Perhaps someday you’ll visit El Salvador.”
I licked my lips.
As we continued walking, Mami told me how it was she came to live in the States. She also told me how she met Dihda, my father. I listened without interrupting her.
“Mi mama would take my siblings and I to El Cuco when she was tired from cleaning people’s houses and needed time off. Mi papa rarely joined us because his skin was too white for the sun.” She laughed. “He also thought we should have the best so he’d sacrifice his vacation. And when he got tired of mowing the lawns and trimming the bushes from the yards of his bosses’ houses, he’d put on his favorite extra large white t-shirt and his only pair of pajama bottoms.”
A couple of joggers passed by us. Mami didn’t seem to notice them.
“Then he’d sit on the porch of our house for a week, only getting up to pee or to grab another American beer.” Mami stopped, picked up a stick, and threw it into the creek causing small ripples in the water. “He only drank American beer because he said it tasted better since it was more expensive and was from a far away land. And as long as we could spend our summers at the beach, your grandma was happy to allow him the expense of American beer.” She moved a strand of hair away from her face.
“When Mama died I fell into a deep depression. I was the youngest and she had promised my siblings and I she’d be around to see her grandchildren throw wet sand in each other’s faces while she laughed and clapped.” She took my hand and squeezed it.
“Soon after we buried her, I was taken to a psychiatric institute for six months where I received shock treatments. The doctor thought the electricity would knock me out of my depression.” She squeezed my hand harder.
She was hurting me. I tried to pull away but she refused to let go.
“My sister and brother begged me to act happy so we could all leave for America. Papa had packed our clothes and bought our tickets. He wanted us to have a better life. Mama had taken us to El Cuco every summer to live in a bungalow where we bathed in shiny white tubs filled with bubbly soap.”
I freed my hand. Mami didn’t notice.
“And at bedtime, Mama had wrapped us in plush, colorful blankets and we slept in our own beds. Papa knew that once we were grown, we’d need more than American beer to make us happy.”
“Papa visited me at the psychiatric institute and reminded me of the summers I’d spent at the beach. I reminded him that Mama had not kept her promise. Papa asked me to promise that someday I’d bring my children to El Cuco.” ‘I’ll engrave memories in my children’s minds so that when they are grown, they’ll start to believe they had been to El Cuco. But I won’t promise to take them there because I don’t want to be reminded of Mama.’ “I said to Papa.”
‘Then in those memories, your mama will live,’ “he said to me. He left, and that night I dreamt of your grandma.”
Mami rubbed her eyes and expelled a long sigh. She didn’t tell me about the dream.
“The next day, when the doctor asked me if I was ready to receive my next shock treatment, I said,
‘No, I don’t think I need it anymore because today when I got up, I looked in the mirror and saw a smile.’ “I was released and sent home.
A few days later my siblings and I left for America. Papa sat on the concrete and watched the plane take off. He lifted his American beer in the air and I knew I’d never see him again.” She closed her eyes for a few seconds.
“My siblings and I got jobs as housekeepers working in the same house near Rock Creek Park in Washington, D.C. My sister and I cared for the inside of the house and my brother cared for the outside. He mowed the lawn and trimmed the bushes. But he wasn’t allowed to remove the ivy from the house’s walls because the bosses thought he was much too young to be up on a ladder so high from the ground.”
The wind blew a strand of her hair into her face. I threw another stick into the water.
“We were happy. We were able to stay together and the owners of the house treated us with respect and kindness,” she said as she tied her hair back in a ponytail.
‘You might not have the opportunity to get an education but your children will, and so will your grandchildren,’ “they’d say to us.”
“My brother translated for us because my sister and I had difficulty learning English since we spent all our time working together—cleaning the bathrooms, making the beds, and vacuuming the carpets. My brother spent a lot of time talking with the limo driver and the pool cleaner. Neither of them was Latino nor spoke Spanish.”
“On Saturdays and Sundays when we didn’t have to work, we’d go for walks in the park and talked about our dreams and hopes for the future. And on one occasion we got on a bus on Sixteenth Street and didn’t get off until we reached The Pigeon Park as it was called by los Latinos.”
“We had never been there but talk of the park spread to our neighborhood and we wanted to see if it really was infested with pigeons. We brought some stale bread with us and when we arrived, we couldn’t believe such a small area with few benches could host so many pigeons.” She paused. “We sat on the ground underneath a tree and threw pieces of bread into the air and talked about our dreams.”
I felt her grip on my hand tightening.
“My brother was determined to learn to speak English fluently so he borrowed some cassette tapes and books from the library. He’d stay up late reading until the owners of the house noticed him bumping into bushes. They bought him a pair of glasses and told him once his eyes got rest from all the straining he forced on them, he’d only need his glasses to read. He never took them off because he said they made him look distinguished and that when he had children, they’d know he was an educated man.”
I had to interrupt her.
“My hand. You’re hurting it,” I said.
Instantly, she let go.
“I laughed at my brother and loved him.” Her face was wet with tears. “When he broke his neck after falling from a ladder he was not supposed to have been on, the owners tried to take his glasses off before he was carried to the ambulance.
I stopped them because his never-conceived children should know their papi had been an educated man.”
No child ever wants to see her parent cry. I wanted to swaddle her in a blanket and shush in her ear like she had done to me when I was a baby.
“We buried him in a cemetery near Rock Creek Park and this time I didn’t fall into depression because I knew my brother was drinking American beer, and eating mangoes, and turtle eggs from the porch of a bungalow on the beach. And our mama and papa were with him.”
She looked at the sky. I let my tears flow. And Mami continued with her story.
“My sister dreamt of the day she’d marry a handsome man and I knew her dream would come true because she was a kind and beautiful girl who deserved to live like a princess in a castle. So after we had been in America for several years, my sister met a man on a night when the owners of the house were having a party. We had been left in charge of serving the food even though our duties consisted of cleaning the house.” She wiped away tears.
“When the time came to serve the food to the guests, who were impatiently waiting in the dining room for more than an hour, the owners of the house stopped us in the kitchen.”
‘You were not hired to serve food, tonight you’ll both eat with us and our guests.’
“The owners had a nephew who was about my sister’s age and when they introduced them to each other, they fell in love and soon after, were married. I was left to care for the house alone but I didn’t mind because my sister and brother found happiness and I knew someday my sister would take her children to El Cuco to visit my brother, mama, and papa.
Shortly after my sister married and moved to California with her husband, I met your papa.” Her eyes widened, a smile on her face.
“I was vacuuming the living room carpet when the owners of the house introduced me to a dark, thin man.”
‘This is Patricio, he’s the new gardener,’ “the lady of the house said.”
“I felt my heart sink to my toes. I stood up straight.”
‘Good to meet you. Where are you from?’ “I said.”
‘I’m from El Salvador and I suspect you are too,’ “he said exposing crooked teeth.”
“Your papa and I became good friends. He helped me vacuum the carpets, dust the furniture, and make the beds and even taught me how to plant flowers, trim bushes, and mow the lawn. At night when the house settled, he and I went for a walk and talked about our future. During one of these conversations, your papa asked me to marry him.”
Mami and I plopped down under a tree.
“He crunched on an apple, got down on his knees, and said,
‘I love you. I’m sure I’ve loved you since I was born. Will you marry me?’”
“I crunched on an apple and said,
‘I love you. I’m sure I’ve loved you since I was born. Yes, I will marry you.’”
“We worked there every day until you were born.” She kissed me on the cheek.
‘Now that you have a daughter, you can’t work for us anymore,’ “my bosses said to your papi and me.” ‘You have to look out for her,’ “they said.”
“So they let us go and got us another job in the cafeteria of George Washington University. They got us the job because they knew the benefits package included a twelve thousand dollar scholarship that was awarded to all employees’ children who wanted to attend college,” she said with a smile. “They also knew that when classes ended for the summer, your papa and I would have the opportunity to take a few weeks vacation time. You and I could go for long walks in the park and I could begin to engrave Salvadoran memories in your mind.”
More joggers passed by us. We held each other’s hand and walked in silence.
***
“Miss, we’re here. Hellooo…”
“I’m sorry,” I said to Baseball Cap Lady. “I’m exhausted. I guess I was daydreaming.”
“Don’t worry about it. It happens all the time. I get two kinds of passengers. Thinkers and chatters,” she said.
“I hope I didn’t offend you earlier. I had a lot on my mind,” I said and gave her a twenty-dollar bill.
“No, no. I understand.” She dug in her pant pocket.
“Keep the change,” I said.
She continued to dig.
“Please, I’m serious. Just keep it.”
“Really? You’re a nice kid. Have a good night and don’t spend all your time thinking.”
I was getting advice from a stranger.
I laughed and said, “I’ll try not to.”
Chapter Four
Posted by Sandy on May 26th, 2008 filed in Chapter Four, Sweetwater American ChaptersComment now »
1998
Silver Spring Metro Station.
I flung my backpack over one shoulder and hung my duffel bag from the other.
“Doors open on the right,” the conductor said.
I stepped onto the station’s platform and followed the crowd towards the escalator.
“Five dollars. Are you interested?” asked a man dressed in a newspaper coat. The words The Washington Post were taped to his forehead. Torn pieces of The Post held together with masking tape covered his body.
He wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular–just throwing words out and waiting for a response.
“Four dollars. I’ll lower the price,” he said and waved a videotape in the air.
I assumed he was either selling porn or bootlegged movies or maybe even both.
Commuters and students walking ahead of me ignored him. Some even turned and started walking towards the opposite-end escalator. I was tempted to join them.
“Three dollars. I need to eat. Come on, please,” he said, his voice rose higher and higher with each word he uttered. “I’m only asking for three dollars. Damn. I know you have money.”
Once outside the station, I took out Elena’s paper and followed her directions.
Silver Spring was the place in which Dihda wanted to raise me.
Did it look so different in 1976 when Dihda and Mami visited? Growing up in the city in Adams Morgan, I’d hear people mention Silver Spring. They’d talk about it as if it was “the country.” Many older Washingtonians still considered it “country.”
I didn’t think I was in the country, more like a small city. Sure, the streets were wider, the trees just a little fuller and greener, and the landscape a bit more vast. But as far as my camera could tell, it was probably filled with the same amount of air pollution brought on by busses and an overpopulation of cars.
People were walking in every direction, in a hurry to get home to their families, I supposed. Some even munched on appetizers—pretzels with mustard—as they walked. Others sipped soda cocktails.
And Señor Moreno wasn’t the only person who owned a Tienda Latina. The words Supermercado Latino appeared in big letters on a store’s window, a picture of a Latino family sitting at a table having dinner was placed right next to the letters.
I walked on in “the country.”
There it was–Elena’s house–at the top of a hill. On the hill’s bottom sat two large houses each separated by a couple hundred feet of grass. Elena’s was much smaller than the other houses. I crossed the street and began walking up her walkway. Potted flowers and plants lined each side of the walkway.
Yap, yap, yap, yap, a dog barked as he raced down the lawn. He yapped at my feet all the way up to the house. A couple of times, I almost tripped over him.
Standing on the porch, Elena was dressed in a muumuu, a coffee cup in her hand. The steps leading up to her house were decorated with more plants and flowers.
I stepped onto the porch. Goose bumps formed on my arms.
“Come on in,” Elena said. “I’m watching my favorite soap opera.”
I followed her inside and was immediately met with the living room, a plaid couch up against the wall and a floor lamp next to it. Photographs were placed on the fireplace mantel and on each of the sofa’s end tables.
The dining room was located through the living room’s open doorway. The dog scurried under a china cabinet.
Elena took a sip of her coffee and said, “Poor Petro. I can’t lower the volume because I won’t be able to hear him talk. And I can’t miss a word he’s saying.”
“What’s wrong with Petro?” I asked.
“Nothing. He hides under the cabinet when my soap opera is on. If he was a quiet dog, I’d feel bad about the noise, but my God, he’s anything but quiet.”
Poor Petro? I thought my eardrums were going to burst. I hoped her soap opera ended soon.
“Petro is my Saturday morning alarm clock, the only day of the week when I don’t need a wake-up call.” She sighed and refilled her cup with coffee. “On Saturdays, I can sleep in until noon if I want to which I rarely do. My plants need tending, you know. The bathrooms cleaned. The carpets vacuumed. The kitchen floor polished and on and on and on. Not to mention that during the spring and summer, my favorite chair, out on the deck, shaded by an umbrella, is always waiting for me. In the late afternoon after I’ve completed all my housework, I recline into it with a glass of papaya juice in one hand and a Spanish romance novel in the other. I enjoy reading romance novels but not as much as I enjoy watching him on television,” she said.
She pulled out a chair from the tiled-top kitchen table and motioned for me to sit. I obeyed.
Him? Who was this “him” to whom she kept referring? Her personality was different than the one she expressed in the school’s cafeteria. Where was the nervous woman who couldn’t handle a cash register? I was more nervous than she was.
“Would you like a cup? I don’t usually drink more than one cup of coffee in the evening. Otherwise, I can’t sleep. But tonight is different. I had to prepare myself,” she said and opened the freezer door. She pulled out an ice tray, popped out a couple of ice cubes and let them go in her coffee cup.
More air inflated the already-obese goose bumps on my arms.
“May I have a glass of water instead?” I asked.
She sipped her coffee and then said, “I like it lukewarm.” She put the cup on the counter.
Then she dropped some ice cubes in a glass and held it underneath the sink faucet.
She handed me the glass.
“Thank you, I like my water nice and cold,” I said, an attempt at a joke.
She offered me half a smile. I wished I could crawl underneath her china cabinet and cuddle up with Petro.
Taking my free hand, she led me back to the living room. I remembered that I had left my camera on the porch.
“My camera. I’ll be right—”
“Leave it for now. No one will take it, I promise. We can start the interview after my soap opera. I watch it every evening.”
Sinking into a fake leather chair, she propped her feet on the ottoman. I gave in and sat on the couch.
“Juan del Diablo is such a handsome man, long hair and sunbathed skin. He’s the hero in Corazon Salvaje, a Mexican soap opera. It was first released in 1993 but we demanded it be re-released. A bunch of us got together and wrote letters to the production company in Mexico.”
I doubted her letters had anything to do with its re-release.
The commercial segment ended and Juan appeared on the screen or so I assumed it was Juan.
“There he is,” Elena said.
Juan was just about to kiss a woman; her hair almost touched the ground as he held her back in his arms. I love you. I love you, he said to her.
Elena stood and turned up the volume. Petro whimpered.
It went to commercials.
“I shouldn’t be watching. Forgive me, God. Please forgive me,” she said and looked up at the ceiling. “We aren’t supposed to watch soap operas. It’s the Devil’s way of keeping us from studying God’s word. I’m also not allowed to read romance novels.” She giggled. “I guess I didn’t learn anything from last Sunday’s sermon.”
“What should you have learned?” I asked and swallowed some water.
“Last Sunday in church I held my bible in my hands and listened to our preacher,” she said, raising her hands as if she was about to address a congregation.
‘Let us pray and ask for forgiveness,’ “the preacher said as he lifted his arms in the air and closed his eyes.” ‘Let us promise we’re not going to let temptation win. Trust in yourselves, sisters and brothers. Believe in the power of God. Say no to temptation. Whatever that temptation may be. Say no to it. Do not let your minds be poisoned by the Devil’s work.’
“Soap operas and romance novels are my temptation, my internal conflict, forever tempting me,” Elena said.
A small bible sat on the ottoman next to her feet. Glancing at it, she said, “It will end shortly and then we can talk. I’m going to be honest with you about something. But I don’t want you to film it. You can tape everything else I say except for what I’m about to tell you.”
The commercial segment ended and Juan appeared on screen. He kissed the woman on the lips; she wrapped her arms around his neck. Elena was fixated. She seemed to inhale and exhale with each kiss Juan gave the woman.
One last kiss and the episode ended.
Elena stood and turned off the TV. Petro came out from under the cabinet.
The show was about to begin.
“May I use your bathroom?” I asked.
Picking up her bible, she said, “It’s just down the hall on your left.”
I shut the bathroom door behind me. Turning the faucet on, I ran my tongue over my lips and then splashed cold water on my face.
When I returned to the living room, Elena was reciting a verse from the bible, her eyes on the ceiling.
John 3:16, a verse with which I was familiar.
“For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son. That whosoever believeth in him shall not perish but have ever-lasting life.” Elena crossed herself. “I recite it every day at this time. I’m going to tell you a story. One that took place not too long ago. I don’t want you to interrupt me. After I’m done if you want to talk about it, I’m happy to talk to you. Otherwise, we’ll let it die and you can get your camera.”
The only word that came out of my mouth was, “Okay.”
And Elena began her story.
“You don’t remember me. How could you? You were only three years old when your parents brought you by the cafeteria,” she said. “I worked behind the ice cream counter at the time.
‘Would you like some ice cream?’ “I asked you.”
“You looked up at me and answered,” ‘No thank you. I’m having lunch with Mami and Dihda.’
“None of the other workers’ children had ever turned down an ice cream cone. Ever. At three years old, you were already an old lady.
“You only came once. I think your parents were embarrassed even though they never admitted it. A school cafeteria was not for you. And yet, there you are, years later, every day, sitting alone in the cafeteria’s center pretending not to watch the students. Looking up for a few seconds, then down into your books. Then up again. There were so many times I wanted to go to your rescue. I shouldn’t have let you suffer the way I did.”
“I still can’t believe you actually once tried filming the students. I stood in the back of the cafeteria, leaning against a trashcan. I wanted to stop you. But I couldn’t interfere. So instead, I giggled and waited for the inevitable to happen. You reached into your duffel bag and out came your camera. I continued to laugh. How could you be so dumb as to think you’d be able to film the students without them questioning what you were doing?”
“Two minutes after you started filming, three young women came up to you. I panicked, stepped forward, and tripped over someone’s backpack. My knees landed on the floor.”
‘Are you okay? I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.’ “A young man said as he helped me to stand.”
‘I’m fine.’
“I wanted to cry. My palms started to sweat.”
‘I was tying my shoelaces. I put my backpack down,’ “the boy said.”
‘I’m okay.’
“My stomach turned and twisted, turned and twisted. Students stopped to stare.”
‘Poor thing. Oh, poor lady?’ “they said to the boy.”
‘I’m-’ “I was interrupted.”
‘What’s going on over there?’ “Someone asked.”
‘I don’t know but it looks like they’re going to fight.’
“I forgot about you.”
‘What’s your problem? Why are you filming us? Speak up,’ “one of the girls said to you. Remember?”
‘I wasn’t filming you. I’m sorry. I was just trying to film the cafeteria. Not you. Just the cafeteria,’ “You responded.”
‘You were pointing your camera right at us,’ “the other girl said, her voice elevated.”
‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I won’t do it again.’
‘It’s not that big of a deal. But you should have asked us first. Why are you filming us?’
“I wanted you to tell the truth. They would have respected you if you had just been honest with them.
Instead, you said,” ‘I already told you. I wasn’t filming you. I was filming the cafeteria. Not you. Please believe me.’
‘Just stay away from us, you freak,’ “the girls said, turned and left.”
“You put your camera back in your bag and then left.”
I remembered all of it. They had called me a freak. Freak. Freak. Freak. The word danced and did flips inside my head for days after that incident.
“How are you ever going to make friends your own age if you continue to lie and live in fear?”
Elena had looked into my soul and didn’t like what she saw. I was so ashamed. There I was in her house ready to ask her about her life, her struggles, her dreams, her hopes and what had I discovered? That she knew more about me than I knew about her.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
“Let’s let this die. I can’t interview you today. Please understand. Can I come back tomorrow?”
What I really wanted to say was, I can’t ever interview you.
“You can come back as many times as you want. But always come prepared.”
Chapter Three
Posted by Sandy on May 11th, 2008 filed in Chapter Three, Sweetwater American ChaptersComment now »
Sandy
1998
Foggy Bottom Metro Station
Washington D.C.
The lights on the Metro’s platform flashed, announcing an approaching train. I accelerated my pace. My duffel bag fell forward, almost causing me to fall into the person ahead of me on the staircase. I jumped over the last two steps and darted towards the Metro’s open doors. Doors closing said a voice over the intercom a second after I was safely inside the train.
A young woman, thin body, wearing a black turtleneck and tight jeans threw her backpack between the doors. The doors retreated. Doors open. Please step away from the doors the recorded voice said. The girl followed her backpack onto the train and let out a giggle.
Doors closing. Ding Dong. The doors shut. The girl wrapped her arms around a metal pole.
I took a seat next to an older lady who had an apron wrapped around her waist, her eyes focused on a book. Although I couldn’t see her face, she looked familiar.
The Metro sped on, making a stop every few minutes.
I brought out my notebook and began reading the notes I had taken earlier while observing students during my lunch break.
The lady sitting next to me stopped reading and glanced over at the map on the wall, which outlined the different Metro lines and their stations. She removed her glasses, rubbed her eyes, and put her glasses back on. Then she continued reading.
The man on the cover of her book, with his long hair and white button-downed shirt, had his arms around a woman with equally long hair. The title of the book was written in Spanish. I let out a smile. The lady folded a corner of the page and closed the book.
The Metro came to a stop. The doors opened and a woman pushing a baby in a stroller got on. A few seconds later the doors closed and we were on our way again.
“What a beautiful baby,” the lady said to the woman as she walked past us.
The woman grinned and said, “Thank you,” and continued down the narrow aisle.
“They are so cute when they’re little,” the lady said to me.
I nodded and noticed the liver spots on her hands and arms, the dimples on either side of her cheeks and the wrinkles on her neck. Remembering where I knew her from, I said, “You work at George Washington University. In one of the cafeterias, right?”
“Yes, I serve peas and mashed potatoes on the food line,” she said as she massaged her hands. “You eat a lot of peas and mashed potatoes.”
“I suppose I do,” I said with a chuckle. “I guess I’m going through a peas and mashed potatoes phase.”
She opened her purse. Colorful fabric, sprinkled over with sugar, lined the inside. Loose rubber bands, paper clips, and packets of sugar, some punctured, scattered throughout. Sitting next to a bloated change purse were two other books.
Reaching into her purse, she moved the change purse to one side and attempted to replace the tiny space with the novel she had been reading.
“I’m not fond of big handbags,” she said as she shook her purse.
A wad of bills so thick it was wrapped with a single looped rubber band made itself visible. I pretended not to notice. In an instant, she closed her purse and set the book next to her on the seat.
Returning her glance to me, she smiled and said, “Well, I guess the time has come for me to buy a bigger purse.”
I realized why I hadn’t immediately recognized her. When she was working, her curly gray hair remained tucked beneath a hairnet. Sweat covered her forehead and upper lip. She wore a brown uniform which was too tight for her short and chubby body. It was her smile that reminded me who she was. She always greeted each student with a smile. Some even called her “Mama.”
“No mashed potatoes for me today, Mama. Can I have more peas, Mama? How are you doing today Mama? You look pretty, Mama.”
I’d push my tray along the metal surface until I got to her section. I never said anything to her—just lifted my plate and handed it to her. She’d plop two spoonfuls of potatoes and one spoonful of peas and hand it back to me with a smile on her face.
When she was promoted to cashier, the students got so frustrated with her inability to work the register their term of endearment took on a different tone.
“Hurry up, Mama. I’m going to be late for class, Mama. You gave me the wrong change. Is there someone else who can help us?”
Tears enhanced the wrinkles on her neck. Her hands trembled as she hit buttons on the cash register. The register’s door opened and closed, opened and closed, never giving her a chance to pull out change for the students. And when she managed to get the door to stay open long enough, she was so flustered she’d drop coins and dollar bills on the floor.
She lasted two days as a cashier. The students, who seemed always in a rush, intimidated her. I was nice to her.
“Don’t worry, it’s okay, you’ll get the hang of it,” I said to her on her second day.
She hugged me and took off crying. The next day she was serving peas and mashed potatoes again. Her smile returned.
How could anyone be happy slopping undercooked food to college students?
“My name is Sandy,” I said as I extended a hand out to her. She shook it and said, “I’m Elena Martinez,” she let go of my hand, “So what are you studying?” she asked.
The train came to another stop.
Doors open said the recorded voice. A couple of people got off as two more got on. Doors closing.
The baby, a few seats in front of us, tossed his bottle onto the floor. His mother grunted and reached for it. A teenage boy, whose cologne had taken over my senses, got to it before she did and handed it to her.
“I am a documentary filmmaker,” I said after releasing a long breath.
Yes, I wanted to be a documentary filmmaker, was headed for New York after receiving my undergraduate degree at George Washington University. Tucked in a duffel bag, my video camera and its tripod were with me wherever I went.
“That explains the big bag you carry around,” she said, her gaze on my duffel bag. “I’ve seen you filming. What kind of film are you making?” Her eyes brightened.
I swallowed and said, “I’m making a film about Latino immigrants.” I paused. “Why they came to the States and how they live?”
“That’s quite a project for someone so young,” she said, sitting back in her seat. “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you want to make such a film?”
Glancing down at my notebook, I bit my lip.
My footage was filled with people with whom I had never spoken. I would record without interacting. Once in a while, someone would ask me to turn off the camera but most of the time I was left alone.
I would film the Pigeon Park with its hundreds of pigeons pecking at each other, fighting for ball-like pieces of bread which people, primarily Latinos, threw into the air. Smiling children, with snot coming out of their noses, chased pigeons and hid behind trees. “One, two, three, ready or not here I come!”
The church across the street from the park sounded its bell that it was time for afternoon service as devoted Christians dressed in their fanciest clothes slowly made their way up the church’s cracked cement steps, their stomachs’ full from lunch.
I would film Señor Moreno’s Tienda Latina, its shelves filled with imported hard and bitter cheeses, Coco Rico, Tamarindo juice, freshly baked beef-and-potato empanadas, cheese-and-pork-stuffed pupusas, yucca, and sugar cane. The smell of salted dried fish forever lingered in the air.
Pig’s feet, cow’s tongue and liver on sale today, read a sign taped on the wall behind the butcher’s counter.
“How fresh is the cow’s tongue? I’m making soup this weekend,” a customer would ask Señor Moreno.
“Got a shipment yesterday. We ordered too much. It won’t keep more than a few days. It’s fresh, very fresh,” he’d say, kissing the tips of his fingers.
“Juan, show Señora Reyes the cow’s tongue so she can see for herself just how fresh it is,” he’d say to the butcher.
And off Señora Reyes would go pushing her metal cart down the aisle, her cart bumping into shelves, knocking over cans of Goya black beans and Spanish olives.
“How fresh are the pig’s feet? My children are visiting tomorrow,” another customer would say to Señor Moreno. And the ritual began again.
“Juan, show Señora Florida the pig’s feet so she can see how fresh they are.”
I would film the only clinic in Adams Morgan that let its patients pay now or later or never. Young mothers sat in the clinic’s waiting room, holding their crying children while at the same time flipping through People Magazine.
“How much can you pay today?” A nurse would say to one of the mothers.
“Nothing. Can you wait until next week when my husband gets paid?”
“That’s fine,” the nurse said, her face revealing half a smile. She led the young mother, her swollen stomach, and her child up the stairs to the examining rooms.
I would film brown-skinned Latino men digging in the dirt with shovels, planting trees and bushes next to sidewalks. Dirt clinging to the men’s faces, uniforms, and gloves. Their lunches trapped in plastic grocery bags waiting for “the boss” to announce it was lunchtime.
I was back in the States after having been away in El Salvador for ten years. It took me a few months to get used to speaking English again. I ate my lunch in one of the school’s cafeterias every day and observed students and their interactions with each other. They clung to their own. They belonged to a group.
Muslims on one side. Latin Americans on the other side. Whites in the back. Blacks in the front. And the misfits in the center. I sat in the center.
They all seemed so free and without worries, hugging, leaning on each other, sharing French fries, laughing, and reading together. I thought of standing, walking over to them and introducing myself. Hi, how’s it going? My name is Sandy. May I join you? Ludicrous. They would have turned in the opposite direction. And besides, with whom did I belong?
I enjoyed attending classes—learning about history, English literature, philosophy, and the arts. I found it all fascinating and inspiring.
Listening to professors lecture about The Crusades, Joan of Arc, Ancient Romans, Socrates, and whether or not Shakespeare plagiarized plays, made me forget I existed. For a few hours each day, I could jump back in time and pretend I was riding horseback, weighed down with fifteenth century French armor, men by my side and behind me, ready to go into battle at the sound of my voice.
I could pretend I was Desdemona pleading with Othello not to kill me, to hug me, kiss me, trust me, and forgive me.
I always sat in the back of the classroom, never asked questions or made any comments. Just sat, inhaled words, and scribbled notes.
“Are you sure you want to make such a film?” Elena asked me.
I exhaled and bit my lip again.
In order for me to move on with my life, I had to hear other Latinos’ stories. I didn’t have a home nor did I have a family. What I did have were painful memories and a desire to make a film about Latino immigrants. In her song, Me and Bobby McGee, Janis Joplin defined freedom as just another word for nothing left to lose. Well, she was wrong. I lost everything and still wasn’t free.
Mami, Dihda, my child, Lucinda and Rancho were all gone.
Before I could answer her question, she jumped up from her seat and said, “I missed my stop. I was supposed to get off at Metro Station so I could catch the train to Silver Spring.”
“I’m sorry I distracted you,” I said, relieved I didn’t have to answer her. I didn’t tell her I was also supposed to get off at Metro Station so I could catch the train to Adams Morgan.
The train’s doors opened.
“No need to apologize. I enjoyed talking to you. I’ll see you tomorrow at school,” she said as she exited the train.
I watched Elena walk away, retying her apron as she headed towards the escalators. And just as the train began to move, she tripped over her apron’s strings, her face landing on the platform.
“Oh, my God,” a woman sitting in front of me said. “That poor lady just fell.”
I jumped up from my seat and sprinted towards the doors. The train increased its velocity and we entered darkness once again. Resting my head against a metal pole in the center of the train, I whispered, “Please be okay. Dios mio, please be okay.”
Remorse entered my body.
I had lied to her. I wasn’t a filmmaker. I was a Liberal Arts major. The History of Film—that was the only film class I had ever taken. Two days a week, three hours each class. We sat in a room watching movies—Lawrence of Arabia, Psycho, and A Clockwork Orange. Then we’d analyze them. How were women portrayed? How were men portrayed? What did the movies say about racial differences, class differences? What was going on at the time the films were made?
Professor Smith spoke with passion and conviction, the Indiana Jones of Film History. He wore the same bow tie, blue with white polka dots on it, to every class and ran his fingers over it while he talked. His hair, wavy and blonde, pulled back in a rubber band. I imagined he spent his weekends and days off searching Museum archives for lost silent movies.
I was lucky to be in his class, number one hundred on the waiting list.
“I’ve heard a lot about your class. I’m on the waiting list. What are my chances of getting in?” I said on the first day of classes.
“Show up. Just keep showing up. That’s how you’ll get in.”
And I did. Every day. First one to arrive, last one to leave.
The History of Film, that was the extent of my filmmaking knowledge, a heated class, at times, especially when the boys didn’t agree with the girls that A Clockwork Orange most definitely degraded women. A heated class, at times, when in semi-darkness, fingers would slide under skirts or down pants.
Professor Smith left me alone. The only communication I had with him was through my graded papers.
Nice analysis. A+
You make a good case. But you didn’t convince me. B-
Is everything okay? Do you need to talk to someone? C
Are you sure you’re okay? I have office hours this afternoon if you want to come by. D
Professor Smith, kind, insightful, and caring.
The train came to a stop. I picked up my bag and hurried out onto the platform to catch the train coming in the opposite direction. Please, please be okay.
“Come on, come on,” I whispered once inside the other train. “Come on, come on!” I yelled.
Doors open.
I held my breath and searched for Elena. Up and down, side to side, I looked, bumping into people, asking if they had seen an older lady wearing an apron and who was possibly hurt. Shaking their heads, commuters and early evening peddlers went on their way. Lights flashed. Trains stopped. Trains started. The platform cleared for a few seconds and I gave up my search.
I lowered my shoulders and waited for the next train. Please, please, be okay.
Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I turned to see a wrinkled bruised face staring at me.
“Dios mio,” I said and hugged her. “Are you okay?” I asked tightening my embrace. “You’re not okay,” I said releasing her. “Look at your face.”
“This is what I get for being so short. I should have trimmed the strings on my apron a hundred years ago,” she said. “I came back because I thought you might have seen me fall and I didn’t want you to worry.”
“I did see you fall. I’ll walk you home.”
She took my hand and said, “You’re a kind young lady. But don’t worry about me. I’ve got an old recipe…or rather concoction that will fix me right up.”
I hugged her again and said, “Thank goodness for your concoction.”
I watched her until she reached the top of the escalators. She turned and waved to me. Waving back, I let comfort overcome me.
For the next few days, Elena and I rode the Metro together. Despite her bruise fading with each day that passed, I couldn’t look her in the face. We sat next to each other and I kept my eyes on anything else but her face.
And each time I’d remind her about her stop (my stop too), she’d say, “I’ll get off at the next stop and take the train going in the opposite direction. Go on. Tell me more about your film.”
This meant I always had to get off two stops past Metro Station. Why I never confessed that her stop was also my stop was beyond me.
I’d tell her about the locations I had filmed—The Pigeon Park, the clinic, and Señor Moreno’s Tienda Latina.
One day she asked me, “Are you ever going to actually talk to anyone?”
“Well yes, I plan to.” I cleared my throat. “I was going to ask you,” I cleared my throat again, “If you’d be willing to tell me your story.”
She looked away. “On camera? You want to interview me?” she asked and massaged her hands and fingers.
Raising my face and catching a glimpse of her bruise, I said, “Yes, I think people should know your story.”
Something about Elena intrigued me. I assumed she had led a sad life. Why else would she be working in a school cafeteria at such an old age? I sensed there was something more to her, something she kept hidden and only let out on occasions when shadows overtook her heart.
“You don’t really know me. Why would anyone care about me?”
Keeping my face down in my notebook, I said, “If you’re not comfortable, I understand.”
“No one has ever asked me about my life.” She paused and rubbed her hands harder. “I–,” she looked at the darkness outside the window. “I need to tell someone. Can you handle it?” Her eyes still fixed on darkness.
“I don’t know.” The hair on my arms stood up, flattened and stood up again with each breath I took.
A tall black man dressed in a suit with a stain on his shirt entered the train.
Elena pulled a piece of paper and pen from her purse. She wrote something on the paper and handed it to me.
“If you want to hear my story, you have to come to me. Here’s my address. Come by tomorrow evening.” She walked through the train’s open doors.
I was shaking with excitement and fear. She had agreed to tell me her story. The whole thing seemed almost too easy.
I’m not sure why I picked her. Maybe it was because she reminded me of Mami. Maybe it was because she reminded me of my past.
The truth? I wanted to protect her.
I was trying desperately to pretend I was happy, that I had lived a normal life, one filled with family barbeques and trips to Disney World.
At twenty-two, I felt like I had lived a hundred years. I had no friends my own age. I had no lovers. I never went out. I lived in Adams Morgan, an area filled with nightclubs, and restaurants representing just about every country in the world, it seemed.
Young people roamed the streets like I had done when I was a child. I should have been hanging out at nightclubs, making out with boys, experimenting with girls, laughing, downing shots, discussing philosophy, religion, and animal rights.
I should have been dressing up, putting on eye makeup and lipstick, waiting for the doorbell to ring, waiting for Prince Charming to appear.
I should have been living.
Chapter Two
Posted by Sandy on May 11th, 2008 filed in Chapter Two, Sweetwater American ChaptersComment now »
Mami said she and Dihda were checking out apartments in the suburbs of Maryland the day I was born. January 2, 1976 at 7:30 p.m. in Washington Hospital Center—feet first and jaundiced is how I made my entrance.
“My daughter, the bravest child in the world,” Mami said when I’d ask her to tell me my birth story for the millionth time.
I sat on the floor, a faux fur blanket wrapped around my head, skunk slippers on my feet and a glass of milk in one hand. Mami sat on the couch in her robe, her hands dancing in fabric as she sewed.
“Your birth story,” she’d begin, thick glasses covered most of her face. “I told your papa we shouldn’t leave the apartment. I was overdue and having severe ligament stretching pains. You kicked and punched so hard I thought my skin was going to rip. And the pain, your papa was convinced I was having contractions. ‘No, no, it’s the baby, she’s stretching her legs, the brat is so spoiled,’ “I’d say to him.” ‘Get some ice, hurry, before she tears my skin.’
“The pain, oh, the pain, your stretching episodes caused your papa and me. Poor man turned white whenever I woke him in the middle of the night. ‘She’s doing it again,’ “I’d say. “I’d sink my teeth into a pillow. He’d fly off the bed and into the kitchen. He tripped over your bassinet, once. He was moving so fast.” Her hands continued to dance. Tiny bubbles of liquid left her eyes.
“I’m sorry about the ice, sweetie,” Mami said as if I had memories of when I was in the womb. “But it was the only thing that made you stop stretching. We had to put ice on my belly’s skin to get you to move.” She smiled and spread tears on her face.
“Your papa insisted we take a bus from Adams Morgan, where we lived, to Silver Spring, Maryland. He didn’t want us to live in D.C. anymore. Too violent, he thought. Especially in our neighborhood. Before I met your papa, and after my brother died and my sister married, I lived alone for a couple of years. I remember the night I was awakened by a screaming woman.”
At this point in the story, Mami’s hands stopped dancing. She’d ask me to sit next to her. I covered her waist and legs in the blanket. She could never tell my birth story without digressing to an incident in her past, which caused her pain and regret. Regret she’d not overcome until years later when she’d stand up and visit the police station. Regret which would be replaced with guilt and eventually cause her death.
‘No, leave me alone. Stop it. Please just go away!’
“The voice was coming from the street. It was four in the morning and I had not closed my eyes once.”
“Every few minutes the television that sat on top of my dresser made clicking sounds threatening to shut off. I couldn’t bring myself to replace it. It was the first thing my brother, sister, and I bought when we came to live in Washington D.C.”
‘Please, I beg you. Leave me alone. Someone please call the police!’ “the voice continued.”
‘Get over here. I promise I won’t hurt you. I just want to kiss you. C’mon, give me another chance,’ “a second voice said, a man’s.”
“I pulled the blanket over my head hoping it would be strong enough to shut out the noise.”
‘Oh God, please someone help me. Please!’
“I got up from bed and walked towards one of the windows. But before opening it, I turned around and glanced at the picture on the television. Click Click. I’d been watching a movie where dead people come back to life and start to eat the living.
Normally I’d have been too scared to watch for more than ten seconds, but something caught my eye forcing me to keep watching.
In the background there was a thin woman wearing a nightgown and slippers. She was walking in a completely opposite direction from the rest of her undead group. And unlike them, she had no interest in eating the living. She was simply lost, knowing no other purpose but to drift aimlessly. Her eyes were hollow and wide. Her mouth opened at the absurdity of living while not living.”
‘Please lady, I can see you. Help me!’
“I opened the window and said,” ‘Get away from her. Leave her alone. I’m calling the police!’
“The man chased the young woman around a Volkswagen.”
‘Get away from her,’ “I said.” ‘Leave her alone!’
“The chasing continued. I gave up and closed the window. I hoped it was just a lovers’ quarrel. I went back to bed.”
‘Come back lady. Please come back!’ “the voice begged.”
“I unlocked the bedroom door and forced the slippers on my feet to carry me to the kitchen. I grabbed a glass from the cupboard, turned on the faucet, and watched the water fill it, spilling over its sides. I rubbed my hands together, picked up the phone receiver from atop the kitchen counter and called the police.”
‘You must come now. There’s a lady on the street outside my building being chased by a man. Come, please. I live in El Barco.’
“I gave them the address and hung up. I then unscrewed the sugar container’s lid, dipped a spoon in it, and dumped some sugar in a water-filled glass. After swallowing the last sugary sip, I went back to my bedroom. I could still hear the woman’s voice begging me to help her, to save her from the man who meant her harm.
What else could I do? I had already called the police. What did she want me to do? Did she want me to come down there and help her fight him off? The man was six feet tall and overweight. I couldn’t help her. And besides, it was probably just a lovers’ quarrel. In the morning they’d awaken cuddled in the same bed under warm blankets.
Yes, just a lovers’ quarrel.
I turned up the volume on my television and watched the whole movie. Every ten minutes or so, I’d catch just a glimpse of the undead woman and I was reminded of myself when I first arrived in the States—lost, scared, and mute.
The next day, a child who claimed to have been looking for used toys, discovered a woman’s body in a dumpster. I knew it was that of the woman who had begged for my help the night before. I didn’t need anyone to confirm it.”
I never knew what to say to Mami about that incident in her life. I was a child. What could I say? When she was done, she’d pick up her needle and thread and continue with my birth story.
“The apartment had two bedrooms, hardwood floors which was the norm in the seventies—wall-to-wall carpeting didn’t become popular until later, two full bathrooms, a separate dining room and living room, and a kitchen decorated with flowery wallpaper and green appliances. Did I mention it had two bathrooms? Your papa and I could each have our own bathroom. I wouldn’t have to listen to him fart while he shaved and I took a shower in the morning.”
I giggled whenever Mami got to the part about Dihda farting. Poor Dihda, he was lactose intolerant but refused to stop drinking milk and products containing milk or lactose, which was just about everything, it seemed.
“Avoid bread, cereal, processed meats, cheese, candy and, of course, milk,” the doctor said when Mami finally convinced him to visit the clinic on Columbia Road.
“Processed meats, candy?” Dihda said to the doctor.
“Yes, some meat like sausages and pastrami contain lactic acid, as do some kinds of candy,” the doctor said.
I sat in the corner of the examining room fidgeting with my coat zipper and paying close attention to everything that was being said.
Dihda didn’t have a problem avoiding candy. He didn’t have much of a sweet tooth but pastrami, sausages, cheese, bread and milk? No way. So he lived with an eternal bloated stomach and chronic gas.
Mami loved him for what he was—a kind and thoughtful man, who also happened to fart a lot.
Mami continued her story.
‘So what do you think?’ “the young lady who was showing us the apartment said.”
“I remember how nervous she was, couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty years old. The pin on her blouse read, Jessica, Leasing Consultant and she kept touching it. I thought it was going to pop right off and hit me in the eye, the way she touched it.
Your papa and I looked at each other. I knew we couldn’t afford it. He was dreaming again. He was such a dreamer.”
‘Someday we’re going to live in a place surrounded by water and white houses. Someday we’re going to travel to Greece, Italy, and maybe even Australia. Someday we’re going to sleep until noon and read the newspaper until one, then have breakfast and take long walks,’ “he’d say.”
“No water surrounded the apartment building. But it did have a playground with a slide, swings, and seesaw. I thought of you and how you’d someday play in that playground.”
‘When can we sign the lease?’ “your papa said to Jessica.”
“She was so happy. Jumped up and down and said,” ‘Right now. Follow me back to the office and we’ll set everything up.’
“She stopped fidgeting with her pin and took off before I had a chance to say, ‘Are you crazy?’
“Your papa took my hand and said,” ‘I think this is the first apartment she’s leased. It’s a happy day for her and a happy day for us. Two dreams are coming true.’
“And then, splat—thick, gushy water mixed with mucus hit the floor. You were coming and we needed to get to a hospital. But not just any hospital. It had to be Washington Hospital Center because your papa and I had taken a tour of it and all the babies in the nursery looked so happy, swaddled in pink or blue blankets with hats on their heads and bracelets on their wrists.
Jessica turned around when she heard the splat.” ‘Oh shit, are you okay? What do we do? Should I call an ambulance? Should I get some water, some blankets? Can you walk? Maybe you should lie down,’ “she said as her fingers found her pin again.”
“I wanted to hug her.”
‘Do you have a car?’ “Your papa asked her.”
‘Yes, but it’s low on gas and the reverse gear doesn’t work.’
‘Let’s go. My baby is coming.’
“Your papa took my arm and led me out to Jessica’s car. I walked as fast as I could but not fast enough for your papa. He’s the one who wanted to go apartment hunting and now he was sweating and about to break down in tears because I wasn’t moving fast enough and his baby was coming and Jessica’s car was low on gas and didn’t have a reverse gear and we hadn’t been able to sign the lease.”
“Jessica’s car chocked, shook, and even bounced when she turned on the ignition.”
‘I just got this car. I don’t really know how to drive stick shift that well, yet.’ “She rubbed her palms on her shirt, up and down, up and down.”
“I sat in the middle of the backseat, your papa in the passenger seat. He rolled down the window and inhaled.
She put it in first gear and hit the gas pedal. The car chocked, shook, and bounced again. We bounced and shook all the way to the hospital and not once was our progress hindered by the fact that Jessica’s car didn’t have a reverse gear.
Three hours later you made your entrance into the world, feet first and severely jaundiced. My brave daughter.”
Mami patted my back and then squeezed my shoulder.
“You celebrated your first month birthday in an incubator with sore and punctured feet. You were given a blood transfusion and the only way the doctor could do it was through your feet. Your papa and I had to leave you in the hospital. I threw up every day and convinced myself that you thought we abandoned you. Neither one of us could go to work. I spent my days watching cartoons, dreaming of you, losing weight, and dying. Your papa spent his days crying and praying in a cathedral on Sixteenth Street.”
‘I will renounce the Pope and the Catholic religion if God does not allow my child to live,’ “he said to me.”
‘You can’t do that. You can’t threaten God. You have committed a sin and must ask for forgiveness,’ “I said.”
‘I will renounce the Pope and the Catholic religion if God does not allow my child to live,’ “he repeated. Then he knelt on the floor, cartoons blasting in the background.”
‘I will renounce You. I will. I will. Allow my child to live. Allow my child to live. I will renounce You. Allow my child to live!’
“I knelt on the floor next to him and said,” ‘I will renounce You. Allow our child to live.’
“Your papa and I loved each other and for you we’d have renounced the entire world and every deity in it.”
“The phone rang at exactly ten in the morning the next day. I was in the living room watching cartoons, a clock sat on top of the television. Your papa was in the bathroom shaving. He was getting ready to go to the cathedral. I made no attempt to get off the couch. Your papa made no attempt to stop shaving. The phone insisted that someone answer it. It seemed to increase its volume. Your papa picked up the receiver. The conversation lasted twenty seconds.”
‘Yes, okay, I understand, thank you,’ “your papa said.”
‘Who was it? What did they say?’
‘It was the doctor from the hospital. He thinks we can bring the baby home in one week.’
“I flew off the couch and darted to our bedroom. I walked over to your bassinet, knelt, and said,” ‘Thank you, God. Forgive us. Please forgive us.’
“One week later you were home. I didn’t find out what the voice on the other end really said to him until you had been home with us for several weeks.
We couldn’t touch your feet. The punctures caused by the transfusion needles left your skin raw and sore. It was February when we brought you home. The only thing protecting your feet from the cold was a thin cotton blanket one of the nurses gave us when we checked you out of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. We were not to put socks on your feet until the sores healed. We were not to wash your feet. We were not to touch your feet in any way.
We never let you cry. We shushed in your ear, carried you in a sling, gently bounced you, sang you lullabies, and placed you between us in our bed. I didn’t return to work for six months so I could stay home with you and nurse you. We spent our entire savings but we loved you so we didn’t care. The skin on your feet healed and we prayed your memory of being punctured with needles was replaced with memories of being loved by us,” she said as she stroked my cheek.
“They didn’t think you’d make it one more day, that’s what the doctor told your papa when he called at exactly ten in the morning.”
Chapter One
Posted by Sandy on May 9th, 2008 filed in Chapter One, Sweetwater American ChaptersComment now »
Sandy
Washington D.C.
I grew up in a building called El Barco. We called it El Barco because it was shaped like a ship and took up a whole block of sidewalk. Not everyone in the Adams Morgan section of Northwest Washington, D.C. called it El Barco. It was only called that by los Latinos. And Latinos were the primary occupants because Mr. Beenie, the apartment building manager, who was black and not Latino, rarely increased the rent.
Latinos were happy to be in America, many had relatives back home in Mexico, El Salvador, Guatemala, Santo Domingo, and Puerto Rico to whom they’d send money. So they didn’t complain about burnt staircase doors, bloodstained carpets, illegal dogs, heavy apartment doors, or smokers.
Señora Juarez lived on the third floor, and sold milk, eggs, oil, and cheese to El Barco’s tenants. She’d walk to the grocery store, buy items by the bulk and then sell them for a higher price to the tenants. It was a lucrative business—since people didn’t even have to leave El Barco. Her advertising signs read, “Se vende leche apartamento 312″ and she’d post them on the wall space over the mailboxes in the lobby. Sometimes she’d list the other items she sold but most of the time she just listed milk. On Saturday mornings visitors were at her door asking for eggs but she didn’t sell to them because it was her Sabbath, which prohibited her from making business transactions.
“Señora Juarez, just two eggs, please,” they pleaded.
I was one of the pleaders because Mami and Dihda were so tired during the week they were rarely ever able to go to the grocery store. I always wanted eggs for breakfast on Saturdays. And Dihda begged for pancakes.
“Go down to Señora Juarez’s place and ask her to sell you eggs. Be cute and act really little so she feels sorry for you. Scrunch down like you do when we ride the bus so I don’t have to pay for you,” Mami said to me.
Whenever I visited Señora Juarez, there’d be at least three people coming up the stairs who had just been refused the sale of eggs.
“She’s so crazy, not selling on Saturdays. Oh well, she does enjoy fighting with us.”
The eggs they carried were brown because she disliked white eggs. She thought white eggs had no texture.
I’d stand in front of her door for a few seconds before knocking so I could practice being little and cute. I’d make sure my hair was tied back in a ponytail. Then I’d scrunch down a couple of inches. I’d knock on the door and it instantly opened.
“What do you want? I don’t sell on Saturdays, yet every Saturday here you are. Don’t you know God prohibits me from selling on Saturdays? It’s written in the Bible. Why don’t you and the others understand that?”
She’d reach into her robe’s pocket and pull out a hairpin. She’d then put it in her hair along with five or six other pins, which were placed on top of each other in an attempt to keep her hair neat. Two or three loose red strands hid the few freckles that decorated her white face. She couldn’t hide the fact that her mama was Irish.
“Señora Juarez, just two eggs, please.”
“No, but I will give them to you for free. Just like I do every Saturday to you and the others. Today they’re free and tomorrow you will come back and pay me.”
She’d walk to her kitchen. I’d peek into her apartment. She lived in the smallest apartment in El Barco with just one living space. A hollyhock- painted wall divided the bathroom and kitchen and it was covered with maps of the world. Asia and Australia were the most visible and the only ones she framed. The rest were held in place with clear tape. The paint had faded on some parts of the wall from the constant removal of maps, I suppose.
Each time I visited, there were different maps hanging—Tahitian, African, Central American, and even maps of the Galapagos Islands, all the places she someday hoped to visit. I never saw a map of Ireland. Asia and Australia always remained in the same place underneath a photograph of a man sitting in a gondola, four ancient buildings served as the picture’s backdrop—three made of redbrick and one made of wood.
She’d return to the door with five eggs in her hands and the gondola-man waved goodbye to me. I’d stretch out the bottom of my shirt, converting it into a basket. One by one Señora Juarez let the eggs fall.
“I’m giving these to you but you do understand you must come back tomorrow and pay me for them, otherwise when you come back next Saturday, not only will I not let you have any, I’ll also close the door all the way so you can’t stare at my maps and the gondola photograph.”
“Okay,” I said.
Every Saturday morning most of El Barco’s tenants ate eggs for breakfast. And every Sunday morning Señora Juarez visited the supermarket with her pink sequined bag full of money.
Our apartment was on the fourth floor, right next to a narrow staircase. The elevators were far down the gray painted hallway. The carpet, which Mr. Beenie never changed, was still bloodstained from a murder that took place two years before we moved in.
El Barco also suffered several fires. Amy and Samuel, two married teenagers who lived on the second floor, started one of the fires. They were both smokers and often had people over from their high school.
Their friends were also smokers and Mr. Beenie warned them not to leave cigarette butts in the halls or lobby.
“If I find anymore ashes or cigarette butts that look like they might have come from your apartment, I’ll throw you and your little girl wife out,” he’d say to Samuel.
All the cigarette butts came from Amy and Samuel’s apartment, no one else in El Barco smoked.
Samuel, who was shorter than Amy by at least two inches—Amy was about five foot seven—worked in the Tienda Latina a couple of blocks down the street from El Barco. He barely spoke Spanish and the owner of the store, Señor Moreno, made fun of his accent when he tried speaking to the Latino customers.
“Samuel, how come your parents never taught you to speak Spanish? Your accent is embarrassing. Didn’t you tell me your parents are from Mexico?”
“I don’t speak to my parents and you shouldn’t worry about it Señor Moreno.”
This was a common conversation between Samuel and Señor Moreno. I heard it often whenever I visited for plantains and beans. And Samuel didn’t speak to his parents because he dropped out of school and married too young.
“Well, don’t speak Spanish to the customers. They don’t understand what you’re trying to say. They just laugh at you. And that’s what worries me.”
Señor Moreno was right about people laughing at Samuel but it wasn’t just because he couldn’t speak Spanish, it was because he and his wife were so young and could not afford to live in El Barco. We all knew they had no furniture. Samuel stole cans of beans—pinto, black, and sometimes red—from the Tienda Latina.
Señor Moreno was aware of Samuel’s bean stealing but he never said anything to either Samuel or Amy. He did, however, make sure to tell El Barco’s tenants about their unfortunate circumstances, so every now and then, a basket, sheltering milk, eggs, bread, plantains, rice, and flour for tortillas appeared in front of the teenagers’ apartment door. Not all the tenants participated in this charity but those that did took turns filling the basket every other week. Mami contributed cans of black beans, bread, and peanut butter because she thought those were the kinds of foods they needed if they were ever going to grow up. She also thought Samuel was much too short.
Like Samuel and Amy’s poverty, other secrets were not guarded well in El Barco. We all knew Amy was sleeping with Mr. Fernandez, the young Buddhist from the first floor. She and Mr. Fernandez were too sweet with each other when they picked up their mail—and they always picked it up at the same time. I made sure to visit the lobby to pick up our mail at the same time.
“All Samuel and I ever get are bills. I guess I’ll have to drop out of school soon too. Otherwise Mr. Beenie is going to throw us out on the street. And not for leaving cigarette butts in the halls.” Amy flipped through her mail, smelling each envelope as if they held flowers inside.
“Why do you smell the envelopes Amy?” Mr. Fernandez said.
“Because I’m waiting for my rose petal. I should be getting one real soon and when I do, I’ll let you smell it. I think you’ll like it Mr. Fernandez, it’ll smell better than me, I think. Flowers are supposed to smell good and they are only given to people who deserve them. Did you know that Mr. Fernandez? My father told me that.” Amy got closer to Mr. Fernandez, placed her nose on his neck and inhaled. He didn’t back away.
“I’ll buy you a rose petal, Amy. I’ll buy you a yellow petal to match your hair. Don’t change your hair color until I buy it for you okay.”
Amy touched her curly hair and giggled.
“Don’t worry Mr. Fernandez, I won’t. But you may have to buy me two petals, a yellow one and a black one. I think black roses exist.”
I heard sounds coming from the staircase—feet stomping and people yelling. The staircase doors opened and out came about twenty people screaming and shoving one another. Mami and Dihda were among them.
“Hurry up.” Mami grabbed one of my fingers and led me towards the exit door.
Mr. Fernandez and Amy followed us outside.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Fernandez held on to Amy’s hand.
“A fire on the second floor.” Mami turned to Amy.
“From your apartment. You and your stupid husband. Mr. Beenie is going to raise the rent and he’s going to throw you both out.”
But Mr. Beenie didn’t raise the rent. Nor did he throw Amy and Samuel out. They moved to a smaller apartment and Amy did quit school. Señor Moreno gave her a job at the Tienda Latina. I think she enjoyed helping the customers pick out ripe plantains. I’m not sure if Amy ever got her rose petal in the mail. I lost interest in her and Mr. Fernandez’s love story.
I always chose the steps when leaving El Barco or visiting other tenants such as Señora Juarez. Not only were the elevators too far from our apartment but also strange people sometimes decided to ride the elevator at the same time I did.
Once an old man and his black dog got on at the third floor. Blacky was the only dog in El Barco because dogs were not allowed. And as long as Mr. Beenie didn’t raise the rent, he didn’t have to change the bloody carpets or fix the burnt staircase door on the second floor, and the old man could have a dog and Señora Juarez could sell milk and eggs. But Samuel and Amy couldn’t smoke anymore. That was the one rule he did enforce.
Blacky was wet and the old man had a towel in his hand. I backed into a corner of the elevator—the dog’s wet fur smelled like coconut shampoo, which I didn’t mind but his breath ejected the scent of damp manure. His tongue hung from his mouth and he burped in my direction. The old man pulled his scarf over his nose. Then he turned to me.
“Do you want to help me dry my dog?” The scarf, with its large openings and faded blue tint, fell down to his chin. The old man sucked in his cheeks and locked his lips. He moved a few steps toward me and offered me the towel. I took it.
“Did you just give him a bath?” I said.
The elevator stopped, its bell announced we were on the first floor. The doors opened and my toes forced my feet to move towards the opening.
“Wait.” The old man unlocked his lips and let his cheeks breath. “Aren’t you going to help me dry my dog?”
He pushed Blacky towards me, his bad breath intensified the closer he got to me. Blacky pulled his extended tongue back into his mouth. His eyes centered on the towel, which I still held. I bent down and rubbed the fabric back and forth on the dog’s back. Blacky stood still.
“Here, he’s dry.” I handed the wet towel to the old man. And as I attempted once again to walk towards the exit door he yelled,
“I’ll come and find you the next time my dog is wet.”
“Sure, why not. Oh, and I think you should call him Blacky if he doesn’t already have a name.”
I never took the elevators again. But Mami never stopped trying to make me overcome my fear of them.
“I don’t want you to be afraid of everything. You better learn how to be brave and start taking the elevators. I’m going to watch you, I promise. Just get on and push the first floor button.”
My purple-star sneakers carried me fast down the hall.
“Don’t run,” she’d said.
My sneakers moved faster. They didn’t stop until we made it to the staircase on the other side of the hall, past the elevators. And every time Mami made me walk down the hall to the elevators, I wore my purple-star sneakers.
Señora Juarez’s daughter, Sonia, was married to a drunk and lived three stories above her on the sixth floor. But I don’t think she visited Señora Juarez often because she spent a lot of time talking and drinking tea with Mami and her best friend Margarita in our apartment. Sonia visited every day around six in the evening, and often stayed for dinner, although Dihda didn’t understand why we invited a stray puppy to our table.
“Why doesn’t she eat with her husband? Don’t they have food? Surely Señora Juarez doesn’t charge her own daughter for milk and eggs,” Dihda said to Mami after Sonia went home.
“She has plenty of food. She just doesn’t want to be alone with him.
Haven’t you ever noticed the bruises? Don’t be like that.”
Sonia’s husband, Tango, who was much darker than she was because he didn’t have Irish blood in him, bought his liquor from Señor Moreno’s Tienda Latina. And whenever he got drunk, he caressed Sonia with firm hands. The first time Sonia knocked on our door she was dressed in a thin robe, her private parts exposed. Mami almost let our heavy door shut in her face when she first saw her. Mr. Beenie promised to replace the door many times with a lighter one, but since he never raised the rent, Mami didn’t complain and neither did Dihda.
I wanted to see who knocked on our door—Margarita was Mami’s only friend and she was already with us. I danced to the door and hoped the visitor was a Mormon. They often came to El Barco to share their religion. Mormons were so handsome, dressed in suits with black ties and perfectly cut short hair. We were Catholics so they were never invited in but for just a few seconds, I imagined a Mormon boy was my husband and we lived in that magical temple, which nonmembers are prohibited from ever entering.
Mami and Dihda took me to their visitor’s temple every Christmas. I’m not sure if it was called the Visitor’s Temple but in any case, it was the only place in which they allowed non-Mormons. Tall men and women dressed in white silky robes stood in front of ceiling-to-floor windows and sang religious Christmas songs. The bloated trees surrounding the two-story building were decorated with lights—some white and others with a mixture of colors. Mami never understood why I cried at the sight of those lighted trees.
When I got to the door, I saw a woman instead.
“You buy eggs from my mama. But I don’t think we’ve ever met. My name is Sonia. My husband’s name is Tango. We live on the sixth floor. I know your little girl, she never takes the elevators. I don’t blame her. The old man who scared her once has also scared me. His dog is always wet. He’s always looking for someone to dry it. Do you think I could come in for a cup of tea?”
“Come in.” Mami grabbed the sleeve of my shirt and pulled me out of the way. I’d been standing between them and the door was threatening to close.
“Please come in before the door shuts. I hate this door, it’s so heavy,” Mami said.
Sonia moved a couple of inches towards the threshold and then stopped. She looked down the hall and said,
“No, I don’t want to intrude. Perhaps, I could come back another day.”
She already intruded.
“No, I think you should come in now. Is there something wrong? Why are you walking around in the hallway? And you must know your robe is much too thin. There have been rapes here before and murders.”
“Is Señora Juarez really your mom?” I said.
“Yes, she is. She tells me you love her maps. Can I tell you a secret?”
“Yes, please.” I danced around Mami while at the same time holding onto a piece of her dress, forcing her to move with me.
“Stop that, such a dumb child. Sonia please come in. I’m afraid I can’t hold the door open much longer. And my daughter will want to hear this secret.”
“It’s only fair I tell her the secret now.”
Margarita was in the kitchen making tea, green tea because it was supposed to soothe the senses after a long day’s work. It was also Dihda’s favorite tea. And Margarita thought Dihda was very handsome. Her husband died a few years before.
Sonia sat down at the kitchen table and Margarita brought her a cup of the green tea. The three women talked until almost two in the morning. I was sent to bed at ten but I could hear them talking and laughing and Dihda only came out once to tell them to shut up. And after they shut up, I fell asleep and dreamt about the gondola-man picture because Sonia told me Señora Juarez told her she was planning on replacing it with a different photograph or map and when she did, she was going to give it to me as a present. It wasn’t a secret anymore.
Mami and Margarita insisted that Sonia leave her husband but she had nowhere to go. She didn’t want to go back to her mama’s because Señora Juarez begged her not to marry Tango.
Sonia’s bruises never healed and Señora Juarez continued to sell milk and eggs. I finally got the gondola-man photograph because Señora Juarez replaced it with a map of Ireland.