Chapter Three

Posted by Sandy on May 11th, 2008 filed in Chapter Three, Sweetwater American Chapters

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.