“That’s really cool,” I said. But cool didn’t begin to describe what was going through my head. The truth was, back home I always felt like I was the only brown punk in the whole world. Dad understood a lot of things, but I didn’t think he could really understand what that was like.
“We’re not unicorns in Chicago,” Mrs. Hidalgo said, like she could read my thoughts. She winked. “I better get back to work. Next time you’re in, I’ll play some of these bands for you. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” I said, nodding vigorously. “I would love that.”
“I’ll see you soon, then,” she said, and headed back into the kitchen as I stood alone with my mind blown.
Chapter 14
On Sunday morning I woke up to the smell of coffee and breakfast cooking. I put on my flip-flops and headed to the kitchen, where Mom whipped eggs in a bowl while a pan of what looked like chorizo sizzled on the stove.
“Good morning, dormilona,” Mom said. “Want some coffee?”
“Have I ever said no to coffee?”
“True,” Mom said. “I hope this Soyrizo isn’t too spicy.”
She said the word Soyrizo like it was something she still couldn’t wrap her brain around.
“I tried to buy some from Mrs. Hidalgo at Calaca, but they were all out. Who knew there was a demand for soy chorizo?” She turned off the burner. “Anyway, she recommended a Mexican place that makes it, so this is as authentic as fake chorizo can be.”
“And it’s probably going to burn my tongue off, right?”
“Probably,” Mom said, handing me a couple of mugs. “I’ll get you a glass of milk, too.”
“Thanks,” I said. As I watched Mom dish eggs and Soyrizo onto two plates, I thought about the family tree assignment for Spanish class. It was looming over me, due tomorrow. Dad always says you have to know when to ask for help, and as much as I dreaded asking Mom, I knew I couldn’t do it alone.
“Mom, can you help me with this family tree assignment?”
“Of course,” she said a little too eagerly. She placed a plate in front of me and sat down. “When should we work on it?”
“How about now?” I asked. “It’s due tomorrow, so I don’t have much of a choice.”
“Don’t sound too excited about it, Malú,” Mom said, digging into her breakfast.
I went to my room and grabbed my Spanish notebook and a pen.
“I need at least two generations, not counting me,” I said.
“That’s it?” Mom asked, sounding disappointed.
“Let’s see,” I said. “I need full names, and places and dates of birth and death.”
Mom held a bottle of hot sauce over her plate, and I watched as she tapped little orange drops across her eggs.
“Okay, well, your abuelo Refugio Morales was born in Morelos in the state of Coahuila in 1936 and died in Anaheim, California, in 2010.”
“Slow down,” I said. “How do you spell that?”
Mom spelled Coahuila and then continued.
“Why did he leave Mexico?” It wasn’t part of my assignment, but I was still curious.
“He came to the US as part of the Bracero Program,” Mom said. “Do you know what that is?”
I shook my head.
“During World War II, when many American men had either gone to war or were working in industries that produced equipment for the war, there was a shortage of farm labor,” Mom said. “The US government made arrangements with Mexico to bring in laborers to work on American farms. The program continued for a little while after the war ended. That’s when your abuelo came. It was supposed to be temporary, but he never left.”
“What kind of work did he do?”
“Mostly picked crops,” Mom said. “Sugar beets, figs, strawberries.”
“Like, for the supermarkets?” I asked.
Mom nodded.
“Wow,” I said. “Real people pick that stuff?”
“Well, who do you think does all that work? Machines?”
I shrugged. To be honest, I’d never thought about it all.
“Most people probably don’t think about it,” Mom said, as if reading my mind. “But it’s hard work.”
“I remember that Abuelo used to give me those gummy candies that look like orange slices, and I would suck all the sugar off before eating them,” I said.
“You remember that?” she asked. “You were so little.”
“And we would sit on that plastic-covered couch and watch the show about the kid who lived inside a barrel.”
“You’re thinking of El Chavo del Ocho.” Mom smiled, remembering. “Your abuelo loved to watch comedies. He laughed a lot for someone who had a hard life.”
“What about Abuela?” I asked.
“Your abuela Aurelia González de Morales was born in Agua Prieta in the state of Sonora in 1948,” Mom said.
“When did she come to the US?”
“She left Mexico and her family when she was sixteen,” Mom said.
“What do you mean she left her family?” I asked.
“She came alone,” Mom said.
“Alone? But isn’t that dangerous?”
Mom shrugged like it was no big deal.
“When she was sixteen?” I asked. “Mom, that’s, like, four years older than me. How did she do it alone?”
“A lot of people come to this country alone, Malú, not knowing the language,” Mom said. “It’s not an uncommon story. There might be kids in your school whose families came here under similar circumstances.”
This was even more mind-boggling than the thought of my abuelo’s hands picking the strawberries I saw in the supermarket. I tried to imagine coming to Chicago alone. It felt scary. Way scarier than how it felt coming here with Mom.
“Your grandparents worked really hard to build a life in this country,” Mom said. “But they were also very proud of where they came from.”
I chewed on my pen and thought about my grandparents. Abuelo died when I was little, but before that, when they still lived in Florida, I spent more time with them. Once Mom started her PhD program, we saw them less often. And after Abuelo died, Abuela moved to California, where the rest of Mom’s family lived. Being so far away and Mom’s busy schedule made it harder for us to go visit. Still, Mom called Abuela every weekend and would force me to grab the phone and say hello. I would hear Mom tell my abuela to speak to me in Spanish, but she never did.
“That’s why it’s important to me that you learn about where you come from,” Mom said.
“I know where I come from, Mom,” I said, snapping back into the present.
She looked at me and gave me a sad smile. “There are things you’re missing out on that are important,” she said.
“Like what?”
“You should be proud to speak Spanish, not embarrassed about it.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I said. But like Mom, I didn’t really believe that either.
“I guess I don’t really have anyone to blame but myself,” Mom said.
“Gee, sorry to be so disappointing.”
“That’s not what I meant, Malú,” she said. “You’re not disappointing.”
“Okay,” I said. “Is that why you’re always talking about how I dress and how I hate speaking Spanish?”
“Whoa, slow down there.”
“Admit it, Mom,” I said. “I’m just your weird, unladylike, sloppy-Spanish-speaking, half-Mexican kid.”
“Where is all this coming from?” Mom asked.
“You want me to be like you and to be interested in stuff you’re interested in,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I’m not. I can’t help it that I care about animals and don’t want to eat them. And it’s not my fault I don’t like hot sauce or cilantro.”
Mom burst out laughing. “Malú, do you think I care that
you don’t like cilantro or that you’re a vegetarian?”
“Of course,” I said. “Because real Mexicans love cilantro and hot sauce on everything. Especially meat.”
“I don’t expect you to be like me,” Mom said. “I just want you to be proud of who you are. Of everything you are.”
“I am proud of who I am,” I said. “It’s you who seems to have the problem. You’re just like Selena.”
“Selena the Tejano singer?” Mom asked, a puzzled look on her face. “What does she have to do with this?”
“Who?” I asked. “Never mind. You don’t understand; you never do. I wish I was with Dad.”
I grabbed my notebook and left the kitchen. I almost expected Mom to follow me with more questions or at least to fill me in on this Selena singer, but she didn’t.
Chapter 15
On Monday at back-to-school night I waited for Mom outside homeroom. She finally arrived hauling her many workbags, glasses on top of her head.
“Whew, made it!” she said, giving me a quick hug. “Trains were delayed.”
“No time to change, huh?” I asked.
“What are you talking about?”
She had on a blue dress embroidered with colorful flowers, sandals, and a big chunky necklace. Her hair was twisted into a knot and held in place with a pencil. She looked like a college professor version of Frida Kahlo.
“Can’t you ever wear anything, you know, normal?”
Mom eyed my outfit in response.
I wore a red corduroy miniskirt, which Principal Rivera subjected to the fingertip test as I hurried to history class, striped tights, my Doc Martens, and a T-shirt Dad had given me. It was gray with a picture of Judy Garland as Dorothy carrying Toto in his basket. It read: TOTO IS MY COPILOT.
“Let’s not argue about clothes right now,” Mom said. “Where to?”
“Follow me.” I led her to the first classroom.
In each room, kids were on their best behavior, while parents read classroom rules taped to walls, inspected titles on bookshelves, and waited for teachers to give quick overviews of what the class would be working on that school year. Listening to Ms. Freedman, the seventh-grade science teacher, describe the spring unit on the solar system reminded me that I was really going to be there for the entire school year. Two entire school years. In science terms, the Earth would travel around the sun twice before I would be able to go back home for good.
When we got to Señor Ascencio’s classroom, he was at the door, greeting everyone. As we came in, he handed us each a clothespin and our graded family trees to hang on twine that had been strung across the back of the room. I flipped my drawing over and saw an A in red marker on the back.
“An A! Malú, that’s great,” Mom said. “Can I see?”
I held up the clothespin.
“I’m going to hang it up,” I said. “Then you can look at it, okay?”
“Going to make me wait? Fine, I’m going to talk to your teacher.”
Mom walked off toward Señor Ascencio, and I headed to the back of the room to hang up my tree. I saw Joe come in, and I waved.
“That’s a pretty good drawing,” Joe said, walking up.
“Thanks,” I said. “When do you have Señor Ascencio’s class?”
“Second period,” he said.
“So which one is your tree?”
“You really want to see it?” Joe asked.
“Sure,” I said. Then, with a grin, I added, “Is it better than your foam tulip?”
“Real funny,” Joe replied, frowning. “Over here.” I followed him down the row of hanging trees and stopped when he stopped. His tree had a large trunk painted in swirling shades of brown. In the swirls he’d written names and painted what looked like animals: a large cat, tropical birds, an elephant. The trunk split into branches full of soft, feathery bright green leaves where he’d also hidden names.
“Whoa,” I said. “It’s . . . it’s beautiful.”
“It’s el árbol del Tule. The Tule Tree,” he said. I could see pink rushing into his cheeks and ears.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s this huge super-old tree in Mexico,” he said. “I saw it when I was eight. I’ve never felt so small in my life.”
“What are the names in the trunk?”
“Those are all my grandparents and great-grandparents,” Joe said. “Me and my parents are up here.” He pointed to the leaves.
“I like it,” I said. “You’re a really good artist.”
“Thanks,” Joe said. “Watercolors, I can work with. Milk foam, not so much.”
Over his shoulder I could see Mom talking to Selena and a woman I assumed was her mother.
“Oh no,” I said. “I better go. I’ll see ya.”
“Yeah, go rescue your mom,” Joe said, turning to look. “I should go find mine too.”
I left Joe by the hanging trees and hurried over to Mom.
“There you are,” Mom said.
“Come look at my tree, Mom.” I hoped she’d be so excited to check out my A, she’d want to leave Selena and her mom quickly.
“Don’t be rude, María Luisa. Aren’t you going to say hello to your friend?” she asked, motioning to Selena. “And this is Selena’s mother, Señora Ramirez.”
“Hi,” I said, giving Señora Ramirez a strained smile while ignoring Selena. “Okay, Mom, let’s go. The bell’s about to ring.”
“Nice to meet you, Señora Morales,” Selena said sweetly. “See you later, María Luisa.”
“It’s Malú,” I said, and grabbed Mom’s arm. I pulled her away as she said good-bye to Selena and her mother.
“I hate to break this news to you, Mom,” I said, “but Selena is not my friend.”
“She seems really nice. And did you know she dances huapango? Very impressive.”
“Huapa-what?”
“It’s a traditional Mexican dance,” Mom said. “You know, Malú, it wouldn’t hurt you to make friends.”
“I have friends,” I said.
“Who?” Mom asked.
A very good question.
“Joe. Mrs. Hidalgo’s kid,” I said. “One friend is all this girl needs.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “Selena’s mother runs her own dance school,” Mom said. “I’ve always wanted to learn some traditional Mexican dances.”
“That’s great, Mom,” I said, still trying to move away from the topic of Selena. “Look, there’s my tree.”
“I told her we’d sign up for a beginners’ lesson.”
I stopped in my tracks. “We?”
“When will we have this opportunity again?” Mom asked. “I want us to take advantage while we can.”
“But I don’t want to do it,” I said.
“It would be fun for us to do this together, Malú,” Mom said. “Think about it: it’s just one lesson. Now, where’s this tree?”
I pointed to my tree and waited while Mom inspected it and read my essay.
“This is lovely, Malú.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, my arms crossed over my chest.
“Are you going to be mad at me now?” she asked.
I wasn’t mad; I was furious. And panicking at the thought of having to spend an afternoon outside of school with Selena.
“Nice work on the tree,” Mom said. “I wish you would’ve let me look over your essay before you turned it in.”
“I got an A, didn’t I?”
My sentences were short, and I spelled everything out exactly as it sounded using the information Mom and Dad had given me. I’d thought about having Mom check over it, but decided against it. I knew it would have given her too much pleasure. Plus, I didn’t want to hear her criticize my Spanish. I could picture all the red pen marks on my paper, like I was one of her students.
“I guess
you did,” Mom said. “But you know I’m happy to help.”
“I know, Mom,” I said.
“Sounds like you’re going to have a great school year.”
“Yeah,” I said. “The awesomest.”
“I need to go to the restroom before we leave,” Mom said, ignoring me. “I’ll meet you out front.”
I was curious to see what grade Selena got on her tree—an A+, probably—so I walked along the back of the room, looking at the trees, in search of it. I noticed that almost all of the locations on the trees were either Chicago or Mexico. Some California and Texas. Mine was the only one with a non-Spanish name. I was probably the only one in this class who couldn’t dance a huapa-whatever, too.
When I got to Selena’s, I stopped. It looked like she’d done a lot of work on it. There was a printout of a tree image with photos of family members superimposed on branches. At the top was a photo of Selena smiling. The whole thing was printed in color on this fancy, shiny paper.
“Admiring my work?” Selena asked.
“I’m looking at all of them,” I said. “Not just yours.”
Selena leaned against the back of a chair. “My mom says our family was here before the border,” she said.
“All our families were here before the border, tonta,” Joe said over her shoulder as he walked past.
Selena sucked her teeth and swatted at him. He jumped out of her reach, laughing, and left the room. I wanted to call out for him to not abandon me.
“I hear you might be coming to the studio,” Selena said.
“Not if I can help it,” I replied.
“Yeah, it might be hard for you to get the hang of a Mexican dance,” Selena said. “I’d be nervous too.”
“Whatever,” I said. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“You and your mom are so different,” Selena went on. “I guess I’m not surprised.”
My ears started to burn, and all of a sudden I felt hot all over. I had to get out of there, away from Selena. Fast.
“Are you like your dad?” Selena asked. “Is he . . . you know?”
“No, I don’t know.”
The First Rule of Punk Page 6