My Sister

by Selenis Leyva

  At first, I made myself throw up. Then, I just stopped eating altogether. In the mornings, I bought tea from the bodega and slowly sipped the tepid liquid throughout the day. At home, I’d move food around on my plate so it looked like I was eating something. But then I took it to the kitchen and threw it away. I got thinner and thinner, and the girls in my class praised me.

  “Oh my God! You’re so skinny!”

  One day at school, I felt really dizzy. The room started to spin, and I nearly fainted.

  The school nurse questioned me. “Did you eat today?”

  By this point, I was an expert at covering for myself.

  “Oh, it’s not that,” I said. “I think I’m coming down with the flu.”

  At home, my mother expressed her concern at how thin I’d become. “Estas muy flaca!” she said. “Tienes que alimentarte, tienes que comer!”

  My hair started to fall out, too. I was clearly not healthy. But I just shrugged, said, “I eat… it’s just all the dance classes.”

  Mami had so much going on—raising five children and juggling the demands of Jose’s situation with his parents—that she didn’t have time to question it. And so she wrote it off as part of this acting world she didn’t understand. I was the eldest, the one who was going places. The one who was getting praise from her teachers.

  Or, from one teacher in particular.

  My math teacher my first year at LaGuardia was overly attentive. I hated his class. Not only because I have always struggled with math but because he creeped me out. He would start sweating profusely when he stood way too close to me. He would hover over my desk in a way that felt like he was invading my space.

  “You seem really tired,” he said. “I could give you some vitamins to help you.”

  “Um, no thanks,” I said, leaning away from him. Oh my God, please don’t sweat on me! “I’m fine.”

  At night, he called me at home. My parents did not find this strange at all. For them, people who are doctors, police, teachers are authority figures who are to be respected; they know all. And for a teacher to call me, at home, after hours—well, it seemed like something to be proud of. “Oh, she’s getting a call from her teacher! She must really be liked.”

  I didn’t know how to tell them that he was freaking me out. That his calls to me at night before I went to bed felt wrong. That they were wrong. He spoke in a whispery voice, offering to help me with math after school. He tried to get me to open up to him about what was “wrong” with me, to tell him why I seemed lost or disinterested in his class. Every chance he got, he tried to offer me “vitamins.” As he stood behind me in class, I could feel the heat from his body and the way he looked at me, and it was more than I could take. He made me feel uncomfortable and self-conscious, but I questioned my feelings. He never physically touched me or harmed me, and a part of me questioned whether it was enough just to say that he made me uncomfortable. I felt like no one would believe me, and I didn’t want to make any problems for myself at this school I’d dreamed of attending. But, eventually, I felt like I had to say something to someone, and I decided to tell the guidance counselor. He was very surprised when I told him, and he took me to one of the deans’ offices. The two of them spoke in private for a few minutes, and then I was asked to sit and share the details with my dean.

  I remember the way he looked at me; it was a look of anger. Why was he angry with me? He asked to speak to me in private, and as the guidance counselor was leaving, the dean said, “Don’t close the door—we don’t want her to accuse me of anything.”

  Now it was just the two of us, the dean sitting behind his desk, telling me that I was exaggerating and needed to stop being silly. I never went back to that math class or the guidance counselor again. And when one of our acting teachers commented on my body and asked whether I was sexually active and tried to hold my hand, I knew I had to handle it myself. I made sure to never be alone with him. And as I got older and more confident, I was able to handle his advances like most of the other girls in the department did: I’d laugh him off or say something sassy or roll my eyes. This made him laugh and, thankfully, he’d let the topic go.

  Thinking back on these moments angers me. It angers me that interactions like these are common experiences for women. I wish that I would have had the support to speak out, that I had been believed instead of treated like I was a threat. It is also clear to me now that, because I came from a working-class background, because my parents were not involved in school activities, because I came from a family of immigrants who didn’t speak English, because I was a young woman of color, I was, in many ways, a perfect target. Now, as a mother of a young woman, I am happy that the #MeToo movement has given voice to those who have otherwise been silenced like I once was. I can only hope that this kind of support will continue and that bad behavior by men in power, whether in Hollywood or in the education system, will no longer be tolerated.

  WHEN JOSE WAS eight, Jose Sr. went back to prison in New York City, and soon after he was deported to the DR. Then Ruth fell back into drugs hard, and her daughter Yvette came to live with us. By then my mother was no longer working with the agency but was asked to house Yvette not only because of her experience as a foster parent but also because of the bond between Yvette and Jose.

  Jose and Yvette were so similar, in both personality and looks. I remember the two of them sitting next to one another, playing nicely and sharing, marveling at how the color of their skin, the shape of their eyebrows, their smiles, their teeth—even their toes!—were the same. The two of them had a connection, a friendship Jose didn’t share with our sister Isa. Jose and Isa were constantly at it; 98 percent of the time that they played together, they ended up fighting. But with Yvette, he seemed at ease. Perhaps it was their unspoken bond or simply the novelty of having her around, a sister all of his own.

  Six children in one home, however, is a lot. And in terms of finances and space, it was impossible for my parents to keep up. My mother wanted to make sure that Yvette was safe, that she had someone to care for her. But she also knew that we couldn’t keep her forever. Mami told Ruth that she would keep her for a time, on the condition that Ruth got herself together.

  But Ruth couldn’t. We knew something was very wrong when she failed to show up for visitations with the seven-year-old daughter she had always wanted and cared for and loved since birth.

  Mami was disappointed. But we were tapped out. And so the system took Yvette away and placed her in another home.

  While Yvette was still living with us, a friend of mine from LaGuardia told me about a kids production of The Lion King she was putting together. I immediately thought of Jose, how he’d beg to help me practice my lines, to learn whatever dance moves I was rehearsing, to wait for me to count “and a five-six-seven-eight!” This will be perfect, I thought, and I signed up all three of the little ones—Jose, Isa, and Yvette. Isa never really expressed much interest in performing or in anything artistic, but I wanted them to all do something together. And so every weekend, I took them into the city, to the rehearsal space in Harlem. At home, we rehearsed their lines. Isa and Jose argued because Jose would say Isa’s lines and do all of her parts. He really seemed to enjoy every moment of it.

  The performance was adorable, of course. Of all of them, the one who really shined was Isa. There was a moment when she got a huge laugh from the audience. Her little face lit up and she really owned the part. I was pleasantly surprised! But with Jose—I watched him lurk in the back awkwardly. It was the opposite of how he acted at home during our private rehearsals. I watched him shrink like he did when Tito’s and Tony’s friends teased him about doing my hair. Theater requires an openness, a freedom that I thought would allow Jose’s true self to shine. But instead of filling the room with his energy, I watched him be a shy little boy, embarrassed by the dozens of faces staring up at him, watching his every move.

  Chapter 3

  MARIZOL

  Of all of my siblings, Seli was my favorite. I
wanted to be near her all the time. When she was at school, I spent the whole day waiting. And if the phone rang, I asked Mami right away: “Is it Seli? Where is she? Is she coming home?”

  I would always sneak into her room, play with her makeup and clothes. I made tube tops out of her scarves and shirts. I wanted to feel what it was like to have long hair like she had, and so I pulled the neck of a T-shirt up onto my head, just over my ears, and let it fall down my back. But it was too loose and kept slipping off. I tried the sleeve of the shirt instead, and it was just the right size. It stayed snug around my forehead as I moved around Seli’s room, looking into her mirror and touching her pretty clothes. I loved feeling the weight of the fabric swing as I walked.

  When she was finally at home, Seli let me do her hair. She sat on the couch, or in Papi’s big chair, and I ran to el baño chiquito to grab the products, the combs, the brushes and pins. I piled them in the small basket Mami kept under the sink and raced back to Seli, chanting to myself, Yes, yes, yes, yes! Climbing on the cushions behind her, I laid out my supplies in a line and pulled the brush through her dark brown hair. With her, I could experiment with new styles—a ponytail, pigtails, a braid. When I was a little older, she let me put lipstick on her lips or shiny polish on her nails.

  Sometimes, Isa would walk in and catch us.

  “He’s not supposed to be doing that!” she would say. “I’m going to tell Papi.”

  Papi would be mad if he knew. He told me I wasn’t allowed to do Seli’s hair, that this kind of thing wasn’t for boys. I was afraid of getting in trouble, that Isa would tell him.

  But Seli always stood up for me. “No, you’re not,” she’d say.

  And Isa would slink away, embarrassed and afraid of our older sister, and for a few moments, before I heard Papi’s car in the driveway or the clank of the gate at the far end of the yardita or the jingle of his many, many keys, before I ran to return the basket and products to their place, I felt free, comfortable, happy. I felt like me.

  At that age, I watched my brothers and sisters each doing their own thing, each having their own outlet to express themselves—Isa had her Barbies, my brothers, basketball, and Seli, acting. When I wasn’t doing Seli’s hair or nails, I felt sad and lost. Like a kid who didn’t know who she was. I wished that I didn’t have to put it all away when my dad came home, that my brothers didn’t make fun of me for liking these “girly” things. I wished that I could have been open and confident about who I was because, whenever it was time to hide it, time to pretend to be someone I wasn’t, I fell into a dark, lonely place. I was grateful for those few moments I had with Seli; they were my favorite moments of the day. I just wished it could have been like that all the time.

  THE HOLIDAYS were big in our house. Birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, family get-togethers—Mami and Papi hosted all the parties and celebrations. I always looked forward to that time of year when it was time for Seli and Isa and me to deck out the front of the house with decorations. I especially liked Halloween, because it was my job to pass out the candy.

  Hosting all the parties meant that we always had so much food in our house. Arroz con gandules. Pernil. Potato and macaroni salads. In the summers, Papi would buy a whole pig to roast, and he and Tito and Tony and the rest of the men would gather in the driveway, watching the pig brown in the pit Papi had made himself. During the fall, I watched Mami prepare the pasteles in the kitchen: how she’d grate the platanos to make a masa, adding a little achiote oil for flavor; how she’d combine the chicken or pernil with the doughy mixture before wrapping it in a banana leaf and parchment and stringing it up. Mami would make so many, we would have enough to last us from Thanksgiving till New Year’s. By the time everyone else arrived, all done up in fancy clothes, Mami would still be working in the kitchen with rollers in her hair.

  As soon as the guests entered our home, it seemed, the men and women separated: the women would gather in the kitchen and gossip, and the men would drink and play dominoes or sit in front of the TV to watch the big game. I liked being with Mami and the other ladies, but even there, I felt a little strange, a little bit out of place. Like I was some kind of outcast, somehow different from everyone else. My aunt would often say to me, “Why are you always with the women? Why don’t you go out there and be with the men?” Reluctantly, I’d leave the room to go be with Papi, with my brothers and cousins and uncles. I never felt like I belonged there or like I could relate to them. For one thing, everyone was older than me. But there was something deeper telling me that I didn’t fit in. I hovered on the edge of the room, listening to them talk about “guy stuff” or watching them watch football, wishing I could feel at ease. I’d drift back to where the ladies were and try not to attract too much attention—I didn’t want my aunt to call me out again.

  It was hard always being kind of in between, and I tried to hide these feelings. I wanted to join in the laughter and celebration that was all around me, but sometimes it was difficult, even as a little kid, to get out of my head and be in the moment. Everyone was always happy, having a good time. And I was happy to be around my family, but I didn’t feel like I could be myself. I didn’t even know what it meant for me to be myself, because everyone was always telling me that I was in the wrong place or liking the wrong things.

  One thing I loved about the parties was all the dancing. No one ever taught me how to dance, but I learned through watching everyone salsa and merengue around the house. I looked forward to that point in the evening when, after the adults had sipped on their rum and coquito, Papi would start singing old-school ballads and mariachi songs. (Even though Papi is Cuban, he loves mariachi music.) He’d pull Mami into the middle of the living room, where the two of them danced, swaying back and forth in the glow of the Christmas tree. I watched them, the beat of the music in my chest, wanting to join in but feeling shy. And then, without saying anything, someone would grab my hand and pull me onto the dance floor. It was Seli, of course, and she and I would dance with Isa and the rest of our cousins and aunts and uncles until late in the night.

  OTHER PEOPLE in my life I knew were my “family”: my biological mom and dad—Ruth and Jose Sr. were their names—and my sister, Yvette, who lived with them. I liked playing with Yvette. Mami and Papi would invite her over, and she and Isa and the neighborhood kids and I all played together in the yardita. We’d jump rope, play monkey-in-the-middle and catch. Mami didn’t want us running out into the street, so if the ball went over the fence, we had to shout for someone to come outside and bring it to us. But sometimes, if we were feeling especially bold, we’d open the gate and run to grab the ball before it rolled from the sidewalk into the street, crouching low so that no one could see.

  When I was very little, Mami took me into the city every weekend to see Ruth. I hated going. I hated riding the D train for over an hour to sit in the dark, stale lobby, not knowing if she would show up or not. When she did show up, she was always nervous and jittery. Like she couldn’t ever sit still. And in her eyes it always seemed like she was somewhere off in the distance, very far away. I remember that she was always kind to me, always quick to tell me: “Oh, my baby, I love you. I love you. I love you.” She kissed me all over, leaving bright red lipstick marks all over my face. When it was time to go, I watched a sadness take over her face. And somehow I felt that she was sad because she couldn’t be with me.

  Later, Jose Sr. came to these meetings.

  “Bendicion, Papi.”

  He said this to me every time I saw him and every time he called our house. He wanted it to be a special greeting between us. He wanted me to nod and repeat it to him: “Bendicion, Papi.” But I did not want to talk to him at all.

  And then, one day, I found myself living with my biological family. Ruth wasn’t around—it was just Yvette and me and Jose Sr. and Miguel, Ruth’s teenage son. I didn’t like living there, even though I was with Yvette. I missed Mami and Papi and Seli—and Tito and Tony and Isa, too. I missed the warmth of our home. I missed t
he way the hardwood floors shined, how Mami’s collection of little angel statues were delicately arranged in the formal living room, the fresh flowers that were everywhere. I missed the way Papi’d come home on Friday night, with a bouquet for Mami in one hand and a large pizza from the shop nearby his work that he knew she loved in the other. I missed the light and laughter and love.

  Ruth and Jose Sr.’s house was dark. My memory of the time I stayed there is foggy, but certain images come to mind: the floor covered in cheap, imitation-wood tiles that peeled around the edges; a TV that sat on top of an old upside-down plastic crate; Miguel’s back as he stood in front of the toilet, not bothering to shut the door behind him when he had to go. The air was stale, the decor empty. There was hardly any furniture. I remember how, in the mornings, Yvette was allowed to leave the bedroom, to sit on the floor of the living room with Apple Jacks and cartoons. I, on the other hand, wasn’t allowed to go out and be with my sister. I wanted to, but Jose Sr. wouldn’t let me out of the bedroom. I hated being alone with him. I didn’t know if I had done something wrong, or if I was being punished, or why. And I didn’t understand why Ruth just left us with him. I don’t remember one happy moment there at all.

  Thankfully, it didn’t last long. One day, I heard an argument between Ruth and Jose Sr. I didn’t see her, but I could hear her voice mix with his as the two of them screamed at one another. And then the door slammed shut, and then I was told that someone was going to pick me up and take me back to my parents’ house. Finally, I thought, I’m getting out of here!

  IT WAS in first grade when things started to change. I was a little bit older than the other kids, that was true—but there was something more. I noticed that my classmates saw me as different. And I saw myself as different, too.