A week later, after the detectives met with me for the first time, Maribel finally asked me why I was at Chickadee. I informed her that I had a head injury, which was hard to miss since I sported a large bandage around my head. I also told her that I was being monitored for any signs of risk and that the physicians were checking to make sure that my concussion didn’t pose any threats to my health. I avoided going into the details of how I received the injury in the first place in fear of possibly disturbing her.
At the time when Maribel asked me about this, I had no clue that I was going to go under psychiatric evaluation in the following weeks. So I simply told her what I had believed myself to be in here for at the time, which was just the concussion.
Chapter 36
The voices soon came back while I was being diagnosed at the Chickadee Hospital. They weren’t as severe as before, and they often came and went fairly quickly. It was out of my power to stop them, but I managed to ignore them fairly well. Around halfway through my diagnosis, the physicians gave me medications when I informed Dr. Lucio about the return of the voices and whispers. There was more and more evidence that I did have schizophrenia, so he prescribed medications for me in under the assumption that I could become a danger to myself if I was not treated.
Chapter 37
Maribel always liked to keep herself busy and liked to go out of the hospital room constantly when permitted.
But one morning, almost about a month after I was admitted, she had brought up an interesting conversation.
She was sitting in the guest chair adjacent to my bed and was reading a newspaper.
“Sam,” she said to me. “What kind of classes were you taking at Golden Heights?” she asked, slowly swerving her eyes left to right on the newspaper. It was a somewhat slow morning.
“Well, I was taking four AP courses,” I began, and she instantly looked up, and gave me look of disbelief.
“Wait, why?” she asked me, a bit hostile to the whole fact that I was taking four AP’s.
“Well, the AP courses showed that I was willing to take on challenges and that I was willing to strive for success, despite the immense workloads and challenges,” I said.
She had this confused and skeptic expression that only implied, a ‘well, that’s dumb,’ sort of vibe.
“I guess, Sam,” she said. “I mean, that’s way to much work in my opinion and it doesn’t seem a very great idea to be taking four,”
“Well, I took two C.P. classes to balance it out, so that I wouldn’t overwork myself,” I said to her, even though looking back, I did in fact overwork myself.
“Oh my god, Sam.” she blurted. “You took six classes? —During your senior year?”
“Yeah, why?” I responded with an even more confused expression.
“I only took four classes during my senior year, and I had friends who even took three. Why did your school made you take six classes? That’s ridiculous. Frankly, it sounds hard enough with four AP’s—and now you have to take two extra periods. Did you fail classes or were you short on credits?” she asked.
“Um, Maribel, what are you talking about?” I asked, still confused.
“Dude, at our school, we took less classes as we finished our requirements. Our counselors only advised us to take classes that were required or that we were interested in. I can’t imagine how you could take six classes every year for four years. That’s twenty-four classes!”
“Uh,” I said, not sure how to respond, “Our counselors made us take six every year. Why? Didn’t yours?”
“No, are you kidding me? Maybe during our freshman year, but by junior year we were taking maybe five, and by senior year, we were either taking three or four. And we turned out okay, we had kids who got into UCLA,” she said. UCLA was one of the top tier public universities here in California. “I can’t imagine why people would take six classes. We even had juniors who graduated early and got into pretty good schools. UC Irvine, UC Santa Barbara, Chapman University, the list went on, Sam.”
I stayed silent, and Maribel fell silent as well. Why would our school not tell us about these things? I asked myself. We just all went along with it. It was a norm for us and we didn’t question it. What was this groupthink belief that our school faculty seemed to share—that they agreed on us students taking six classes and censor out other schools and their choices of instruction. And I thought about how we all just seemed to conform to what the authority figures at our school wanted, without any sort of questioning.
From time to time, I still wonder why they made us take six periods, and even in some cases, students went on to take a seventh period, which would send Maribel into a shock if I told her.
Maribel licked her finger and turned the page of her newspaper. “Well, for my senior year, I took C.P. English 12th, C.P. Statistics, C.P. Economy, and A.P. Spanish Language for fun.”
As soon as she said A.P. Spanish, my interest spiked a bit. “You took A.P. Spanish?” I asked her.
“Yup. It’s a very easy class for Spanish speakers, and the A.P. Exam is even easier.”
Maribel Perez was Latina, but I never quite asked her much about it. From time to time, I was able to hear her Spanish accent, so I assumed that she spoke Spanish with her family or maybe with friends.
“Was that the only A.P. course that you took?” I asked her.
“Yeah, I wasn’t very inclined to take other A.P.’s,” she informed me.
I smiled. She was a very interesting individual; I didn’t feel an unhealthy pressure to succeed when I was around her. She was much more relaxed than the other students that I was with on a day-to-day basis. In no way did I feel superior or undermined when I was with her, and I think that was one of the best relationships I had with someone. Our friendship was on a spectrum that was not based on academics, but human experiences and emotions. We didn’t talk about SAT scores, or GPA’s; we talked about Married with Children, and we talked about how she rolled down a hill, and about other hilarious stories, like when she worked at a Burger King, and how embarrassed she was when she burned an entire order. We laughed so hard.
I was fortunate to have such an amazing roommate. From what I had seen, hospital roommates didn’t become good friends. Getting along was sufficient.
Admittedly, I’m glad that Maribel made the effort to greet me first. I don’t know if I could have managed to pull any strength when I arrived to the Chickadee to even say hello to her.
Chapter 38
One conversation we had in particular that I remember vividly with Maribel was the day that she was telling me about biliteracy rates in America.
The curtain that separated us was pushed back so that we could talk to each other. It was early in the morning, and a novella was playing on the T.V. box. She explained to me that novellas were Spanish dramas and that a lot of her family watched them here and in Mexico.
I grew up talking solely English. It wasn’t till I took Spanish at my high school that I gained familiarity. I understood more than I could speak, so I somewhat followed along, the only thing that I had great difficulties understanding were acentos.
The episode of the novella had to do with a sister conniving against another sister because of an argument. It was getting very suspenseful till all of a sudden, the show went on commercials.
Maribel had just gotten a new newspaper and was flipping through it as the commercials played.
“Sam?” she said to me.
“Yeah?” I responded as I lay on my bed with my sheets over me.
“Did you know that the biliteracy rate here in the United Sates is around 7%?” Maribel reported.
“No, I did not. I suppose that’s low?”
“Eh. Well, you can say so. Worldwide, the biliteracy rate is a bit over 60%.” Maribel paused for a second, and straightened her newspaper a bit. “It came up in an article.”
I was more or less surprised, but then I let it sink in. I remember the commercials playing in Spanish, and contemplating the percentages.
The United States biliteracy rate was 7%. Worldwide, it’s a bit over 60%.
I remember thinking how odd it was. The United States prided itself in its education. It’s such a powerful country, and yet, we have such a minute bilingual percentage. Why was it so low? I remember asking myself as I stared fixedly on the white ceiling. What does this say about our country? Isn’t being bilingual a valuable quality to have in the working field? But even so, why is our bilingual rate so low? Is it because Americans enjoy speaking English, and want everyone else to speak English in this country, is English suppose to be the norm once you enter US soil? It doesn’t make much sense, because countries like France can’t demand everyone to speak French once you enter their country. Is it some cultural egocentrism where everyone needs to speak English, and that’s enough, no need for a second language—some sort of American ethnocentrism? But why is it that there is a 60% bilingual rate everywhere else? And ours is so low? I would imagine that Americans could cover more markets if we can effectively communicate with other cultures, but the 7% bilingual rate here in the US proves otherwise. Do American’s not place enough value in other cultures, other languages? Or is it that we can’t afford to be bilingual? That we can’t raise our children to compete in a global economy? 7%, I kept thinking to myself.
Maribel formed a ruffling sound as she straightened her newspaper again. “Yeah, and you know how Spanish is the most common spoken language after English here in the US?
“M’hmm,” I articulated with a hum, to signify a yes.
“Well, get this, Sam. Decades ago, the most common spoken language was German!” she remarked in excitement.
“German?” I responded back, in confusion. I would see why she was surprised, but how was German the second most spoken language? “What? Really?”
“Yeah, a lot of Americans spoke it, but because of the World War I, it lost favoritism, the German culture in America faced several prejudices,” she added.
She dragged her eyes on every line of the article and after about a minute of silence between us, I wanted to ask her why they faced prejudices, when all of a sudden, she made way for a new conversation.
“Sam,” she said to me.
“Yeah?” I responded, as the Spanish commercials persisted to play.
“When I was younger,” she began with this almost melancholic tone, “I use to go to this elementary school,” she closed her newspaper, leaned her back to the pillow, and adjusted her gaze at the empty space between her and the ceiling. “The school was pretty mixed with ethnicities. And this one time in 1st grade, the school made this one specific rule. This rule,” she said, slightly cutting off, as she seemed to gulp, “it had to do with talking. You see, there were all these teachers who didn’t understand Spanish, and when there were kids speaking Spanish and laughing; the teachers didn’t have much of a clue what the kids were talking about. And these teachers got very upset with the kids who spoke Spanish, so as a result, the faculty got together and enforced this new rule that students were not allowed to speak Spanish on campus or it would automatically result in a referral. And I remember how horrible it was.” She crossed her hands under her head and exhaled. “It was tough, you know?”
“That’s—that’s horrible, Maribel,” I said, feeling a sense of injustice as a culture’s language was being suppressed, almost eradicated.
“I remember I had such a hard time with English. And I was so scared of getting in trouble by speaking Spanish. Its sort of funny, I remember that I was trying to ask my 1st grade teacher how to draw a carousel, but I had such a hard time explaining it to her. And I was so scared,” she said, emitting an awkward chuckle, that almost resembled a choking sound.
I listened, but I felt that she was very upset, so I didn’t laugh with her, not like we usually did.
“—I was so terrified. And I didn’t even ask her if I could explain it to her in Spanish, but I don’t think that she would have understood very well either. So what ended up happening was that I started sobbing. She had no clue that I was scared of speaking Spanish. And I think she made the whole thing out to be a six-year-old just simply having communication problems. But things could have turned out a lot different if I was able to ask a friend, to ask them, ‘¿Cómo puedo dibujar un carrusel?’ But all I did was quiver. I had this whole different language to get me by my day-to-day life. And all of this was because some American teachers presumed that we used Spanish to taunt them, they took our entire language. They feared what they could not understand, so we suffered.”
Maribel pushed her hair away from her forehead and positioned her hands under her head once more. She didn’t sob or hide her head into a pillow—habits that I was too familiar with. No, she reacted differently to her frustrations. I couldn’t figure it out myself at the time, and even till today, I still have trouble putting my finger on what she could have been feeling. At best, I could say that it was some sort of inability to do anything about it. She was cheated out of a lifestyle, however, she didn’t shout, or sob, or run.
She lay there very still, occasionally blinking. She made audible exhales that were very calm.
It could have been some sort of feeling of acceptance—that she accepted her situation and that she simply had to live with her deprivations.
“She simply ended up suggesting a circus, and that’s what we went with, Maribel continued. “I wish I could say that the circus was even better than a carousel, or that a circus was much more interesting or beautiful, but I can’t really. She was guessing at my needs, and we just did what she proposed,” she let out another half-hearted chuckle and I turned to her, and I felt this tiny frown articulating on my mouth. I felt a sense of sorrow from this whole ordeal. And throughout the whole thing, she was still staring at the space between the ceiling and herself.
I couldn’t help but to think about what ran through her mind? Losing the ability to speak her language because some American schoolteachers felt that it was a threat. I envisioned the difficulty of trying to speak a language that a person is barely learning just so that they can ask for assistance. Maribel wanted help, but couldn’t ask for it because she wasn’t allowed to speak her native language, not to mention the fear of punishment that deterred her.
I looked over at her again, and she had this almost serene expression, as if she had accepted her past, but her speech seems to linger with some sort of obscure discouragement as ‘I wish I could say that the circus was even better than a carousel… but I can’t’ echoed in my head. After so many years, I was sure that she must have accepted the whole event—she must have—to be able to move forward in her life. And despite her peaceful appearance, I couldn’t help but feel that she might have felt some sort of resentment toward her school.
As we lay in the room, I thought to myself, a school system that values being bilingual, but punishes children who exercise bilinguality.
And I couldn’t help wonder if that teacher, or maybe even Maribel’s family, ever discovered the resentment or sorrow in those choked up chuckles. I can’t help but wonder if anyone ever saw her deeper conflicts. I seemed to mull over on whether or not it’s because human beings can hide their deeper conflicts so well.
That was the first time I had seen Maribel with any bit of anguish, a feeling that contrasted so heavily from her cheery disposition. The girl who laughed about rolling down a hill and breaking a tendon, disguised her chokes as dim chuckles as the raw emotion of remembering discrimination and inability seemed to daunt her in the space between herself and the ceiling. An event that seemed to turn a bright young individual into a carriage of wounds and distress in an instant, but somehow, life always had a way of teaching me that we aren’t simple characters destined for glee and prosperity. And how our good intentions and efforts will never guarantee us any sort of eternal tranquility.
Towards the end of my stay at the Chickadee Hospital, there was one more incident that occurred with Maribel.
Chapter 39
One early morni
ng, I woke up to people murmuring. Although I was dazed from coming out of a deep sleep and stunned by the sunlight entering the window, it took me a few seconds to distinguish the language. The murmuring sounds were in Spanish.
I lay in my hospital bed. I was awake, but I was clueless. It was that state of being awake but not fully yourself, the state where nothing makes sense and you probably feel grumpy. A couple of more seconds passed, and finally I sat up.
I took a sip from a water bottle that I maintained under my hospital bed and pushed back my wavy hair so that it curved around the back of my neck and hung down the left side of my chest.
I rubbed my eyes and I realized that the murmuring persisted. I looked over, but the curtain was stretched to hide the individuals who created the series of quiet, but audible, sounds. After a minute, I confirmed my suspicions and deducted that it was two women voices speaking in Spanish. I had trouble figuring out who the voices were, but after focusing hard enough, I realized that one of the voices was Maribel’s. However, the second voice was a voice that I had not been familiar to. I knew that it was another woman speaking in Spanish, but I did not know who the person was.
I dragged my heavy, sleepy eyes and adjusted them to the clock on the wall. It was 7:40 in the morning.
There was a brief pause on their side for some reason and I remained still, but they continued again.
“Y como esta la familia, Ma? Y mi hermano?” Maribel said, asking about her family and brother.
“Están muy bien, Maribel. David está creciendo muy rápido,” the mother’s voice said with a bit of laughter. “Ya está en el quinto grado. ¿Oyes, has hablado con los doctores? Ya te dijeron cuando te puedes salir del hospital? Ya a pasado mucho tiempo desde que entraste aquí. Casi dos meses ya, Maribel.” Her mother asked her when she would be able to leave Chickadee, and she also revealed that Maribel had been here for two months now.
“Sí, los doctores están pensando que me puedo ir en la semana que viene. Cuando ellos deciden qué día, el hospital te va a llamar, pero si me dicen a mi primero, tenga la seguridad de que voy a llamar a usted primero. ” Maribel said, I was caught by surprise. She never told me that she was going to leave next week.
Stand Tall My Sweet Dandelion Girl Page 14