by Ruth Behar
“Now let’s see if I can beat the other boys at tag. They’re really fast,” he says, sounding worried.
“You will, Izzie, you will.”
And he scurries off to “the back,” an alleyway behind our row of buildings where the boys chase each other for hours and hours.
Blue and pink chalk in hand, I claim the sidewalk in front of our building for my hopscotch board. I bend down to sketch out the squares for the game and add flowers at the four corners.
When I look up from drawing, Danielle is there.
“What a pretty hopscotch you’re making, Ruthie!”
Danielle is still looking so stylish in her fancy school clothes. Isn’t she worried she’ll get them dirty? Won’t her mother scold her then? But what makes me the most jealous is that Danielle is still wearing her black go-go boots! And I have on my old sneakers, with the holes forming around my big toes.
I’ve been begging Mami for a pair of go-go boots ever since seeing the blond lady on TV wearing them and singing that song “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.” And I can’t stop humming that catchy song:
These boots are made for walkin’
And that’s just what they’ll do
One of these days these boots
Are gonna walk all over you!
Now Danielle, looking so grown-up in her black go-go boots, announces, “I’ll go first!”
Ava and June, who live in the building next door, come to play with us. They are plain American girls. They only speak English. They never dream about a lost beautiful island. They are surprised when they hear me talking Spanish with Mami.
“Why do you talk another language?” they ask me.
“Because we’re from Cuba, that’s why.”
“Oh,” they reply, and don’t know what else to say.
They stare at Danielle as she hops from square to square on the hopscotch in her go-go boots, light as air.
I’m not light like Danielle, but I am strong, and I get two squares farther up on the hopscotch.
Danielle doesn’t mind at all. She smiles and says, “Very nice, Ruthie! You are excellent at hopscotch! You are Miss Hopscotch Queen of Queens!”
She says the word “hopscotch,” extending the shhhh sound at the end of the word with a French accent and it sounds glamorous.
Ava and June take turns after Danielle and me. The four of us keep on playing one round after another. I can throw the stone farther and leap higher than Danielle, Ava, and June. Yes, yes! I am Miss Hopscotch Queen of Queens! Yippee!
We don’t stop playing until the sky grows dark and loses all its blueness.
I’m happy being Miss Hopscotch Queen of Queens.
But I still wish I had go-go boots.
“Guess what, Danielle,” I say.
“What, Ruthie?”
“I’m moving to your class on Monday.”
“Really? C’est magnifique!”
Those words just roll off Danielle’s tongue. Then she glances at her watch. She’s the only girl I know who wears a watch and the wristband is a gleaming gold bracelet.
“Excuse me, my friends, I must go. My mother is expecting me for dinner.”
She skips away in her black go-go boots and halfway down the block she turns around and smiles at me and says, “Bye, chérie, bye, bye.”
stop crying about Cuba
When Mami sees me all sweaty from playing hopscotch, she shakes her head.
“Ruti, wash your face and hands, and put on a clean dress. Then come help me with dinner.”
“Danielle wore her nice clothes to play hopscotch and she had on new go-go boots!”
Mami frowns and says, “Mi niña, don’t start that again. You know we can’t afford go-go boots.” Mami is always reminding me how hard Papi works to pay the rent.
We just have one bedroom in our apartment, and Mami and Papi gave it to Izzie and me. They got a Castro convertible sofa for themselves that doubles as a bed. Every night Mami pulls open the sofa and makes the bed, tucking the sheets into the wire frame that scratches her hands. And every morning, she turns it back into a sofa, folding it up like an accordion. She sighs when she opens and closes the sofa.
Mami misses Cuba, where we had an apartment with two bedrooms and a balcony that looked out at the ocean and let in the breezes and the sunshine. She misses standing on the balcony and lowering the basket down with a rope for the peddler to fill with pineapples and coconuts. She misses the people, who smile at you in the street, even if they don’t know who you are. And she misses the tall palm trees that tickle the sky. Now she and Papi have to sleep in an uncomfortable sofa called Castro, the name of the man who stole their country from them.
Sometimes Mami’s sadness gets so bad she can’t hold back her tears, but she mostly cries when Papi isn’t home. He gets angry when she cries. I want to hear Mami laugh again like she used to when we lived in Cuba.
In the bedroom I notice my rag doll is missing. She usually sits on my bed, on top of my pillow.
I run back to the kitchen. “Mami, where’s my doll from Cuba?”
“It was falling apart. Didn’t you notice the stuffing had come out and was getting all over everything?”
“But where is it?”
“I threw it in the garbage.”
“Mami, why? That was my doll from Cuba.”
“We’ll get you a new doll when we have a little money. Now hurry up and get changed so you can help me.”
“Mami, that was so mean! You should have asked me first.”
I knew I was getting too old to go to sleep cuddling a doll, but with her in my arms I felt that Cuba wasn’t so far away. Now she is gone and I feel like I could cry. But I want to be strong, not weak and sad like Mami, so I try to cheer myself up.
I decide to put on my frilly dress that has layers of lace. It’s the dress I wore when we left Cuba a year ago.
I dig around in the closet but can’t find it.
“Mami, where’s my dress from Cuba?”
“I gave that dress to Sylvia, so your cousin Lily can get some use out of it.”
“But that was my favorite dress!” I scream.
“Don’t yell at me! And don’t be selfish. You know that dress didn’t fit you anymore.”
“That’s not true! I could squeeze into it. I just had to hold my breath.”
“You kept tearing the seams and I got tired of stitching them back together.”
“Mami, why are you taking away all my things from Cuba?”
I feel the tears trying to come out of my eyes. But I make them stop.
“Ruti, stop arguing. You’re wasting time. Papi will be here any minute. Dinner has to be ready when he comes in the door.”
Mami has cooked a big pot of arroz con pollo, the rice yellow and soupy with pieces of chicken mixed in. She scoops it out spoonful by spoonful and creates a huge mound on a long oval platter.
She sees me watching her and reaches over and hugs me. “Ruti, I’m sorry I threw out your doll and gave away your dress from Cuba. But I’m trying to forget Cuba. Do you understand?”
“I guess, Mami.” I sigh.
Even when Mami does something wrong, I can’t stay angry with her for long because I feel sorry for her. That big word I had to spell today to get out of the dumb class is how I feel about Mami. I am always trying to commiserate with her.
“Can I decorate the arroz con pollo?”
“Sí, mi niña.”
I take slices of red pepper Mami has roasted in the oven and green peas from a Green Giant can and arrange them on the mound of arroz con pollo. I create swirls with the peppers and circles with the peas.
As I am finishing up, Izzie walks in with his clothes all caked with mud.
“Hurry and wash your face and change out of those filthy clothes before Papi arrives!” Mami
says.
We are always afraid of upsetting Papi. So it’s a big surprise when Papi comes home with a smile on his face. He’s been to the barbershop and had his curly hair and thick mustache trimmed. What is that he’s carrying? It’s a shopping bag . . .
“For you, Ruti.”
A gift—for me! A box—could it be?
Yes! White go-go boots!
They fit just right.
“¡Gracias, Papi, gracias!”
I give him a kiss on the cheek.
He asks me to give him a hug too.
I give him a hug and say, “I love the boots, Papi. But didn’t they have black ones?”
Papi says, “Black go-go boots are for grown-up señoras. You’re a good girl. White boots are better for a good girl. Promise me you’ll always be a good girl.”
“¡Sí, Papi, sí!”
Papi pulls a small package out of his suit pocket. “And this is for Izzie.”
Izzie is so happy he rips opens the package. Inside is a Matchbox toy car, a blue Cadillac. Izzie adores playing with cars. He jumps into Papi’s arms and yells, “¡Gracias, Papi, gracias!” and kisses Papi’s cheek.
“I’m glad you like the car, mi niño, but don’t kiss me, okay? You can kiss your mami but not your papi. Men don’t kiss each other. Men shake hands.”
Papi’s good mood makes everything at home much better.
I love my go-go boots! I decide the white boots are nicer, after all. I wish I could run outside in the night and dance around in them. Because they are white boots, they would glow in the dark like two moons. I can’t wait to show them off to Danielle, Ava, and June, and all the girls at school.
“Can I wear my go-go boots now, Papi? While we eat dinner?”
“Go ahead, mi niña. Enjoy them,” Papi says, loosening his tie and taking his seat at the head of the table.
I cross my legs under the table and feel the left boot greeting the right boot. My boots have heels! Leaning back in my chair, my feet now touch the floor. And that makes me feel very grown-up.
We aren’t very religious, but today Mami bought a challah. Papi recites the Hebrew blessing and then he tears a piece of bread for each of us and says, “We are lucky to live in a free country and have this bread to eat.”
Mami brings out the arroz con pollo from the kitchen.
“Look, Papi, I decorated it!”
“Muy bien, Ruti, muy bien. I’m glad you’re helping your mother.”
Mami serves Papi first, then me and Izzie, and herself last.
But Papi won’t eat. He looks disappointed at the food on his plate.
“Rebequita, mi amor, isn’t there a chicken breast you could give me?”
“No chicken breasts today. I got drumsticks. They were cheaper.”
“But you know I don’t like dark meat.”
“I’m sorry, I thought that mixed in with the rice you would like it.”
“I’ll just eat the rice.”
“Alberto, I don’t want to say this, but Ruti didn’t need a pair of boots right now. May is almost here. And Izzie has plenty of toy cars.”
That’s all it takes for Papi’s temper to flare. He slams his fist on the table and yells, “Who are you to question my decisions? I am the man in this house! I earn the money and I can spend it as I please. You said our daughter dreamed of owning go-go boots, so I got them for her. And our little boy loves cars and I think that’s good.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do anything right,” Mami replies in a voice so small it fades away.
I feel bad for Mami, but I don’t want to give up my go-go boots. I jump up and say, “Wait! I have an idea!” I rush to the bedroom and come back with my piggy bank. It’s stuffed with pennies. “Here, look! I have money.”
“Put that away,” Papi says gruffly. “Enough talk of money.”
We finish our dinner in silence. Mami, Izzie, and I eat everything on our plates. Papi angrily picks his way through the arroz con pollo, pushing the pieces of chicken to the edge of his plate.
As she tiptoes around Papi clearing the table, Mami says, “I invited the family over for dessert. They’ll be here soon.”
“You should have asked me first,” Papi replies. “What if I don’t feel like seeing anyone right now?”
But it’s too late. The doorbell rings and there are my grandparents, Baba and Zeide. Behind them are Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Bill, who was born in the Bronx and we call el americano. And my cousins Dennis and Lily, who are twins and the same age as Izzie, and just as wild as him.
Baba and Zeide live on the third floor. Sylvia, Bill, Dennis, and Lily live on the fourth floor. They don’t have to travel far to visit us!
“¿Todos quieren un cafecito?” Mami asks, her eyes lighting up.
All the grown-ups say yes.
Mami serves the Cuban coffee in tiny cups that look like toy cups. We children can’t have any Cuban coffee. It’s too strong.
“Delicioso, Rebeca,” says Uncle Bill with his thick American accent.
Zeide reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out four Tootsie Rolls. He always carries candies in his pocket for us.
“¿Quieren caramelos, kinderle?” he asks us. Zeide was born in Russia and he mixes Spanish and Yiddish when he talks.
We all say yes and each take a Tootsie Roll from the palms of his large hands and give Zeide a hug.
Mami serves everyone thick slices of her gooey flan. The topping is made of burned sugar that tastes sweet and also a little bitter.
“Hermanita, you make the best flan of anyone I know,” Aunt Sylvia says in English, so Uncle Bill and Dennis and Lily understand, since they don’t speak Spanish. Then she adds, “Muy rico.”
Mami smiles her sad smile. “Not as good as the flan I used to make in Cuba. The sugar isn’t the same here. And the milk is so watery.”
Baba doesn’t like it when Mami complains. “Listen to me, mi hija, the flan is just as good as in Cuba. Let’s forget we ever lived there,” she says in Spanish. Then, to show off her English that she’s learning in night school, she adds, “My darling daughter, she needs to understand it is necessary to go forward, not back.”
Uncle Bill, with his booming voice, says, “Aren’t you glad you’re in a free country?”
Papi shakes his head and sighs. He tries to speak English but mixes Spanish in. “My wife no sabe appreciate that she can complain all she wants because she’s in America. Este es un país libre, the best country in the world.”
Mami wipes her tears with her embroidered Cuban handkerchief that I think is too beautiful to soil with her sadness.
I try to make things better by saying, “Guess what! Look! I have new go-go boots!”
“They’re so beautiful, Ruthie!” Lily says and turns to Aunt Sylvia. “Mommy, Mommy, I want boots just like Ruthie’s!”
“You’re too little for boots like that,” Aunt Sylvia says. “You’re only five years old. Wait till you’re older. Maybe Ruti will give you her boots when she outgrows them, like she gives you her dresses.” Aunt Sylvia winks at me. “Ruti, will you, when they’re too small for you?”
“I will, I promise! And I’ll take good care of them, so they’ll be good as new. Okay, Lily?”
Lily nods. “I guess so. But I want to grow up fast.”
“You will, sweetie,” says Uncle Bill. “Faster than you can sing ‘Skip to My Lou.’”
Then I remember I haven’t shared my good news.
“Mami, Papi, Uncle Bill, Aunt Sylvia, Baba, Zeide! Guess what! I’ve been promoted to the smart class! I’ll start on Monday. Isn’t that great?”
“Very good, Ruthie,” Uncle Bill says. “You’re really picking up English.”
“The teacher tested me with a hard word to spell—‘commiserate.’ And I got it right!”
“That is a hard word. Do you know wha
t it means?” Uncle Bill asks.
“It means to feel sorry for someone else’s bad luck.”
“That’s right, Ruthie. You are a heck of a lucky girl. You are lucky your parents brought you to America. Study hard and you’ll go far in this country.”
“Thank you, Uncle Bill.”
“Don’t thank me, honey. Thank your father for bringing you here.”
I look at Papi, who is nodding and smiling.
Then I look at Mami. Her eyes are lowered. I want to commiserate with her like I always do, but I think Papi and Uncle Bill are right. It’s time for Mami to stop crying about Cuba.
I go to Mami and put my arms around her. As I’m hugging her, I reach over and pull the handkerchief out of her hand.
“Mami, will you give this pañuelo to me? I don’t have my doll or my frilly dress anymore. I want to have something to remember Cuba.”
She whispers to me in Spanish, “Keep it, mi niña, keep it. We will both try to forget about Cuba. We’re in America now. No more tears, mi niña. Just a bright happy future.”
I see Mami smile and swallow her tears. I just hope we can live up to her brave words.
poco a poco
I beg Mami to let me go to bed wearing my go-go boots. But she says no.
The minute I wake up, though, I slip them on. Still in my pajamas, I sing:
These boots are made for walkin’
And that’s just what they’ll do.
One of these days these boots
Are gonna walk all over you!
Like the blonde on TV, I swing my arms and dance around.
Are you ready, boots?
I climb onto my bed and stand tall in my boots on top of the sheets. I jump up and down. Then I jump as high as I can and leap to the ground, landing on my feet.
Izzie comes in and yells, “What are you doing, Roofie? I’m going to tell Mami!”
“Shhh, don’t say anything.”
I show him that the bed is still clean because the boots are brand-new.
“I’m learning to dance in my boots. One day I’ll be famous. I’ll be on TV!”