Papi was strict about homework. “No cartoons until you’re done with math,” he’d tell me. I’d sit there, fumbling with my eraser and fidgeting at our kitchen table, my mind wandering off to anything but multiplication tables. I envied those kids who could zip through their assignments. Why can’t I be like that? I’d think. Why can’t I concentrate? Years later as a young adult, I made two discoveries. First, I am dyslexic with numbers and words. And second, I have attention deficit disorder. This is terrible for anyone, but even more so for a person on my career path. My brain is like a busy bee—continuously on the move, rarely ever quiet. That explains many of the challenges I had. As hard as I tried, I could. Not. Seem. To. Focus. My family’s in-limbo status didn’t make that any easier. And my parents couldn’t afford to get me help or the proper tutoring.
My first school was great. Mami got me into Ohrenberger Elementary in West Roxbury; Eva, Sabrina’s mother, recommended it to my mother. Sabrina, who’s a year older than I am, was already enrolled there. The campus was clean, the curriculum solid. Starting in kindergarten, Mami thought it was a good idea to put me in bilingual classes. She wanted me to learn to read and write in both English and Spanish. To this day, I don’t think that was right for me. Yes, I got a little of both languages, but I never really mastered either of them. Thanks, Mom. I did, however, discover my first musical love: jazz. Around third grade, my chorus teacher introduced my classmates and me to legends such as Louis Armstrong, Billie Holiday, Dizzy Gillespie, and Ella Fitzgerald. I was hooked from the opening note. I’d found my thing, which is good, because fractions certainly weren’t it.
Ohrenberger was one thing; the public schools around Roxbury were another. Standardized test scores were often below the national average. The classrooms were understaffed and overcrowded. The facilities were old and falling apart. There were seldom enough books or pencils to go around. Using her own money, my sixth-grade English teacher once purchased a batch of spiral notebooks. “Here,” she said, handing one to each of those who needed them. “Write out your vocabulary words in these tonight.”
I lived within blocks of Washington Irving, my middle school; so did Sabrina, Gabriela, and Dana, who attended with me. Following the final bell, the four of us would meet up and walk home. “Stick together,” our mothers often reminded us. “And steer clear of trouble.” We knew the drill: We were supposed to have each other’s backs if anything wild went down. And on a Wednesday toward the end of my sixth-grade year, something did.
“Wanna come over to my place?” Sabrina asked as we strolled along the sidewalk, loaded down with our backpacks.
“My father’s not gonna let me,” I said. “I’ve got a ton of history.”
“Yeah, me too,” Gabriela added. “I need to get home.”
Just as we turned onto my street, these two Puerto Rican girls rolled up on their bikes. One had on Timberland boots and thick black eyeliner circling her eyes; the other wore Daisy Dukes and a tank; she had a tattoo of a cross on her right boob. I recognized them from campus. The one in the booty shorts glared at me.
“What’s up, wetback?” she sneered.
I took a step back. So did Sabrina and Dana. Gabriela didn’t budge. Of the three of us, she’d always been the tough cookie. The strong one. The girl who tolerated zero bull. I peeked over at Gabriela in hopes she’d take the lead. She did.
“Dude, why don’t you leave her alone?” she snapped. “You don’t even know us.”
“Shut your mouth!” spat the girl. “All three of you need to take your flat, ugly faces back to Colombia!”
My hands shook as I clutched onto the padded straps of my backpack. (Disclaimer: I’ve always been a bit of a pussy.) I didn’t know what they wanted with us, but I wasn’t about to stick around and find out. All at once, I hauled off down the street, the blood coursing through my veins as I sprinted. “Let’s get outta here!” I shouted. Sabrina and Gabriela were right on my heels. We didn’t stop to look back until we’d reached my front door. Thankfully, the girls had vanished.
That wasn’t the first time we’d been bullied. In our area, which was mostly filled with Puerto Ricans and Dominicans, anybody who wasn’t in one of those two groups was usually considered a dirty immigrant. We were spat on. Cursed at. Looked down upon. And perceived as unattractive because of our indigenous Indian features. I know, I know: Other Latino groups look similar. That goes to show how stupid discrimination is.
“We can’t let them scare us,” said Gabriela, out of breath. Too late for that: I was already shaken up. Once inside, I didn’t tell my father what happened. Instead, I buried my head in my history book and did my best to forget the incident. With everything in me, I wished that we lived someplace else. I wanted to be a “normal” child. I wanted to be like the teenagers on Saved by the Bell. Their biggest “problems” were whether they’d get asked to the prom, not whether they’d be jumped by some ’round-the-way girls or have their parents deported. For the remainder of that year, whenever I spotted the two badasses in the cafeteria, I ducked out and avoided eye contact. I couldn’t risk a beat-down, especially during my dad’s work with the lawyer. Rule numero uno: The best way to win a fight was to sidestep it in the first place.
As tough as my middle school was, it did have one major thing going for it—a slew of extracurricular activities. You name it, I was involved. In fifth grade, I joined the basketball team and chorus. In sixth, I became a cheerleader. I was fit—probably the only time I ever had a six-pack. As if my schedule wasn’t already crazy-busy enough, I also signed up for Peer Leadership Program during seventh grade. I, along with a group of others chosen by the faculty, attended training sessions on topics such as drug prevention and safe sex. Once a week, we then went around and talked to our classmates about how they could protect themselves. I loved it. For the first time, I felt useful, like I had a voice. A purpose. A contribution to make. Something that set me apart from all these bullies and simple-minded hoes.
Deep down, I somehow knew I was better than my environment, that I was capable of rising above the riffraff. In the hours before sunup, as Papi prepared for his first shift, I lay awake on my bed, imagining a magical future that was a universe away from my own. I could picture it: Me at center stage, a golden spotlight shining down on my beaming face. A crowd roaring with applause. The lush-velvet curtains rising, then lowering, then rising again for another encore.
The older I got, the dimmer those fantasies became. Could a brown girl from an immigrant family ever find a place on the Great White Way? It didn’t seem likely. Only one in a million girls reaches a dream like that, but in some small corner of my soul, I secretly believed I could be that girl. Yet before the desire could completely take root, my family’s circumstances would jolt me awake. In the space of a few seconds, the dream would move from feeling impossible, then possible, then back to improbable, and even nuts.
My mother clearly thought I had what it took to go far. “You’re a shining star!” she’d proclaim each time I regaled her and my dad with a new song. When I was little, Mami’s encouragement made me blush and giggle. But starting at around twelve, her words began to sting. “You don’t know anything!” I screamed at her one night after she’d announced I was destined for Hollywood. “Stop saying that!” My mother, stunned by my reaction, just stared at me.
Mami hadn’t changed; it was me who was shifting. I yearned to become a singer, to find my way into the limelight, as much as my parents wanted that on my behalf. And yet the sheer improbability of that desire—the reality of “nuestra situación”—made it painful to linger on such a long shot. So I placed a tight lid over the top of my dreams. I kept them concealed, only to be acknowledged in the dim light ahead of daybreak. I pretended not to want what I wanted, mostly because I feared I’d end up disappointed.
* * *
My brother became more and more disillusioned. For most of my childhood, I looked on helplessly as my parents did all they knew how to do to get Eric on track. They pre
ssed him to focus on his courses. They grounded him when he came in past his curfew. And at one point, when things got really heated between Papi and him, my mother asked my aunt and uncle in New Jersey to intervene by talking with my brother. None of it helped. He continued to feel down—he’d lock himself in his room and sleep for hours at a time—and my parents didn’t have the cash to send him to a counselor. Truth is, among low-wage earners busting their tails to make the rent, one’s feelings are seldom discussed or acknowledged. Emotional wellness is a First World luxury.
A year after leaving school, Eric discovered that he and his longtime girlfriend were expecting. That didn’t go over so well with either of their families. Gloria’s parents thought the two weren’t ready for a baby; Mami and Papi agreed. But Eric and Gloria had made their choice. Not only did they intend to stay together, they also wanted a child.
A few months into her pregnancy, Gloria moved in with us. Did I mention our quarters were cramped? Well, with five people in a teensy two-bedroom, our place became particularly crowded. And tense. Which led to arguments between Eric and my parents. Which led to bickering, usually about money, between Eric and Gloria. Which led me into deeper fantasies about a home in Wellesley and a life far away from the friction.
In June 1996, the newest member of our family arrived. Eric drove home in his Toyota with Gloria and their sweet newborn. The whole way, my brother could hardly keep his eyes on the road as he glanced over his shoulder to check on his princess in the backseat. When the car pulled into the driveway, Mami and I hurried out front; for the previous hour, I’d been hounding my mother about when we could expect them. Gloria unhooked the carrier from the car-seat base and carefully balanced it over my brother’s arm. The baby, swaddled in a soft pink blanket, had her lids tightly shut.
“What’s her name?” I asked, peeking over the carrier’s edge.
“It’s Erica,” Eric told me. He leaned down and pecked her on the forehead, which made her stir a bit and open her eyes. “Isn’t she cute?”
I nodded. She looked like a living doll. Rosy cheeks. Delicate lips. A bald head. She was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen.
In the months following Erica’s birth, Eric stepped up like never before; his new role as a father gave him motivation. He landed work painting houses and mowing lawns. Rather than hanging out late with his buddies, he spent time with Gloria and the baby. In fact, their relationship began going well enough that they tied the knot. Soon after, Gloria began filing the papers to sponsor Eric for citizenship. With a green card, my brother could look for an above-the-table job and bring in a minimum-wage income. They knew it would take months and perhaps even years to complete the process. But they’d be on their way to financial stability.
Or at least that was the plan until my brother stumbled off course. Maybe he started feeling blue again. Maybe he was discouraged about how little cash he could piece together to provide for his family. Whatever the trigger, his old behaviors returned: Staying out until the wee hours of the morning. Disappearing with no explanation. Challenging my parents’ authority. On the evenings when he was home, he and Gloria quarreled constantly. “I need you to help out more with the baby!” I once overheard her telling him. “And where were you last night?” Their marriage became so rocky that Gloria and the baby went to live with her parents in Hyde Park.
At that point, my brother went from despondent to broken. He stopped working. He barricaded himself in his room. When he did drag himself out to go to the fridge, he and Papi got into it; as usual, Mami tried to referee. That was enough to keep a lid on the tension for a few days—until the next brawl rolled around.
* * *
I am a daddy’s girl. Through and through. Mami and I are tight as well, but Papi and I have always had this special connection. For starters, we’re both ultrasensitive. When my aunt came from Colombia for a visit, she brought some pictures of my dad as a kid. “You were kinda ugly,” I said jokingly to my father—and I truly was pulling his leg. He was so offended that he snatched the photos from me.
“I’m sorry, Papi!” I shouted, shocked that he was reacting so strongly. “I promise I won’t say it anymore!” I knew I’d hurt his feelings; they always were so easily hurt. Papi was also a softie in other ways: I’d catch him tearing up during one of those World Vision commercials with the starving children in it. He’d try to keep his emotions under cover by claiming he had a cold, but his “sniffles” were tears. He’s almost as easily moved as I am—which is saying a lot, since I cry over anything and everything.
In the evenings when my dad came through the front door, we had our own ritual: “Come here, mi amorcito,” he’d say, sweeping me into his strong embrace. “How was your day?” I remember how he smelled after work—like a factory—and for some reason, I liked the scent. On the occasional weekend when my father was off, he’d take me down the street to get ice cream. With my vanilla cone sloping to one side and dripping under the sun’s heat, we’d walk together to the park or library. Even when I reached that age when most children can’t be bothered with their parents (eleven and up), I hung out with my papi. In his presence, I felt understood. Seen. Validated. Safe.
Days at the coast with Papi were amazing. We’d get up early, pack some snacks, load up our station wagon, and set out on the hour-long drive to Nantasket Beach, southeast of the city. Some weekends, Mami went with us or I’d invite my friends along; other times, it was Papi and me. Once there, we’d hit the promenade and wander toward the Paragon Carousel. By fifth grade I’d grown a few inches, but he’d nonetheless hoist me onto the back of a horse and stand at my side as I spun around in delight.
Down by the shore, we’d build sand castles and watch the waves wash them away. “Papi, come in the water!” I’d plead. “Not today,” he’d say; because of the issue with his ear, he couldn’t get water in it. “Please!” I’d beg; if I persisted, he’d pull some cotton balls from his pocket, stuff them into his ear canals, and tiptoe into the water. “I’ll stay in for a sec,” he’d tell me—but twenty minutes later, we’d still be splashing and laughing our butts off.
Even once he got out and left me to play on my own, he’d yell directions from his beach chair. “Don’t go too deep,” he’d caution. “El mar es traicionero—the ocean is deceiving! A wave can come and knock you over without warning!” I’d test the boundaries by wading in up to my thighs, the entire time glancing over my shoulder at my dad. But I’d stop short of diving in all the way. If Papi had to save me, I worried about him getting water in that bad ear.
Upon returning home, my mother would wash a bucket’s worth of sand from my hair and set out fresh clothes for me. Papi, worn out from our adventure, would doze off on the couch as Mami brushed my hair a million times to get out the tangles. “Wake up, mijo,” she’d whisper to my dad when the sun had gone down. “Time for bed.” Before moving into their bedroom, Papi would lean down and put his forehead against mine. I’d raise my chin so he could tickle my neck with his stubble. “Good night, little girl,” he’d whisper. “Now it’s time to sleep. Es la hora de dormir.” It was the kind of day I wished could go on forever. No tension between my parents. No drama or fighting about Eric. Just perfect.
Papi and Mami made every celebration special—and Lord knows we had a lot of those. Birthdays were particularly big in our house, and for my tenth, I had a luau. The party was filled with flamingos, grass skirts, and pineapple—lots and lots of pineapple. All my besties were there—Sabrina, Dana, and Gabriela. It was everything! My father came in with my birthday cake. My face lit up as brightly as the row of tall, flickering candles my father had placed on top. “Make a wish!” he urged, standing over me with his Kodak. I drew in a breath, prayed that my family would never be separated (and, of course, that I really would one day become a shining star), and blew out the flames.
As summer gave way to autumn and stretched into the holiday season, Papi decked our halls with twinkling white lights and a pine tree. “Have you been naughty
or nice this year, chibola?” he’d ask teasingly as he balanced the glistening star on the tree’s top branch.
“Nice!” I’d yell, laughing. In the days leading up to Christmas, we gathered with other families to observe La Novena, a Colombian holiday and Catholic tradition. As we made our way from one house to the next through a winter wonderland, I stuck close to Papi’s side. “You okay, hon?” he’d whisper, his breath so cold I could see it. “I’m good,” I’d reassure him. Indoors, in the warmth, my dad and I stood hand in hand as neighbors recited scriptures and sang along to the sweet villancicos of “Mi Burrito Sabanero” and “Tutaina.” There, swaying in our friends’ living room and clenching my father’s palm, I knew for sure I was cherished. I still know it.
My papi. My haven. My anchor. The daddy whose arms I rested in, whose shoulder I leaned on. The father who worked so tirelessly to provide me with not a perfect childhood, but one far happier than his own.
On a cold winter day seemingly a lifetime later, the man I love so much returned to visit the lawyer. Among the binders, legal forms, and citizenship applications plastering the attorney’s desk, he’d perhaps find a path forward. A safe passage out of hiding. A passport from the underworld. The next chapter of our story.
My first communion, laughing at Gaby’s imitation of one of the church ladies urging us to blow out our communion candles. (Apaguen la luz, apaguen la luz.)
CHAPTER 4
The Good Girl
I always know it’s Sunday because I wake up feeling apologetic. That’s one cool thing about being Catholic … it’s a multifaceted experience. If you lose the faith, chances are you’ll keep the guilt, so it isn’t as if you’ve been skunked altogether.
In the Country We Love Page 4