I wished that I could go to school with Mario to escape our too-quiet house.
Slowly, Laura had regained her eyesight, and over many months, she began to play. One day I put on a record, and she started to move around to the music. “¡Laura está bailando!” I called to my mother. Laura is dancing!
Mami smiled at the sight, but she wasn’t as excited as I thought she would be. Still, Laura’s progress filled me with hope. It was a long time before I saw that she could no longer learn new things the way she had in the past. Instead of chattering and imitating me and Mario, she lagged behind other children her age, walking unsteadily when they ran, giving one-word answers when other toddlers spoke in full sentences. Her life now would be very different than if she hadn’t gotten sick.
My mother understood this already, and that’s why she was so sad. But I was still only five years old, and I kept hoping that one day we would all wake up and things would be as they were before, with our bright, busy little sister and our happy parents—and a singing Mami. Every night for years, I prayed that in the morning Laura would wake up to her old self and our family would be happy again.
In the meantime, Mario went to school every day and I stayed home. As he progressed through first and then second grade, he brought home harder books to read. He told stories about his teachers and the friends he was making in school.
By now, my lessons with Hermana Díaz were the highlight of my days. I loved walking through the door of our makeshift classroom and sitting down to an hour of sounding out words, doing simple addition, and practicing my handwriting. Best of all, I liked speaking to Hermana Díaz in English, having her ask me a question and knowing the right words to answer her.
Still, while I had come to love my teacher, and I knew she cared about me, I couldn’t wait until August, when I would start first grade at Bradley Elementary School. I was in a hurry to catch up to Mario and excited to learn new things.
One spring day, my brother brought home a piece of paper. His second-grade teacher said the paper had information about a way for children my age to go to school, even before they were old enough for first grade. Mario couldn’t tell Mami anything more, and the paper was printed in English, so my mother had to ask a neighbor what it said.
The neighbor told Mami it was about a pilot program called Head Start. The program was for children like me, who were almost old enough for school. It would take place in the summer at Bradley Elementary School and would include meals, medical checkups, and lessons to prepare us for first grade, all of it free.
After our neighbor translated the paper, she told Mami not to enroll me in Head Start. She said we didn’t know enough about it, and besides, it was only for kids from poor families. The meningitis outbreak had happened shortly after children from our neighborhood had been given a sugar cube with a few drops of medicine on it. The medicine was called a “polio vaccine.” Polio was a terrible disease that attacked many children in those days. The polio vaccine was new, and no one was sure how well it would work.
No one could say why the meningitis outbreak had happened only in our part of Las Cruces, but the result was a general suspicion of government programs. Who knew if Head Start would really help us? It was only gradually over the years that people in our neighborhood realized that the polio vaccine had worked—there were no new cases of that terrible disease—but the suspicion remained.
This neighbor wasn’t the only person we knew who was wary of Head Start. My mother soon learned that most of our neighbors would not enroll their children.
But Mami was thinking about the long, hot summer with all three of her children home every day. She thought this program seemed almost too good to be true. Without telling anyone except Hermana Díaz, she decided to enroll me.
I loved my early-morning time with my mother, when she would braid my hair and I had her all to myself. One day, while she was brushing my hair in front of the mirror in her bedroom, Mami asked me if I would like to go to a new program at Mario’s school. She said it wasn’t for Mario—he would stay home with Laura. It would be just me going to school that summer.
School in the summer! I didn’t even have to wait for August to go to Bradley Elementary School. In the mirror, I could see myself grinning, and Mami couldn’t help smiling back at me.
On the first day of Head Start, I walked hand in hand with my mother as she carried Laura, crossing the sandy lots filled with sagebrush and tumbleweeds, on the way to Mario’s school—but now it was my school too.
In the lobby of the school, I saw other mothers with children who looked about my age, all sitting in chairs and talking quietly in Spanish. The children were wearing their best clothes, as if they were in church—the girls in pretty dresses, their hair braided neatly, and the boys in pressed pants and button-down shirts. My mother found a lady named Mrs. Davenport, who seemed to be in charge.
I couldn’t help staring. Mrs. Davenport seemed different from any woman I knew. Unlike Mami and the other mothers who waited with their children, she had fair skin and light brown hair in a style I’d seen on television—she was Anglo. She looked elegant to me, like Jacqueline Kennedy, the wife of President Kennedy. She was taller than my mother and wore a sleeveless, close-fitting dress with a belt.
Even though Mrs. Davenport didn’t speak Spanish, my mother was able to tell her in broken English that I was her daughter and I was there to enroll in Head Start. Mrs. Davenport bent down to gaze at me with the bluest eyes I had ever seen.
“What is your name?” Mrs. Davenport asked me. I was proud that I knew the answer.
“Sylvia Elia Acevedo Monge,” I answered confidently.
Mrs. Davenport shook her head. “No, that is too many names,” she said. Confused, I glanced at my mother. I could tell she was also puzzled when she repeated my answer: “Sylvia Elia Acevedo Monge.”
Mrs. Davenport asked my father’s last name and my mother answered, “Acevedo.”
Mrs. Davenport turned to me. “Then your name is Sylvia Acevedo,” she said. I looked at her, not knowing what to say. I felt crushed, as if a part of me had been wadded up and discarded along with the two names that I wasn’t allowed to use. Elia was my middle name and Monge was my mother’s last name, and I was proud of them both.
Mrs. Davenport didn’t even notice how I was feeling. She took us to a table and introduced us to the lady sitting there. My mother sat down with Laura on her lap, and the other lady helped her fill out some papers as I held tightly to Mami’s free hand. I looked around at the other mothers and children who were sitting and waiting.
Then Mrs. Davenport called out to the children to follow her. When everyone in the room stood up, she smiled and shook her head. “No, only the children,” she said. But none of the mothers would let their children go. At last she took all of us, mothers and children, to the classroom.
When Mrs. Davenport opened the door, I gasped. Inside was a classroom like something I thought existed only on television. It was a whole room filled with toys, mats, books, easels, and art supplies, all in bright colors. Oh my, it was wonderful.
Now all of the children were fidgeting, as eager as I was to go inside. I waved goodbye to my mother and sister, barely noticing when they left along with the other mothers and babies and younger children who weren’t old enough for Head Start. I was too busy exploring, picking up the new toys, the crayons and paper, the bright books.
After a few minutes, Mrs. Davenport had us sit down on the rug. Using a mixture of English and gestures, she told us that she would call our names and we would have to say “Here.” When it was my turn, Mrs. Davenport called out, “Sylvia Acevedo!”
I answered “Here” out loud, just as she had told us to, but inside my head, I was reciting the rest of my name to myself: Sylvia Elia Acevedo Monge.
Even though I wasn’t allowed to use my full name, I had a good first day at Head Start. We colored a picture: a big circle, and our teacher taught us how to add other circles to it—a head, arms, and legs
—to make it into a person. We could use any color crayon we wanted, and I chose red. Mrs. Davenport taught us the alphabet song, and I was proud that I already knew all the letters. She read a book to us in English with lots of pictures, and I understood most of the words. We played with the toys, and we went outside and ran around in a yard.
At home that night, I asked my father why I couldn’t use my full name at school. He explained that things were different in the United States, and I would soon understand that it wasn’t just English that I was going to learn, but also a new way of life.
Papá’s answer confused me. In spite of what I had learned from Hermana Díaz, I was still too little to understand that even though we lived in a neighborhood made up of families like ours, who visited relatives across the border or had other strong ties to Mexico, we did live in the United States. I loved our close-knit family here in Las Cruces, including Tía Angélica and the Barbas, and our neighborhood and cultural traditions. I loved my Abuelito Mario in El Paso, Texas, and my Abuelita Leonor in Mexico. I didn’t mind learning to read and speak English, but I didn’t want anything else about our lives to change.
* * *
Even though I didn’t like what Mrs. Davenport had done to my name, I soon came to adore my new teacher. She greeted every child with a smile and knew all our names by the second day. Like Mami, she loved to sing, and she taught us new songs in English. As for my name, I had learned that in the United States, I was Sylvia Acevedo. But when I traveled to Mexico, I embraced my full name, Sylvia Elia Acevedo Monge.
Thanks to Hermana Díaz, I was one of the few children in my Head Start class who understood any English at all. Mrs. Davenport quickly realized that I already knew the alphabet and my colors and that I recognized common shapes, like circles, triangles, and squares. All of this was usually taught in kindergarten, but with no kindergarten at Bradley Elementary School in those days, we would start first grade in the fall and be expected to have these skills.
While I spoke English better than most of the other children and could even read a few words, I wasn’t too interested in arts and crafts—and I wasn’t too good at them either. I wasn’t like my brother, Mario, who loved to draw and paint. I never understood how he could just sit there with his model planes or drawings, spending so much time on the tiniest details. I preferred to read or play outside, not to be stuck inside doing arts and crafts.
On the Friday of our first week at Head Start, Mrs. Davenport announced that we’d have show-and-tell after lunch, and everyone could show off the projects they’d created with crayons, scissors, and glue. When it was my turn, I shook my head. I was a little envious of the students who proudly shared their work, but I didn’t think any of my projects were special enough to share with the others.
Afterward, Mrs. Davenport took me aside. “Sylvia, next Friday, when we’re doing show-and-tell, I want you to talk about a book,” she said. Then she challenged me. “This is a book for first graders. I’d like you to read it and present it to the other children.”
The book Mrs. Davenport gave me was about a girl named Jane and her brother, Dick. I had a brother! The children had a dog called Spot and a little sister, Sally. Mario and I had had a dog named Manchas, which is Spanish for “spot,” and a little sister named Laura! I could read some of the book by myself, but I didn’t understand all of the words.
When school was over, I took the book home and showed it to my mother. Mario was outside with his friends, so I couldn’t get him to help me read it. My mother tried to help me, but some of the English words were unfamiliar to her. At last my father got home.
“Papá, Papá, Papá,” I said, eager for his attention. Now I could ask him about the words I didn’t understand. Papá was tired after a long day at work, but he answered my questions patiently while Mami cooked supper.
All week long, I practiced reading the book. My mother asked me to explain the story to her. When I answered her in Spanish, she said, “Dímelo en inglés.” I had to tell her about the story in English.
I had to think about what my mother was asking. She didn’t just want me to read the story aloud. Instead, I had to use my own words to describe in English what was happening. After I did that, she made me explain what I’d just said to her in Spanish. Then she made me tell her what I liked about the story.
This went on for a few days. Each afternoon, I presented the story to my mother, and I’d try to get to the point more quickly or tell her something new about it. I had to think of new English words to use and then translate them into Spanish.
By the time I had talked about the book to Mami’s satisfaction, I had a lot of confidence reading and talking in English, and I wasn’t nervous about speaking in front of the class. I was excited!
On Friday, our class sat in a circle on the rug. I kept my hands tightly around my book as my classmates held up their paper creations: crowns, paintings, and paper dolls. Then Mrs. Davenport called my name. Not scared at all, I told my classmates about Dick and Jane and their dog, Spot. I explained that “Spot” is the same as “Manchas” in Spanish. I talked about their sister, Sally, and the funny things they all did. I told them why I liked the book, and I read the first few pages aloud. Everyone laughed when I read about Spot running away with the teddy bear. Everyone was looking at me and listening to what I had to say—in English!
Before I went home that day, Mrs. Davenport gave me another book to read, with more stories about Dick and Jane and Sally. The next Friday, I talked about that book in show-and-tell. Each week after that, I took home another book, reading it and telling Mami all about it. Then I presented the book at show-and-tell. I was proud that I could read and talk in English in front of the class, just like Mrs. Davenport, and as time went on, I found I was never nervous when I had to speak in front of a group.
* * *
Now that I was learning to read complete books, I wanted to go to the library with Papá and my brother. Mario had been borrowing books on Papá’s card, but Mrs. Davenport said children could get their own library cards and check out books themselves.
I thought Mami would like it if I had more books and learned to read faster, so one day I asked her if I could have my own library card.
To my surprise, Mami didn’t say yes right away. She also didn’t say no. Instead, Mami told me that I could have a library card—if I saved up five dollars. She explained that Papá was worried that if I somehow damaged any of the books I borrowed, the library would charge us to replace them. That’s why I needed to have money saved up, in case I lost or damaged a book.
Mami didn’t say anything about Mario, who was still checking out books on Papá’s library card. She didn’t say he needed to save any money. But I knew it would be a waste of time to ask her about this. Sometimes the rules were just different for me and Mario. In the meantime, I needed to save five dollars!
I already had a few coins in my bedroom. I showed them to Mami, asking her if this was enough money. “That’s seventeen cents,” she told me. “See, one dime is ten cents, a nickel is five cents, and you have two pennies. Ten plus five plus two is seventeen. One dollar is one hundred pennies.” I hadn’t known that.
That Saturday, Papá went shopping without us in Juárez and brought home a ceramic cat, black and shiny, with a slot in its back. “It’s a bank,” he explained. “You put your money in here, and before long, you’ll have five dollars.”
Papá didn’t bring home a bank for Mario, only me. That puzzled me a little, because it was more usual that Mario got privileges that I didn’t get. After all, he was the oldest—and a boy.
I carefully slid my coins into the bank, hearing them clink against the bottom. I couldn’t see anything through the slot, but when I picked up the bank, I could hear the money jingling inside.
Suddenly, I had an eagle eye for loose change. Every time I went outdoors, I kept my gaze trained on the ground and was often rewarded with a penny, a nickel, and once even a quarter.
Not far away from our
home was a tiendita, a little store that sold basic food and other items. Mami would sometimes send Mario or me there for milk or bread, and when she did, she’d let us buy candy or a soda with the change. Now I began to put aside some of the change for my bank. I’d buy a piece of penny candy, but I’d always hold back a coin or two.
I found money in other places as well. I would regularly feel under the sofa cushions, and if a coin had slipped out of Papá’s pocket while he was watching TV, I’d seize it before he noticed. Whenever we passed a pay telephone, I’d race to stick my finger in the coin return slot, hoping to find a dime left there by the last person to make a call.
Now when I deposited coins into my bank, I could hear them hitting one another instead of the ceramic bottom. The bank felt heavy when I shook it, and I thought the cat looked pleased that I was feeding it so much money.
I felt very grown-up when I asked my mother for a dollar bill as my birthday present in August. She seemed surprised that I was asking for that and not a new toy, but she agreed. I remember folding the dollar carefully and pushing it through the slot. I shook the bank, but Mami said it was still not heavy enough. So I kept searching for coins to slide into the cat’s back.
While I saved my money, I continued going to Head Start. And when Head Start ended, I started first grade at Bradley Elementary School.
Mario was in third grade, and he and his classmates sometimes made fun of the first graders. I didn’t care. I was going to school, and because of Hermana Díaz and Mrs. Davenport, I was one of the best readers in my class. I loved everything about my school—the wide, cheerful hallways decorated with student work, the purposeful routines, the stories and songs we learned in English, and the games we played to help us learn our numbers and how to add and subtract.
My first-grade teacher was Mrs. Doggett. She had also been Mario’s first-grade teacher, so I knew she was nice and that she’d told my brother he was very smart. I wanted to do well in her class so she could tell me I was smart, just like Mario.
Path to the Stars Page 5