Path to the Stars

by Sylvia Acevedo

  It was all very exciting, but we spent only two nights in our hotel. Although we weren’t able to buy more Olympics tickets, we visited Xochimilco, with its famous floating gardens, and the National Museum of Anthropology. When we returned to the hotel for a third night, we were told that the customer who had originally reserved our room had shown up. We would have to leave.

  The hotel staff must have felt sorry for us, because they called around and found us a room outside the city, in a facility run by nuns. We spent that night in a bedroom attic. Even though our hostesses welcomed us politely, I felt awkward as we climbed the stairs.

  The next morning, over coffee, my parents discussed what to do. It would be a long drive back to Mexico City if we wanted to see more of the Olympics, and there was no guarantee that even if Papá tried again, we’d be able to get more tickets. I could tell that Mami was angry and frustrated with Papá for not planning ahead. But I also knew that making plans just wasn’t in Papá’s nature. And Mami knew it too.

  In the end, instead of returning to the Olympics, we drove west along forested mountain roads, spent one night in Guadalajara, and then drove all the way back across the desert to Las Cruces. This time, the car behaved.

  When I returned to school after two weeks away, my classmates couldn’t believe where I’d gone. Even though I’d seen very little of the actual Olympics, they were impressed.

  We’d had a good time on our trip, even if my parents hadn’t planned it well. Things could have been a lot worse. It wasn’t until we were home that I remembered something that had happened two years earlier, when another lack of planning had almost led to disaster.

  * * *

  One cold winter morning when I was about nine, I awoke to find my mother shaking me, jerking my arm, shouting, “Wake up!” with a note of desperation in her voice. I looked at Mami, confused. My head hurt, and I wanted to go back to sleep. The sun was brighter than it usually was when Mami got us up for school. Armando was crying in Mami’s arms, and Fito was barking. Laura was holding Mami’s skirt, looking worried.

  Mami didn’t let me go back to sleep. I couldn’t seem to walk by myself, so she dragged me outside and made me lie down on the cool dew-covered grass. Laura sat down next to me, and I saw that Mario was already outside, also lying in the grass.

  I felt dizzy, and my stomach hurt. My head pounded and I was shivering, and all I wanted was to go back to sleep.

  Mami went back inside, still holding Armando, and a minute later, I saw that all the windows had been opened, even though it was the middle of winter.

  Papá was at work, and he had taken our car that day because my mother had not felt well. Mami told us that instead of waking us up after Papá left, she had fallen back asleep. She had woken up, groggy, to find Fito licking her face and barking. Her stomach hurt, and then she threw up, right on the floor. She knew something was very wrong, and that was when she woke us up.

  Whatever the problem was, Mami wasn’t going to let me or Mario miss school. She wouldn’t let us go back into the house at first, but she went inside by herself to turn off the furnace. She got our clothes and made us get dressed on the screened-in porch. Then she brought us back inside for a quick breakfast, although my stomach still hurt and I didn’t want to eat. Shaking and crying, Mami called Papá at work to tell him what had happened. Afterward, calmer, she walked us to school.

  My head felt clearer after the walk, but I still felt sick and drowsy. I sat at my desk but found I couldn’t pay attention, and my teacher asked what was wrong. When I looked down instead of answering, her expression changed to one of concern. “Sylvia, don’t you feel well?” she asked.

  I shook my head. The teacher gave me a look but left me alone. I stayed in school all day, and after a while I felt a little better.

  When we got home, a man had come to fix the furnace. “When was the last time you changed the furnace filter?” he asked.

  My mother shook her head. She had no idea.

  The man explained that if you did not change the filter regularly, a gas called carbon monoxide built up inside the house. This poisonous gas can be deadly if too much of it is inhaled. That’s what had made me—and the whole family—feel so sick all day. If Fito hadn’t made Mami wake up, we all could have died.

  By the next day, we felt fine, and I didn’t think about the episode for a long time.

  But after we returned from Mexico, with the memory of the car breakdown fresh in my mind, I remember thinking that we didn’t have to live this way. And I thought about our broken furnace two years earlier. Now I understood why some adults, such as the men who fixed our furnace or our car, had looked at my parents with pity for not knowing what to do. They knew that to live your life without getting sick or breaking down in the desert, you had to make plans and maintain your property, your house, and your car.

  Over and over in Girl Scouts, I had learned that planning ahead and doing things properly could help you get what you wanted. We sometimes talked about college in our troop meetings, and I knew that college cost money—a lot of money. Mami had helped me start a bank account, but she never reminded me to add to it. All on my own, I was using my bank account to save, because I knew I’d need to pay for college myself.

  Now I realized that I might have to be the one who did the planning ahead for my family, to make sure we never again got stranded in the desert or became sick because of a dirty furnace filter. Just as I had when I sold Girl Scout cookies to create the opportunity for adventures, I could plan ahead to keep my family safe. But I was still in sixth grade at Alameda Elementary School. It would take me some time to learn how to do this.

  * * *

  When I was little, Papá sometimes lost his temper and spanked one of us kids for misbehaving. I never thought I deserved it at the time, of course, but I knew better than to argue back when he got angry. The only child who never got a spanking was Laura. Papá was always gentle with her, even when she did something he didn’t like.

  A couple of times at night, when they were arguing, I had heard Papá hit Mami. When that happened, Mario and I would stand in the hall, listening and sobbing, not knowing what to do. One time, overwhelmed with despair and shame, we walked miles across town to Uncle Sam’s house. Tía Alma took us in and put us to bed, and the next day, Mami came to take us home. Nothing was ever said to us about the matter. In those days, domestic violence was considered private family business, and outsiders seldom intervened.

  After we returned from Mexico City, Papá was working very long hours. He said he needed to make up the time he’d taken off to take us all on vacation. He and Mami often quarreled—about the trip, about chores she wanted him to do, and most of all, about money.

  I didn’t think too much about it, though. I was excited to be nearly finished with elementary school. When sixth grade ended, I’d graduate and go on to junior high school—in my town, that’s what we called the school we attended for seventh, eighth, and ninth grades. Not only that, but just as I’d “flown up” from Brownies to Juniors, now I would “cross the bridge” from Juniors to Cadettes. I thought the older girls in the Cadette handbook looked grown-up and glamorous.

  In sixth grade, my bowling team met every Saturday morning. One day, I came home from bowling practice to find Mami crying. Her hair was untidy, and she was pacing back and forth in the kitchen.

  Mami told me that she and Papá had had a terrible fight, and he had hit her the way he had in the past. She said she was leaving my father and taking us with her. We were going to move to California, where Tía Angélica was living at the time.

  I realized then that Papá must have gone out, but that wasn’t unusual for a Saturday. Mario wasn’t home either. Mami asked me to help her get ready to leave. We had to pack right away, she insisted. It was too much.

  I couldn’t take in what she was telling me. Instead of helping her, I ran out of the house and into the street.

  Seeing a group of neighborhood kids who were playing kickball, I ran up
to them and asked to join the game. But before I could take my place, Mami came out and pulled me aside. Still crying, her voice shaking, she pleaded with me to help her.

  I couldn’t do it. I loved my mother, but I was overwhelmed. I knew Papá had a temper, and the fight must have been horrible. I had never seen Mami so distraught.

  Mario’s bike was lying on our front lawn. I grabbed it by the handlebars and jumped onto its seat, and I took off with my mother calling after me.

  I rode to the school, circling in and out of the parking lot and playground. Then I headed downtown. I hadn’t had lunch, but I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t know how long I stayed on the bike—I didn’t even notice where I was, passing streets and parks and churches.

  Finally, without being aware of what I was doing, I parked the bike by the door of the library. In the children’s room, I picked up books I had already read, flipping through the pages, not taking in the words. I was still in shock.

  I didn’t know how much time had passed when I heard my name and saw the librarian standing in front of me. “The library is closing, Sylvia,” she said gently. “You need to go home now.”

  When she asked if I wanted to check out any books, I shook my head. I didn’t have the energy to speak. I found Mario’s bike where I had left it outside. It was late afternoon, I realized, and cooler now that the sun was setting.

  I rode slowly home, taking my time on the neighborhood streets before turning onto Kay Lane. The car was in the driveway, so I knew Papá was home. The lights in the house glowed a familiar warm yellow.

  I pushed the bike through the side gate into the backyard. I could see through the patio doors that my father was inside, and no one seemed to be arguing or fighting. I went around to the front door and slipped quietly inside and down the hall to my room.

  In an instant, Mami followed me and closed the door behind her. She said she had told Papá that if he ever hit her again, she would leave him and take all of us kids with her. Her voice was calm, but tears ran down her cheeks. She apologized to me and asked me to forgive her.

  I hated to see her so upset. “Don’t cry,” I told her.

  Mami wiped her eyes and her voice became deadly serious. I recognized her tone from years earlier, when she told Papá she was getting her driver’s license.

  “If he ever hits me again, I’m leaving,” she repeated. Then, sounding more ordinary, she asked if I was hungry.

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to leave my room, didn’t want to see Papá or Mario or Laura or even Armando. I wanted Mami to go away, and as if reading my mind, she left quietly. After a while, Laura came in with her doll, wanting me to play with her, but I ignored her, pretending to be asleep.

  I was numb, and I just wanted the day to end. But it would be a long time before I felt comfortable around Papá or even Mami. I still had to obey them, but I felt that by fighting, my parents were acting like children. Not only that, but my family was going in separate directions, and I wasn’t at all sure where I belonged.

  Mario, Laura, Mami, Armando, and me

  Chapter 14

  Changes at School and at Home

  After my parents’ fight, things seemed easier on the surface, though we were all struggling underneath. Papá was still working hard, and he would bring home fat manila folders from his office. In the evenings, instead of turning on the television or burying himself in a book, he’d come into my bedroom and spread his papers out on my desk. If he tried to do that on our dining room table, Mami would make him clear them off in time for supper. But the summer after sixth grade, I didn’t use my desk for homework, so he could leave his papers there.

  From listening to the grownups, I gradually learned that Papá was getting ready to take the United States government to court. He had been passed over for promotion at the White Sands Missile Range, where he had worked since I was little, and had been exposed to dangerous chemicals without the proper protection. He had become convinced that these things had happened in part because of his Mexican heritage. Now he was preparing for the lawsuit. He might not have filed the lawsuit on his own, but Uncle Sam, who also worked at the missile range, encouraged Papá. In spite of their differences, Mami supported Papá too.

  Papá’s lawsuit would take a long time, though. Meanwhile, something happened that summer that was exciting for everyone, adults and children alike.

  One evening in July, Papá, Mami, Mario, Laura, little Armando, and I sat in front of our new color television, watching as, far away, an astronaut climbed down a ladder from a tiny space capsule onto the surface of the moon.

  “That’s one small step for a man,” said Neil Armstrong, the first human ever to step onto the moon, “one giant leap for mankind.”

  And womankind, too, I thought. I pictured myself one day working with astronauts and rockets. Maybe I’d be one of those people at NASA headquarters counting down the spaceship launch, just like I had with my Estes rocket.

  * * *

  Not long after the moon landing, in August of 1969, I started seventh grade at Alameda Junior High School. I would stay there for three years, before beginning high school in tenth grade.

  Earlier that spring, I had crossed the bridge from Junior Girl Scouts to Cadettes. But once I started junior high school, I was surprised to find myself less involved with the Girl Scouts. We didn’t have a troop leader to help us plan activities, and I was spending more time on schoolwork. I had new interests, like band and basketball. I had new friends as well.

  Most of my new friends were in the school band. I’d started playing the drums, and every day before school, we’d meet outside the band room. Cynthia played French horn. Lyn played the clarinet and guitar, and she loved to sing. Terry also played the clarinet, and Vicki played the saxophone.

  I loved having a group of friends to hang out with, even if I didn’t see them much after school. Most of them lived in another neighborhood, too far to visit very often on a bicycle during the school year. I had a couple of other friends, Charmagne and Kathy, who were in honors classes with us, but they weren’t in band. I also had neighborhood friends, Phyllis and Cindy.

  I didn’t think much about the fact that almost all of these girls were Anglo. One of them had a Mexican grandparent, but their families weren’t Mexican in origin, like mine. Most of them were in honors classes with me, and they pushed me to do my best.

  Terry and Cynthia lived on the same street. Terry’s parents were divorced, and her father took care of her and her brother. Cynthia was one of five siblings. She was Mormon and often was busy with her church. She and I were both very competitive and liked sports and any situation where we could compete. Lyn lived in another subdivision. She was one of three kids, and her parents were always pushing her and her siblings to do well in school. Vicki didn’t like school as much as we did, but she was fun, and her family had a horse. Her parents were older and they taught her how to drive when she was in junior high, before she was eligible for a driver’s license. When we went to her house, three or four of us would cram into their small Opel GT, and Vicki would drive around. She and I talked on the phone more than our other friends, although in some ways I was closer to Cynthia and Lyn. Sometimes I missed being a Girl Scout, but I loved having a large group of friends.

  * * *

  While I wasn’t part of a Girl Scout troop, I helped out with Laura’s troop sometimes and I still treasured the confidence I’d gained from my years in the Girl Scouts. Not long after I started in my new school, though, that confidence got me into trouble.

  In junior high, all girls were expected to take a class called home economics, where they were taught to cook and sew. When I saw it on my schedule, I refused to go.

  I was not the sort of student who normally disobeyed my teachers. Even I was a little surprised at my defiance. I didn’t mind cooking; after all, I had earned the Girl Scout Cooking badge with my homemade pizza. And while I didn’t like sewing as much as Mami did, she had taught me the basics, and it wasn’t hard. I
didn’t know why I didn’t want to go to home economics. I just didn’t! Thinking about the class made my stomach hurt. And so when the bell rang on the first day of school and all the girls headed down the hall to home economics while all the boys went to shop class—where they would learn to use tools—I just stayed in my seat and pulled out a book.

  “Sylvia?” I looked up to see my teacher standing in front of me. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

  “I’m not going,” I said. Inside, I was shaking a little, but I met my teacher’s eyes and kept my voice steady. I was scared, but I wasn’t backing down, and my teacher could see that.

  It was unusual that a student would refuse to go to class, especially a good student like me. Two years earlier, when Mario was in seventh grade, it was a rule that all the boys took shop class and all the girls took home economics. Back then, I might have been forced to go, but now it was 1969, and times were changing. More women were going to college. Like Mami, some women were opening their own bank accounts. Some were getting jobs outside the home, in offices and places where only men had worked in the past. Some schools had stopped requiring home economics and shop classes. But at that time, at our school, only boys could take shop and only girls could take home economics.

  The day after my first refusal, my teacher persuaded me to give the class a try. The home economics teacher was a thin lady who explained in a crisp tone that we would sew aprons, then finish them off with a colorful rickrack trim. She was giving all the girls detailed instructions, and I could see that she knew her subject well.

  My friends in class were happy to see me, but I did not want to make that apron! To me it represented a future of cooking for my family instead of working at a job, and I hated that idea, though I didn’t completely know why.