After school that day, I went to see the principal and told him I wanted to drop the class. He tried to talk me out of it, but in the end, he gave me a piece of paper that he called a waiver. If Papá signed it, he said, I wouldn’t have to take home economics.
That night, I told Mami and Papá that I didn’t want to take the class. Mami didn’t mind: she had already taught me much of what I would have learned in home economics.
But Papá refused to sign the waiver. Even if I already knew how to cook and sew, he said, I was a girl, and this class was where I belonged.
A few years earlier, I wouldn’t have challenged Papá. Although I might not have agreed with him, I would have accepted that he knew best. But now, I refused to go every day to a class that was preparing me to be a homemaker. I was going to college, and I needed to learn other things besides cooking and sewing. And that’s what I told Papá.
Mami agreed with me, and she convinced Papá that I was right. He was not happy to have both of us arguing against him, but eventually he signed the paper anyway. In the end, I thought he might have just been tired of arguing. Whatever the reason, I had permission to skip the class.
In the place of home economics, I was assigned to an extra math class. My friends couldn’t believe I’d prefer to learn more math, especially algebra, than attend a class where we learned to sew and cook. They were smart girls, but they didn’t mind the break from honors classes. I was happier with my new math class, though, and never regretted what I’d done.
A few years later, when I was in college, boys and girls at my junior high had the choice of shop class or home economics, and my brother Armando took home economics. He liked to sew, and he had my mother’s skill with crafts. He really enjoyed the class.
* * *
The conversation with my parents about home economics came during a troubled time with my father.
Following my parents’ big fight the year before, I had lost all respect for my father for a time. I was so angry with him that I stopped calling him “sir.”
Papá had never forgotten his time in the United States Army, and he liked it when we children responded, “Yes, sir,” when he spoke to us. Fathers in our traditional culture could be strict, and Papá was, but in the past, I had also seen that he loved us. Now I could not respect him, and that set us up for an epic battle of wills. When Papá was pushed, he lost his temper, except with Laura, whom he always treated gently. By not saying “sir,” I was pushing him.
For a while, I would even eat at the kitchen counter rather than at the dining room table with Papá. For Sunday dinners, when we all ate as a family, I sat apart, because I no longer wanted to afford him that respect. He tried to get me to sit at the family table, especially when his mother was eating Sunday dinner with us, but I refused, and my mother told him to leave me alone. I would sometimes join in when Papá and Mario were discussing politics or the military—or the moon launch—but most of the time, I avoided having anything to do with my father.
This tension came to a head once when I was in seventh grade, and Armando, who was a busy, active four-year-old, did something that annoyed my father. We all knew when Papá was about to lose his temper, and sure enough, he lifted his hand, about to strike. Armando cowered, tears starting down his face even before the spanking, and I rushed forward to stand between my father and my little brother. I stood, tense and waiting, expecting Papá to hit me instead of Armando.
And then, to my surprise, Mario joined me, gently pushing Armando back as he faced Papá beside me. We all stood frozen in place.
What happened next was something I could not have predicted: Papá backed down. Turning, not meeting our gazes, he left the room. Nobody followed him, and a minute later, I went to my bedroom. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, not even Mami.
After that, my father never hit Armando again. And I learned that as competitive as Mario and I could be with each other, there were times when my older brother could be an ally.
And I needed Mario, because Papá and I would get on each other’s nerves. We clashed frequently, as I continued to ignore his advice and commands and sassed him back whenever I could. I often retreated to my room, realizing Mami couldn’t help me too much with my father, and I would lie on my bed and concentrate on my homework. I had discovered that after one of those arguments, running through math problems in my head would calm me, so I could get to sleep. But life felt more unsettled in junior high school, and that wasn’t changing any time soon.
Me and Armando, 1970
Chapter 15
Hoops, Hotheads, Courts, and Cars
I liked school for a lot of reasons, but if I had to pick the one thing I looked forward to most, it would be playing basketball. I had always loved running around, and basketball was a sport that let me do just that.
In elementary school, as soon as we were dismissed from the cafeteria to the playground for recess, I would run to the padlocked box that held the sports equipment. When the recess teacher opened it, I would grab a basketball before the boys took them all, then rush out to the two black T-shaped asphalt courts.
I would run up and down beside the boys, practicing dribbling, trying to grab their ball on the rebound, shooting lay-ups. I was one of the few girls who would play alongside them, and I quickly discovered that the boys expected me to shoot “granny style,” tossing the ball underhand. I would never do that!
When I was playing basketball, I didn’t care how hot and sweaty I got or that my hair slipped loose from my braids and my socks were falling down.
Sometimes after recess, my teacher would send me to the girls’ room to wash my face and clean up. She never told the boys to do this, no matter how sweaty they were. I didn’t care. If we had outdoor recess that day, I was going to play basketball.
On weekends, I would ride my bike by the school, hoping to see one of my classmates playing basketball so I could join in.
The only time I skipped basketball at recess was when the Girl Scouts had a meeting after school. I didn’t want my uniform to be untidy. On those days, I’d spend recess with girls from my troop, talking or sometimes jumping rope or playing hopscotch.
* * *
Mami was the gift buyer in our family, and she always tried to give us the Christmas presents we wanted, as long as she and Papá could afford them. The year I was in sixth grade, I wanted a basketball with a backboard and rim more than anything. In the lead-up to the holiday, I saw more gifts appearing under the tree, but nothing in the shape of a basketball or a rim and backboard.
I wasn’t worried, though. My parents often held back the bigger gifts until the night of Christmas Eve, since Laura and Armando still believed in Santa Claus. I felt sure I knew what would be waiting for me under the tree when the day arrived.
Early Christmas morning, my siblings and I ran to the tree. There were Hot Wheels for Armando, clothes and dolls for Laura, and models for Mario, but for me, there were only flat, rectangular boxes.
I slowly opened the biggest box and found a green winter ski jacket. Under other circumstances, I would have loved it.
I couldn’t keep my disappointment from Mami. Our family of six lived modestly, and I knew that my next chance for a basketball was when my birthday came in August. I liked the jacket, I really did, but August was eight long months away.
Sure enough, I did get a basketball on my next birthday, right before I started junior high. At my dinner place that night was a wrapped square box that could only be a ball. I tore it open and looked around, but that was my only present. Mami knew how much I wanted a basketball, but she hadn’t understood that a basketball without a backboard and net was incomplete.
I was a little disappointed, but I knew money was tight. So I just put those items on my list for Christmas. In the meantime, I rode my bike to the school playground on weekends, steering with one hand and holding the ball under my other arm, hugging it close to my body. Now that I was in junior high, we didn’t have recess. Girls played basketball i
n physical education class, but we had modified rules that allowed us to run and dribble only a few steps with the ball. That made the sport less exciting to me.
Still, I loved my basketball. I took good care of it, wiping it down each time I used it and even washing it with soap occasionally to keep it looking new. I counted down the months, weeks, and then days to Christmas.
Finally, Christmas arrived, and this time there was a basketball hoop under the tree. But once again, it wasn’t quite what I had expected. I had my hoop, with its rim and net, but that was all. Nobody had thought to buy a backboard.
That day, I bugged my father to install the hoop on the roof of the carport. But Papá wasn’t good with tools, and the rim was crooked. The shots that didn’t go through the rim went wild: onto the carport or into the backyard. It didn’t take too long before I realized I really had to have a backboard.
This time, I wasn’t waiting until my next birthday in August. Instead, I headed for the library, where I looked up the dimensions of a regulation-size backboard. Then I took money from my savings account and went to a local hardware store.
I’d been to the hardware store before but never on my own, and I didn’t think the clerk was used to seeing girls coming in by themselves. Still, he listened seriously when I explained what I wanted. I handed him the paper on which I’d copied the exact dimensions of the backboard, and he cut a piece of plywood to the right size. I paid for it and bought white paint and a brush. When I got home, I covered the plywood with paint. To outline a rectangle on the backboard above the rim, I asked Mario for some of the black paint he used for his models.
Mario gave me his paint, but when it was time to install the backboard, he said he was too busy to help me. Luckily, he had friends who came over and helped put up the basket at the right height on the carport. When that was done, I finally had my basketball court.
Now I could spend hours and hours in our driveway, practicing shots, dribbling, and playing endless games of Horse. Once, Mami came outside and had me show her how to dribble, but she couldn’t master bouncing the ball the proper way. Papá never touched the basketball, and even Mario wasn’t interested. So I practiced my skills on my own.
The lay-up was the best shot you could do in the driveway. On Sunday afternoons, I made a rule for myself that I wouldn’t go inside until I had completed one hundred lay-ups. I tried to finish in time to see Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom and The Wonderful World of Disney. In those days, television shows were broadcast at a specific time, usually just once, so if I missed a show, I had lost my one chance to see it. Even so, I was strict with myself, and I really worked on those lay-ups!
In our town, there were no girls’ basketball teams. Sometimes I participated in daylong “play days,” tournaments where girls got to play on teams against other girls. We used a modified set of rules, just the way we did in gym class. But the limitations didn’t matter much to me. I still loved playing basketball. Every weekend for years, I would play with the neighborhood boys, who used the “regular” rules, though we often argued about what those rules actually were. Through practice I became really good at lay-ups, and it didn’t bother me too much that I didn’t have a team or that I might never have a way to show off my skills. That was just part of being a girl, I thought.
* * *
While I was spending long hours on the basketball court, Papá was in the final stages of suing the United States government, spending hours poring over his papers to prepare for his time in court. This was very stressful for him, and it made our battles all the more difficult. I tried to stay at a distance from Papá, but that wasn’t always possible.
Then one night Papá and I clashed in a way we’d never done before. Until now, I had done well in all of my classes, but in eighth grade, my honors English grade slipped. My other grades were fine, but I didn’t like my English teacher and I didn’t like the class at all. Unfortunately, I wasn’t successful in keeping my feelings to myself.
My teacher noted my attitude on my report card. Mami, not Papá, usually talked to our teachers when there was a problem, but now my father called the school and asked to speak to my English teacher.
At dinner that night, he asked me what was going on with my English class.
“Nothing much,” I said.
Papá was not happy with that answer, and he told me I had to improve my grade, starting now.
“Yes,” I answered, not sounding as if I meant it.
“Yes, sir,” he reminded me.
If I’d been younger, before the fight with Armando one year earlier, I would have said, “Yes, sir,” and ended the discussion. But I’d been angry at Papá for a long time, and he was easily irritated with me. “Yes,” I repeated.
“Yes, sir!” Papá shouted, and he reached out and smacked my face.
I stood up and ran down the hall. Papá ran after me, and when he caught up, I hit him without thinking, just trying to protect myself. Then I dashed into my bedroom and slammed the door. Papá pushed it ajar, and Laura, who had followed us, darted into the room, crying. I pressed against the door with all my might, struggling to close it.
My father finally shoved the door open and stormed into the room, his eyes filled with rage, a look on his face I will never forget. He pulled off his belt and struck me once, twice. I curled up on the bed, and he kept hitting me, over and over, as Laura sobbed and begged him to stop.
Finally Mami came in and pulled Papá’s arm down, and he stopped hitting me with the belt. “You wouldn’t even beat an animal like that,” she said.
When everyone else had left, Mario came into the room. He looked at me lying curled up on the bed. “Why don’t you just say ‘yes, sir’? You could make it easy on you and the rest of us.”
Instead of answering, I crawled under the sheets and closed my eyes, hearing him leave the room. I started reciting the multiplication tables in my head, wondering how high I could go.
Suddenly, I noticed an interesting pattern in the numbers. The product of five multiplied by any number was half the second number with a decimal point shifted to the right. Five times eight was forty, and half of eight was four. Shift the decimal point and add a zero, and you get forty. No matter what number I used, the result was the same.
By the time Laura came to bed, I was lost in the numbers, calm and focused. I’d forgotten about Papá—almost. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to talk to Laura or Mami, but I kept doing number tricks in my head until I fell asleep.
The next day, I left the house early. Papá had already gone to work, and I wanted to avoid the others, even Mami. In school, I found my algebra teacher, Mr. Agnew, and shared my discovery. He showed me a couple of other math tricks, but I still liked the simplicity of the number five. Just as when I first learned to count in English, I found that I was happy and absorbed when I was concentrating on numbers. After a hard day, doing math problems in my head was soothing.
I still didn’t have any easy answers to getting along with Papá, but I made sure to treat my English teacher with respect, and my grades in that subject slowly improved. Mostly, I just avoided my father, concentrating on my schoolwork, my friends, and band. And later that spring, Papá won his lawsuit against the United States government. A judge ruled that the managers at White Sands had not provided appropriate safety material, endangering his health. He was given a check for a lot of back pay.
My parents didn’t have savings. Papá and Mami used the money from the lawsuit to build a new den—complete with a fireplace—in the rear of our house. They put the sewing machine in the room and the television, too. With six people and a dog in our small home, the new den gave us a bit more breathing space.
And Papá was happy when he won. The day the judge decided in his favor, my father took us all out for dinner at the A&W restaurant and then drove us around town. He was especially polite and considerate. Little by little, I breathed easier around him. And I remembered a promise I’d made.
* * *
Aft
er our trip to Mexico City in sixth grade, I’d promised myself I would use my Girl Scout experiences to help my family plan for the future and keep our house and possessions safe. With tensions easing at home, I finally had time to think. And I decided I needed to figure out what to do about this promise. The Girl Scout motto is “Be prepared,” and that was what I planned to do.
I sensed that Papá and Mami would never save much money. They would never do basic car or home maintenance. I was saving money for myself, but I saw that my friends’ parents had routines that my own parents lacked. Now that I was in junior high, I was embarrassed when our car broke down because our family hadn’t planned ahead. The trouble was that I was still a kid. I didn’t know where to begin.
One day toward the end of eighth grade, I saw a newspaper advertisement about a free class on car maintenance for women. Well, I wasn’t a woman yet, but after our breakdown in the desert, I needed to learn about cars! I rode my bike to the address in the newspaper, which turned out to be a local car dealership, a shop that sold new and used cars. Inside, a handful of women were sitting on folding chairs.
The class was run by the man who owned the dealership. “Where’s your mom?” he asked me. “Is she coming later?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s just me.”
He looked surprised. “Do you drive?” was his next question.
Well, of course I didn’t drive! I was only thirteen. I shook my head again and told him I still wanted to learn about car maintenance.
He nodded, perhaps thinking I was a farm kid. There were many farms outside Las Cruces, and it wasn’t unusual for kids from those families to drive at a young age while they helped with chores. Then he warned me to be careful and not get hurt. He waved at an empty chair, indicating I should sit down with the older women. “Now,” he said, beginning the class. “We’re here to teach you ladies how to get your hands dirty and keep your engines running smoothly.”
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