by Laura Resau
“Sign it!”
Reluctantly, I sign my name.
She snatches the paper. “What terrible handwriting you have. Is that your sorry excuse for a signature?”
“That’s my signature,” I say between clenched teeth.
“Now go,” she says, “and take those rags with you.”
Niño Carlitos nearly pushes us out the door. When I’m on the threshold, the Doctorita calls out in a wild, shrill voice, “You know what? In three months, you’ll be at this door, knocked up and begging me for work. Just like all longas. Once they get on the street, they breed like dogs and then when they’re pregnant they come back pleading, ‘Oh, help me.’ And when you come back on your knees, I’m not going to help you. I’m going to tell you to get the hell away. Don’t even try to come back saying, ‘Oh, but Doctorita, please, por favorcito …’ ”
We leave through the gate and walk down the street. I am shaking and burning with humiliation. One day she will be sorry, I tell myself. She will come to me, asking for my forgiveness. For two blocks I say nothing to my family because if I open my mouth, red-hot flames might shoot out.
Finally, at the bus station, Santiago says, “What they did to you was illegal, Virginia. A crime. Even though you signed that paper, you might be able to press charges and sue them.”
Anger is fire that can burn you up, the way it made my father hurt his family. Or it can shine like the sun and provide energy for photosynthesis. I will use my fire as fuel to live the life I want to lead. Whether I’m a longa or mestiza or whatever, Antonio was right, I have a blazing sun inside me and I will use it.
“I just want to live my life now,” I say.
“You don’t want revenge?” Santiago asks.
“My revenge will be getting an education and having my own career. One day she’ll see that she’s wrong. One day she’ll ask for my forgiveness. In the end, I’ll win.”
chapter 30
IT’S THE MORNING OF MY FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL, and I’m sitting on the stool by the fire pit, trying to keep the hem of my best dress off the dirt floor. I sip at my soup, almost too excited to eat.
Papito gives me a doubtful look. “I don’t see why you have to go to school.”
“It’s my dream, Papi,” I say firmly. During my first week of living with my family, I heard about an opportunity for older, uneducated kids to attend school. I signed up immediately. When I told Mamita about it, she frowned and muttered something in Quichua. Papito grunted that school was a waste of time and money.
Now he pokes at the ashes with a stick, shaking his head. “You could be working in the fields instead.”
I counter with the answer I’ve prepared. “In the long run I’ll make more money with an education.” I’m not arguing with him, just stating the facts. We both know that whether he approves or not, I’m going forward with my plans.
He and Mamita have been treating me like a houseguest over the past week, an important outsider to politely accommodate. This distance feels wrong, awkward, yet in some ways it seems easier than acting as though we have a bond. It makes my chest ache, wondering if we might be too different to ever make any real connection.
It seems hopeless, since even our thoughts have nothing in common. My mind is filled with ideas and plans and information I’ve read. I’m always inventing stories to write in my notebook or imagining I’m traveling to the Seven Wonders of the World. I don’t want to forget what I’ve learned, so I make mental diagrams of the respiratory system, the process of condensation, meiosis and mitosis. I look at the mountains and imagine the geological movements of plates beneath Earth’s crust over millenia. I love letting my mind leap from microscopic things to immense things and back again. It reminds me that the universe is full of possibility.
And what goes on in my parents’ minds? I’m guessing they must be practical things, rooted in the small world of a farming community: when to harvest the potatoes and radishes and onions; whether to butcher the chicken for lunch or keep it longer for its eggs; how to stop mice from getting into the sacks of corn in the rafters; how many days until the pregnant sheep births her lambs.
Our differences aren’t the only obstacles to forming a bond. Sometimes, when my parents look at me, I catch glimpses of shame or regret, what must be lingering guilt about giving me away. I wish I could hug them and tell them it’s all right, that I’m letting go and moving on. Instead, I look away. As much as I want to reach out, my hurt feels too raw. It’s not a simple thing to forgive such a huge betrayal.
Papito breaks the silence. “You’re too old for school.”
“I’ll be good at it,” I say evenly. “I’ll like it.”
But on my way to school, weaving around mud patches and potholes, I feel less certain. What if the other students shun me because I’m so much older than them? As part of the continuing education program, the elementary school principal said he’d let me enter sixth grade, even though I’m about fifteen, and let the teacher decide whether that’s the right level. Which brings me to another fear: what if that terrible teacher with the sharp fingernails is still there?
Inside the classroom, I discover I’m the tallest student by at least a head or two. The desks are too small for me; my knees push up into the wood. The first class is Spanish, all about subjects and predicates. I haven’t studied those before, but as soon as the teacher explains, it makes sense and I raise my hand high to answer every question. This teacher, Maestra Eva, is a young, pretty woman with a bright red blouse and gold hoop earrings and short, clipped fingernails, which she doesn’t inflict on any students. When I’m wrong, she says, “Good try, Virginia,” but most of the time I’m right, and she says, “Excellent, Virginia.”
Then there’s science, and of all things, they’re studying plants. I answer every question correctly and Maestra Eva looks impressed at how the words chlorophyll and respiration and nitrogen-fixing cycle roll off my tongue. Next is math, fractions, which is a little more difficult. I have to think hard and concentrate so much my head hurts. At recess, I sit beneath a tree with my notebook and review subjects and predicates and fractions while the other children play.
Three days later, Principal Marcelo sends for me to come to his office. I like him. He smiles often and really looks in your eyes and listens when you talk, smoothing his mustache and waiting a thoughtful beat before answering. “I’ve spoken with your teacher, Virginia. She says you’re very advanced in most areas, that you’re more at a colegio level.”
I can’t help smiling and telling him how I was a secret-agent student. I’ve told my parents about it and they weren’t impressed, but I have a feeling this man will appreciate it. “See, I used to study in secret. My bosses were colegio teachers, and I read their textbooks and did the students’ homework and took their tests.” Since Principal Marcelo looks interested, I ramble on a bit about the science experiments I did without the Doctorita knowing.
Once I finish, he’s quiet, and then he says, “You, Virginia, are an extraordinary girl. You will go far.”
My heart swells. “Thank you.”
“We think you should stay for three months, until the end of the school year. I’ll pull some strings and get you your diploma so you can enter colegio in the fall.”
I fly out of his office like a bird taking off from a tree. I wish I could run home to a mother and father who would hug me and congratulate me. Instead, I bring the cows and sheep to the pasture and write more of Soledad’s story.
The lovely Soledad proved herself to be the most brilliant student in the whole school. The teachers loved her and gave her medals and scholarships for being the best at everything. One day, when Soledad came home to show her mother her latest prize, her mother embraced her warmly, as usual. “M’hija, I’m so proud of you.” But then her mother grew dizzy and collapsed and, through sobs, revealed to her something terrible beyond words. “M’hija, I am dying of cancer.”
Soledad was sad, but brave. She asked for help from passersby and swept the streets and wash
ed clothes in exchange for money, but one tragic evening, in a pool of moonlight, her mother died in her arms.
As I finish Soledad’s story, I know that despite her tragedies, she will go far in life, even though she will have to live with this piece of sadness inside her forever. She will have to make her way alone in the world, but she is smart enough to do it.
The next week at school, Maestra Eva announces that some important visitors—foreigners—will be coming, and they’re considering making a big donation to fund the construction of a science lab at the school. They will come on Mother’s Day, and the sixth graders will put on a play in honor of our mothers and the foreigners. The performance will have to be really good, she says, in order to win the hearts of these rich foreigners.
When I find out we’re supposed to invite our families, especially our mothers, an anxious knot forms inside me. Mamita would feel utterly out of place in a school auditorium. I wonder if she’s even heard of Mother’s Day, or if she’d agree to come to a school event. Even if I do invite her, I doubt she’d come.
After waffling over it late into the night, I fall asleep, still undecided. The next morning, over breakfast, it’s on an impulse that I ask her, maybe from a sense of obligation, or maybe from a small hope that she’ll enjoy seeing this piece of my world. I extend the invitation in Spanish, slowly, using gestures, feeling flushed with embarrassment. Through the steam of my soup, I watch her wrinkle her eyebrows in response, looking uncertain. She doesn’t say whether or not she will come.
I’m determined to make the Mother’s Day performance spectactular, not for my mother but for my teacher and principal, so they’ll be proud of me. And I want to impress the foreigners, so they’ll give my school the donation. All day, ideas for the show are brewing in my head. After school, I run to Maestra Eva’s desk and tell her about my Soledad story. “It would make a perfect play for Mother’s Day,” I say, nearly bouncing with eagerness.
“Wonderful, Virginia!” she says, and puts me in charge of the whole production—writing, directing, casting, everything.
At home, in the kitchen with my family, as the children chatter in Quichua and my parents slurp tea, I consider telling them about this honor. But the words stick in my throat. They probably don’t know what a play is, much less the different roles in producing one. I’m guessing that the words director and playwright don’t even exist in Quichua. And even if I explained it slowly and simply, Papito would most likely brush off plays as a huge waste of time and grunt that I should be doing real work in the fields. So, as always, I stay quiet, sipping my tea and keeping my thoughts to myself.
For a week, while I’m pasturing the animals after school, I write the story out in script form in my notebook. Then, by hand, I copy a script for each student. There are twenty-two roles total, one for each student in the class. At the end of the week, my hand is aching as I assign students their roles. I am the lead, Soledad, because no other girl is able to cry on command, and that is essential to the part. During rehearsals, we laugh and have fun and, little by little, become friends.
On the day of the performance, all the students’ parents and aunts and uncles and cousins and siblings have come, enough to fill the auditorium to overflowing. The important foreigners and school officials sit in the front rows in their suits and fancy dresses. Out in the audience, the mestizos and indígenas are all mixed together. From the wings, I spot my mother, with Manuelito and Hermelinda and my little cousins crowded around her. She looks just as confused and uncertain now as she did when I invited her.
Swallowing hard, I smooth the skirt of my favorite dress, the flowered one, and rub together my lipsticked lips. Maestra Eva has put some of her makeup on my face and pronounced me prettier than any movie star.
Onstage, in the spotlight, everything feels right. The audience is rapt. At the part where Soledad’s mother dies and I have to cry, I draw on the valley of tears inside me. I think of the saddest moments of my life. I think of Antonio watching me leave on the bus. I think of Papito whipping my legs, the Doctorita beating me with hangers, Mamita saying she’d be happy if I left. I think of watching the students from the balcony back in Kunu Yaku, wishing I could be one of them.
The tears pour out. I sob and moan and clutch my hair, pulling it in utter agony, pounding my fists on the wooden stage, consumed with grief, looking up toward the heavens, asking, Why, why, why … and finally I collapse on top of my dead mother.
The End.
As I stand up, I look at the audience and see that they’re crying too, the women wiping their tears with their shawls, even the men catching their tears on shirt cuffs. Some are sniffling and tearing up silently, and some are sobbing openly. It feels as though they are crying for me, for all that I’ve suffered. The whole community is crying for my sorrows.
The rest of the cast streams onto the stage and we hold each others’ hands. I bow first and they all follow. The audience is standing up, clapping and smiling and whistling. After a long time, the applause finally fades, and I hear people asking each other, Who is that girl? Who are that girl’s parents? Where did that girl come from? She’s like a soap-opera star!
Principal Marcelo comes onstage and says, “Thank you, sixth graders, for the brilliant performance. Well done! Now it’s time for the students to present cards they’ve made to their mothers.”
This is the moment I’ve been dreading. I look at all the other mothers and wish that any of them were mine instead of Mamita. My insides sink into a puddle of shame. My mother looks so small and poor and bewildered. She is entirely out of place here. I wish I could slip away and mysteriously disappear into the night.
After about eight kids, Principal Marcelo turns to me. “María Virginia Farinango,” he says, with an encouraging smile. I feel myself flush at all the eyes following me as I weave through the crowd to my mother. And when I stop in front of her, I feel their confusion and hear their whispers. But she is mestiza and her mother is indígena. How is that possible? How is it possible that her mother is so humilde, so poor and humble?
My mother stares, baffled, as I present her with a red construction-paper heart, with writing on it that she has no idea how to read. In front of all these people, I am supposed to hug her, just like the other students hugged their mothers. I put my arms around her shoulders—for the first time I can remember—and she stiffens in my arms.
A week later, when Principal Marcelo gives me the good news, he hugs me, a natural joyful hug, the kind of hug he probably gives to his children every day. “Thank you so much for what you’ve done for our school. It’s a great thing, Virginia. The school owes you a lot.” It turns out that the foreigners were so impressed with the performance, they decided to pay the entire cost of the school’s new science lab, even more than Principal Marcelo had hoped for. During the last two months of school, everyone buzzes about the mysterious actress who brought the whole village—even rich foreigners—to tears.
chapter 31
EVER SINCE THE MOTHER’S DAY PLAY, Mamita hasn’t complained about my attending school. Sometimes, when she’s talking to neighbors in Quichua, I overhear her say my name with an expression of pride. The one person in Yana Urku who is not at all impressed with my newly discovered ability to write, direct, act, and get good grades is Papito.
One night, as I’m doing homework by the light of the kerosene lamp, he says, “You know, you live here and eat our food.” He pauses. “And that’s fine because you’re our daughter. But the rest of us work for this food. We plant corn and beans and we clear the fields of weeds and we harvest the crops. You spend all day at school, and what do you have to show for it?”
“But I will have a lot to show for it, Papi. Just wait. I’ll get my diploma and then go to colegio and then to university.”
“With what money, m’hija?”
He’s got a point. Even though I’m only in elementary school, I can barely scrape together money to pay for notebooks and pens and pencils. And since this school is in a po
or community, we don’t have to pay for uniforms. But if I go to the colegio of my dreams—República de Ecuador, the one that the Doctorita’s nephew Raúl went to—I’ll have to pay for two sets of school uniforms and a gym uniform and outfits for special events, which cost hundreds of sucres.
To make money, I spend weekends planting for Alfonso and Mariana, who pay me a few sucres, a tiny fraction of what I need. I’m clumsy in the fields, holding the shovel awkwardly, my movements jerky and full of effort. All the other workers have spent their lives working in fields, and their hands move quickly, automatically. But I’m even slower at planting than the little children. When I drop the seeds in, I count them out, unable to feel, on instinct, how many are in my hands. And I’m out of place in my mestiza pants and T-shirt, when all the other women wear anacos and blouses.
What’s more, when Mariana and Alfonso pass me, I notice a certain smugness in their gaze, as if they’re thinking, See, here you are working in the fields like the longa you are. You’d have been better off with Carlos and the Doctorita. I imagine them telling the Doctorita how I work in the fields, and the Doctorita assuming it’s a matter of time before I come begging for my job back. But they’re some of the only landowners who pay in money, and there don’t seem to be other part-time job opportunities here, so I swallow my pride and work for them.
As I work, I remember when I was a little girl pretending to be a rich indígena. Now I understand that these people I admired weren’t exactly rich, simply better-off than the people of my village, one of the poorest in Ecuador. These middle-class indígenas came from Otavalo or less impoverished communities, and owned shops or market stands or export businesses. Even now, years later, whenever I go to the market with my mother, my eyes linger on their beautiful clothes and jewelry. They have enough money to educate their children and live comfortably, owning land, a car, a two-story house, a TV.