by Laura Resau
“Why?” Lantern flames make spots of light and dark move over his face.
I hesitate. “I don’t know.” I can’t bring myself to tell the truth. I want to keep my lives separate—Virginia the poor indígena in Yana Urku, Virginia the rich indígena at queen rehearsals; Virginia the dishwasher at the hotel, Virginia the star student at school. And my father wouldn’t understand anyway. Even in Spanish, he wouldn’t know the words for newspaper interview or modern etiquette or public speaking. These words are like stars in another galaxy, light-years from his reality. “I just—I just want to speak better Quichua is all.”
“All right,” he says in Quichua, but then neither of us can think of anything to say, so finally he says, “Good night, Daughter,” and lies down in his bed. Soon he is snoring lightly.
By now Mamita has finished with the dishes, and she sits next to me on the other bed and hands me a cup of steaming lemon balm tea.
“Pagui, Mamita,” I say in Quichua, thanking her.
She smiles at my effort.
I look at her, trying to form a question. I realize, all of a sudden, that this is the first time since I was a little girl that I’ve felt she has something to teach me. It’s the first time I’ve made an effort to understand her.
And I think she’s been waiting for this moment. She looks at me patiently.
“Tell me”—I’m still unsure what to say—“tell me about me, when little girl,” I finally finish in choppy Quichua, pointing to myself, then gesturing with my hand to the height of a young child.
For a moment, she watches me, her eyes shiny in the lantern light. Then, from beneath the bed, she pulls out a water-stained, warped cardboard box, sets it between us, and opens it slowly.
Inside are a small anaco and blouse, and a pile of fabric scraps of all colors, faded and frayed. She holds up each piece, one by one. They are ancient, full of tears and holes and ground-in dirt stains. After holding each one up, she presses it to her face. She speaks slowly, resting her hand on my knee. “Your old things, my daughter.”
I pick them up and yes, I recognize my blouse, the coarse cotton mottled with berry and blood stains. When I left with the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos, I must have kept this set of clothes at home, thinking I’d wear it on the monthly visits that never happened. My fingers brush over the soft fabric scraps—my pretend clothes for sale, which I used to sell to my cousins for leaves. Holding up the bits of material, I remember how I envisioned a good life for myself, in the same way Secrets to a Happy Life says you should. The first step is imagining.
“Pusaq wata,” Mamita says, holding up eight fingers. Eight years. She is crying now and wiping the tears with the clothes and fabric scraps. “Eight years I cried for you, my daughter. Every night I held your clothes and cried for you.”
I speak slowly in Quichua, each word an effort. “Mamita.” I point to her tears, then to my own face. “I cry, too. So many years. I miss you, too. I cry so many years.”
She nods, tears streaming down her face. “Ñuka guagua.” My daughter.
“Many years I think about you,” I whisper. I look at my brother and sister sleeping, their toes poking out from the blanket that barely covers them. “But, Mamita, you have other children.” I motion to Hermelinda and Manuelito. I don’t know how to express what I feel. I’m not even sure I know what I feel. Finally, I put my hand on my chest, right over my heart. “To you, I don’t matter.” I can’t hold my tears in anymore.
She shakes her head and holds up one finger. “Each child is unique. Each one is special.”
I sniff and wipe my eyes. “Many years ago, Mamita, you say, ‘Leave, Daughter,’ ” and here I point to myself, and gesture toward the door. “You say, ‘I happy you leave.’ ” And now my voice is trembling and I am sobbing.
She shakes her head vehemently and a frantic string of Quichua words pours from her mouth.
“Slow, Mamita, slow.” I look at this woman here beside me, half stranger, half mother. I look at her weathered face that is old and worn and aching with regrets.
“Ñuka guagua.” She takes my hands in hers. “I love you, my daughter.” These words I understand perfectly; these are the words I’ve wanted to hear my whole life.
“I love you too, Mamita.”
The next morning, we’re all sitting together around the fire pit, waiting for the potato soup to reheat—my parents, Manuelito and Hermelinda, and some little cousins who have wandered over for breakfast. Mamita is stirring the soup with a long wooden spoon, and I’m thinking what Modern Etiquette would say about this meal. No napkins to spread neatly on your lap, no silverware to use from outside to inside from first to last course, not even a single spoon to avoid slurping noisily from, no chair to sit straight in, no butter to ask to be passed rather than reached for, no table to keep your elbows off of … The Modern Etiquette author would either faint or run screaming from the house. I smile at this thought, and then see that my toddler cousin Ivan has noticed my smile and is smiling back at me.
“How are you this morning?” I ask him in broken Quichua.
“Fine,” he says, giggling.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Papito staring at me, with something close to a smile on his face. “You should speak Quichua more often, Daughter,” he says.
“Ari,” I agree in Quichua, letting myself smile back.
The dogs start barking outside, in a friendly way, and soon Matilde and Santiago are standing in the doorway, backlit by morning sunshine.
“Virginia!” Matilde cries, throwing her arms around me. “Little sister, what are you doing here?”
“Just visiting.”
“But you never visit! Santiago and I come almost every weekend and we never see you here!”
“I’ve been busy, with school and work and stuff. But this weekend, I don’t know, I just felt like it.”
Mamita offers her stool to Santiago and moves to the floor, where she kneels with the children. I offer my stool to Matilde, but she insists, “No, stay there.”
While the soup is heating, we sip lemon balm tea and Matilde chats about married life and her new neighbors and projects that she and Santiago are doing in their house in Quito, to get ready for their baby. It turns out she’s three months pregnant.
Mamita begins serving the soup, ladles the biggest potato into a bowl, and hands it to me. “Mana, Mamita,” I say in Quichua, shaking my head. “Give Matilde big potato.”
Matilde laughs. “Since when do you speak Quichua, little sister?”
“I’m trying to learn it,” I say, guilty I haven’t told anyone the truth about why. My coming here, my attempting to learn Quichua—these alone are big steps for me. But I still don’t feel comfortable taking the next one—merging my two lives. If I tell my family about the queen competition, they might want to come, and then the other contestants will see my real father and mother and realize we belong to the class of poor indígenas. No, I can’t tell my family about the competition.
I can’t invite my classmates and coworkers to the competition either, not even Carmen and Esperanza and Sonia. If they see me wearing an anaco and lacy blouse and gold beads, they might start to treat me as an indígena—maybe a well-off one, but an indígena all the same. Even imagining them looking at me that way quickens my heartbeat, makes me break out in a terrified sweat. So to be safe, I’ve invited no one.
Mamita passes Matilde the bowl with the biggest potato, and Matilde says, “No, Mamita, give it to Virginia. We have to treat her well so she’ll come back to visit more often!”
Mamita hands the bowl to me, and I accept it, but stealthily pass it over to Ivan. The youngest child never gets the biggest potato, never gets served first. I remember feeling rage over this injustice as a little girl. “Here, Ivan,” I say in Quichua. “Eat big potato!”
After breakfast, Matilde and I help Mamita with the dishes, and then it’s time for me to go. “I have to get back to Otavalo for the lunch shift,” I say, and find that instead of desperatel
y wanting to leave, I’m actually enjoying myself.
They protest for a bit, “Stay, Virginia!” and “Stay, Daughter!” and “Stay, Sister!” and finally Matilde says, “Fine, but let me walk you to the bus stop.”
We walk down the dusty street, lined with fields of knee-high corn. The sky is cloudless except for the far-off mists over the mountains Imbabura and Cotacachi. I’m wearing my track shoes, which I bought for gym class—they come in handy here. It’s hard to believe I walked down this road barefoot, so many times, years ago.
I remember once when Matilde and I were out looking for berries. I spotted some bright red ones and pointed them out, but she got to them first and started eating them. I lost my temper, tackled her to the ground, and sat on her chest, pummeling her, screaming, “They’re my berries! You stole them! I saw them first! I hate you!” She ran away, crying, “I’m telling on you!” I followed her up this very same road, calling her a tattletale. Once Mamita heard, she beat me with a eucalyptus stick and said, “You’re a terrible sister!”
I’m embarrassed at the memory. “Matilde?” I ask. “Why are you so nice to me now, after I hit you and yelled at you and was so mean to you when I was little?”
She laughs. “You weren’t mean. You were just an annoying little sister who I loved but who drove me crazy.”
“Remember that time you took the berries I wanted and I pushed you down and beat you up?”
“What are you talking about?” she says with a grin. “The only time I remember you hitting someone was Papito. Whenever he was drunk and hit Mamita, you tried to defend her. You ran up to him and hit him with a stick and yelled, ‘You’re a bad man!’ I admired your gumption. I was too scared to stand up to Papito myself. But at the same time, I felt protective, because you were my little sister, and I didn’t want him to hurt you. I felt so guilty for working in Quito, leaving you alone with Papito and his temper.”
“Really? That’s what you remember? That’s how you felt?”
“And you know, I think in a way, Mamita and Papito respected you for your spunk. Sure you drove them crazy, but you didn’t let anyone walk all over you. You stood up and fought. No matter how much they beat you, you stuck out your chin and told them you’d be a rich, famous business lady one day. That’s who I remember you being, little sister.” She laughs. “And look at you now, going to your fancy colegio, living in your fancy hotel. Nothing stops you! You have as much spunk as ever, little sister.”
chapter 36
I PEER OUT FROM THE DARKNESS behind the curtain. Doña Amelia is onstage, in the spotlight, talking into the microphone. Every one of the five hundred seats before her is full. She’s talking about how hard we all worked and how we all became friends and how really, every one of us is a queen in her eyes. She introduces the judges, in the front row, who stand up and wave at the audience.
In the wings, the other girls are nervously whispering. Our hair is shiny, every strand in place, our lips pink, our teeth smeared with Vaseline to make them glow. Susana did my makeup—sparkly silver eye shadow on the lids, a dark pencil to make my eyebrows dramatic, blush to accentuate my cheekbones.
The smell of hair spray and gel and perfume clouds the air backstage, and the girls ask each other, “Do I have lipstick on my teeth? Is my blouse tucked in evenly?” I run my tongue over my own teeth and check my faja. I’ve tied it super tight to make sure it stays up; the worst thing in the world would be if it came unwound and fell down in front of hundreds of people.
“And now,” Doña Amelia says, “I present to you … our lovely contestants!”
At that, the audience applauds, an ocean of clapping and whistling. As we’ve rehearsed dozens of times before, we stream onstage from both wings, shortest to tallest, dancing an indigenous harvest dance. We dance down the stairs and along the side aisles and then meet in the back to dance down the center. The spotlights follow us and people crane their heads and murmur, “Look, how beautiful.”
We divide into two lines again, one on either side of the stage, graceful and smiling, and then disappear behind the curtains. A huge wave of applause sounds. Our next three dances go smoothly, each one met with loud cheers and whistles.
After the dancing segment, each girl walks like a model across the stage when her name is called, silently praying she won’t trip and fall. She stops in the center, turns around, and pauses with a smile pasted on her face as Doña Amelia reads a little about her. Most every girl is a star student, loves her friends and family, hopes for world peace.
When my name is called, I glide across the stage, imagining I’m a bird or a deer as Doña Amelia suggested in our lessons. I pause at the center and smile big and let my eyes dance. Stand tall, little radish flower. Doña Amelia says nice things about how I’m on the honor roll and especially excel in science class.
Next comes the part that has kept me up worrying at night. The speech in Quichua. Every night I’ve gone over it, again and again in bed, struggling to get the intonations right and strike the perfect nasal tone. It’s a flowery speech, more or less written by Susana, about how important preschool is for indigenous kids.
The girl in front of me, Luz, is talking about her organization, which helps bring health education to the indigenous communities, and although she rocks back and forth nervously, her words flow effortlessly from her mouth, her accent perfect, her sounds flawless. I can’t understand most of what she says, but it sounds noble, about how we all have rights to good health care.
At the end of her speech, the audience applauds. Their applause is getting a little weaker, because it’s been two hours and they’ve already heard about forty girls give one-minute speeches, and they’re ready for the queens to be chosen already. Luz curtsies, and a few people call out, “Way to go, Sis! You’re great, Cousin!” Everyone but me seems to have their whole extended family here to cheer them on.
“María Virginia Farinango,” Doña Amelia calls.
I glide onstage, imagining a golden string holding up my head. Querer es poder, I say silently. Yo puedo, yo puedo. I can do it, I can do it. I stand behind the microphone. The spotlight is so bright in my eyes, I can’t make out any faces. I hear people moving and shifting, and some babies babbling and their mothers shushing them.
My mind is as blank as a cloudless sky. I can’t remember a single word in Quichua. I can’t remember the first line of the speech that I’ve repeated hundreds of times.
Think, Virginia, think. Just remember the first line and then the rest will come to you.
But the moment has stretched out as long as it can and I have to do something.
I open my mouth, praying the Quichua words will tumble out. Instead, Spanish emerges. “Buenas noches,” I begin. Good evening.
Talk about education, Virginia. Preschool education for indigenous kids. Talk!
“I grew up in Yana Urku,” I hear myself saying in Spanish. This is not my planned speech. This is something entirely different, and I don’t know where it’s headed, but I keep going. “In the poorest of the poor indigenous communities around Otavalo. There was not a single book in my house. My parents couldn’t read. They thought school was a waste of time. They thought I would grow up to be a farmer like them, renting out land from mestizos. They thought I’d have no need for an education.
“I went to school for six weeks, but then I stopped. I stopped because when the teacher heard me speak Quichua she pinched my ear and called me a stupid longa.”
Murmurs ripple through the audience. The room is humming with a new energy. I can feel the audience listening, hanging on my words.
“I thought that speaking Quichua was a bad thing. When I was seven, my parents gave me to a mestizo family, and I worked for them for free. For eight years. My boss called me a stupid longa. She said that longas are not meant to read. That they’re meant to serve. And during that time I forgot how to speak my language. I learned to feel ashamed of my culture.”
Again, the audience murmurs; although I can’t see their f
aces, I feel their presence. I feel them with me in my story.
“My boss refused to let me go to school, so I studied in secret. I taught myself to read. I taught myself about the wonders of nature, like photosynthesis. The wonders of the world and the wonders of the universe. After I escaped from this family, I knew that the most important thing for me was to go to school. I knew that education was the way I would succeed, the way I would have a career and a voice in the world.”
More murmurs. “Sí, sí, sí,” people whisper. Yes, yes, yes.
“I represent an organization that believes education is a right everyone should have, indigenous or not. This education should begin early, at preschool. And it should be an education that values our language and our traditions as indígenas. No child should feel that her mother tongue is bad. No child should grow up in a house with no books. No child should be told she is only fit for serving. I ask you—”
I pause, because tears are slipping from my eyes and my voice is quavering, not from nervousness, but from the sheer force of speaking from my heart. I wipe my eyes and take a deep breath and go on. “I ask you to support our organization so that no child has to go through what I did. So that every child can learn about the richness of her world, the richness of her culture, the richness of her self.”
I give a small curtsy. “Pagui,” I say in Quichua. Thank you.
A burst of applause sounds, so loud it fills me. As I walk offstage into the wings, it’s as though I’m swimming through a sea of sounds—clapping and whistling and foot-stamping and whooping.
Backstage, the other girls hug me and whisper, “That was incredible, Virginia!” and I whisper, “Thanks,” but I can’t say anything else because my knees are weak and my heart is pounding. As the last ten girls give their speeches, I feel my pulse race and think how good it feels to say what I believe with every molecule in my body, while hundreds of people listen. It doesn’t matter that my speech wasn’t in Quichua, that there’s no way I can be voted queen now. Something inside me feels full.