by Lulu Delacre
“¡Vas a aprender mucho aquí!” she says. “You’ll learn a lot. I can’t wait to hear all about it when I come back at two.” She picks up her purse, ready to leave.
I can feel the knot in my stomach tighten. I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s nine a.m. I want to tell Mamá that I don’t want to stay. I have a bad feeling about all this. Hmm, maybe I could go back home and do all the chores I’ve been putting off? Just this once, I’m going to stand up for myself. I take a big breath that makes me feel strong and sure and ready just like a knight in shining armor.
Mamá speaks first. “I’m proud of you,” she says.
And her words make my invisible armor crumble all the way to the floor. I fake a smile, say good-bye, and follow Mamá with my eyes as she walks away to her car.
Now I’m trailing the skinny secretary down a long hallway and up some stairs to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, she points to the corner classroom, room 25, and leaves. Am I supposed to go in by myself? From where I stand I can hear rowdy kids inside that room. I place one foot in front of the other, making the walk last longer than it should, until I reach my classroom and peer inside. There’s a large poster board with a map of the Americas dotted with the places of origin of my classmates. It seems like most of them are from Argentina. Do they all talk like the secretary and Abuela? I hope not. The kids are so loud that I can barely make out what they are saying. Here boys are trading soccer cards. Here girls are poring over pictures of a birthday party they all seem to have attended. It’s like these kids have known each other for years and years. I feel a little sick. I want to call Mamá, but I remember the excitement in her eyes right before she left. I can do this, I say to myself. I spot a tanned girl with straight amber hair pulled back by a wide plaid hairband and approach her.
“¿Tú sabes dónde me siento?” I ask, looking around for a seat.
The girl looks at me, puzzled, “¿Y vos, cómo te llamás?”
I pause, trying to understand her question. My throat gets dry. I can feel both the girls and her friends staring at me.
“Me llamo Sandra,” I say. The group of girls start to giggle. I take a step back and lean against the wall, wanting to fade into it. I listen with all my senses, trying to understand what I’ve said or done wrong. All I’ve said is my name! And then I know why the girls laughed. It’s because of how I pronounce the words in Spanish. Loud steps announce the teacher at the door.
“Buenos días, chicos,” the teacher greets the class.
“Buenos días, Señora Peña,” the students answer in unison. Señora Peña looks like she’s been out sunbathing for many years. Her large gold earrings dangle from her wrinkled earlobes. She looks my way and I straighten.
“Ché, Mauricio, encontrále un pupitre a la chica nueva, ¿querés?” Señora Peña asks a boy while gesturing toward me. I figure the teacher is asking him to find me a seat. Encontrále, querés . . . I repeat these words to myself.
“¿Sos Sandra, no?” Señora Peña asks. Encontrále, querés, sos . . . what is it about these words? They are verbs! It dawns on me what the teacher and kids are doing that is different. They are conjugating the verbs all wrong. It’s not the way Mamá taught me, back when I first learned to read. I was four then, and I remember that the Spanish textbook was written in the Spanish we spoke at home. Could it be that I’ve learned incorrect Spanish all along?
Seated at the corner desk in the last row, I pay close attention in class. I want to do well. I’m used to it. The teacher distributes copies of a story. She asks us to read it silence. At least the story is in the Spanish familiar to me and I understand everything. Then Señora Peña calls on the students to read aloud. One by one, the kids read the sentences in that peculiar singsong way Abuela has. They pronounce the words they read a different way than me or most of the people I’ve heard speaking Spanish do. When it’s my turn, I rise and try to mimic my classmates’ pronunciation. But this slows my reading. I can tell that Señora Peña is losing patience.
“Gracias, Sandra,” Señora Peña says. “Thank you. Maybe you can practice reading at home.”
Some kids start to giggle. I’ve never felt this dumb. I feel my ears turning red.
“¡Mirá sus orejas!” I hear a boy yell. “Look at her ears!”
“Mauricio!” the teacher reprimands the boy.
I pull my hair over my ears, wanting to disappear under my desk. The teacher begins to ask questions about the story. I know all the answers but I’m terrified to raise my hand. I don’t want to be mocked for how I speak! So I spend the rest of the morning in silence, wishing for time to pass.
The lunch bell finally rings, and all the students storm out the door.
“Sandra, vení, a almorzar,” Señora Peña calls me to follow her to lunch. But then another teacher comes searching for Señora Peña and I’m left stranded by myself. I stand still for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then I venture into the hall. My stomach is growling. I’m so hungry! I look one way, then the other. I’ve no idea where the cafeteria is, and I’m afraid to ask anyone for directions. I walk to the end of the hall, trying to follow the trail of voices, but I find myself at a dead end. Then I go down the stairs, passing by the main office, but the cafeteria doesn’t seem to be there either. The cavernous building begins to feel more and more like a maze. I cry. Angry tears burn my cheeks in the middle of the empty hallway while I walk aimlessly. By the time the smell of pizza and hot dogs finally leads me to the cafeteria, lunch is already over.
That afternoon I wait to be picked up. I feel utterly alone. The minute Mamá pulls up, I run to the car. I have never felt this thrilled to see Mamá.
“It looks like someone had a good day!” Mamá says. “Cuéntame, tell me all about it. You liked it, right?”
I look into Mamá’s eyes and see the usual sparkle of pride. So I give in, again, wanting to please.
“Yes,” I say.
“¡Cuéntame, cuéntame!” Mamá pleads, wanting to hear the details of my day.
“Well . . . ,” I start. I wish there was something I could do to get out of attending Saturday school. And as we drive past the lot with the two fences, it occurs to me that someone might see the white fence and never notice the barbed-wire one. We stop at the red light.
“Vos, no sabés lo que aprendí yo,” I say, mimicking the singsong way of speaking they have at Saturday school and conjugating the verb Abuela’s way.
Mamá turns to me.
“Why are you speaking as if you were from Argentina?” asks Mamá.
And I think again of the two fences and that maybe there are times when you need to point out the hidden one to others. I will have the courage this time. I don’t want to return.
“That is how they teach Spanish, Mamá,” I say. Then I tell Mamá how the kids made fun of the way I speak and how I was afraid to raise my hand. I tell her how I wish there was another way to learn correct Spanish. Mamá says nothing. But I notice she’s upset.
I start picking my cuticles. I hope Mamá is not too angry with me. We’re entering our neighborhood when Mamá speaks again.
“I had no idea they would all be speaking Argentinean Spanish. I should have inquired about this. It’s my fault. No wonder you felt out of place. I want you to learn the Spanish most people use. The Spanish I learned in school in Puerto Rico, the written Spanish widely used by Spanish-speaking countries. We’ll find another way.”
“We will?” I ask, amazed that I stood up for myself and didn’t anger Mamá.
“We could read together,” Mamá says.
“We could . . . start our own Spanish book club?” I say.
Mamá pulls into the driveway, shifts the car into park, and turns to look at me. She has that sparkle in her eyes.
And I think my eyes . . . are sparkling too.
90,000 CHILDREN
Sólo el que carga el costal sabe lo que lleva adentro.
Frank prepared his slingshot. He brought it to a full draw before raising his
arms and aiming at the target. He leaned his cheekbone against his knuckle, the way Dad had taught him. Since school had let out for the summer in Mission, Texas, Frank had spent his days honing his shooting skills in his backyard. There was a shooting range nearby, and Dad had told Frank that now that he was twelve, he would teach him how to shoot a pistol. Once Frank knew how, they would go hunting with Gramps at his ranch in Duval County. Frank couldn’t wait to learn how to shoot a gun.
Frank released the ammo with a light touch and hit the soda can hanging in the catch box that he and Dad had built. Fifteenth perfect shot in a row. He was getting really good. If he could go with Dad on his rounds, Frank knew he could shoot those illegal aliens in the ankles and make them swim all the way back to Mexico! Frank gathered his things and put them away. He didn’t want Mom complaining. Mom frowned on Frank shooting and such. She much preferred it when Frank passed his time drawing superheroes. He liked doing that, too. Frank picked up his how-to manual to improve the hero’s action pose that he had started the day before. Mom and Dad would be home soon. Frank was itching to hear Dad’s latest story about his Border Patrol job.
Just a few months ago, Dad had been on night patrol when he spotted footprints near the riverbank of the Rio Grande. He followed the trail stealthily to find seven men sleeping in the brush. Dad could tell they had crossed the border illegally. As he tied up one of the men, the others rose to flee, but Dad was quick to call in reinforcements. Less than an hour later every one of those illegal aliens was in handcuffs. Dad had told Frank that as soon as he noticed the backpack stress marks on the one guy’s shoulders, he knew they had smuggled drugs. That’s how these mojados paid the Mexican drug cartel for passage. Dad and the other agents searched for drugs and recovered seven fifty-pound bundles of marijuana hidden in the bushes.
Frank wanted to be just like Dad when he grew up. He wanted to get rid of the bad guys. Yeah, Frank would go to college so he could also enter into the force as a GL-11. College and experience had allowed Dad to climb quickly through the ranks at the Rio Grande Valley Sector. Dad was a boss. He spent a lot of time behind a desk, but he also spent a lot of time in the field, where the stories Frank lived for happened.
Frank heard Dad’s truck pull into the driveway and rose to open the front door.
“Hey, Dad!”
Dad removed his bulletproof vest and handed it to Frank. “Hang that up for me, will ya, Frank? Be there in a minute.”
Frank carried the heavy vest into Dad’s study. He was about to hang it up when instead he tried it on. He looked at his reflection in the window. He looked good with his high brow and chiseled features. Gramps had said that he sure had Spanish blood running through his veins. He was un verdadero Francisco. A true Francisco, like his Tejano namesake, six generations ago, who had settled in what back then was New Spain. Baptized Francisco by his mother, nicknamed Frank by Dad. He loved his nickname.
Frank heard the front door opening and removed the heavy bulletproof vest.
“Hola, amor,” he heard Mom greet Dad. “How was your day?”
“It ain’t stoppin’ anytime soon!” Dad answered, taking off his holster. “Kids are floating over in cheap dinghies in broad daylight, then waiting for us to get them. The chief’s saying all the processing centers are bursting at the seams. Forecast is ninety thousand unaccompanied minors by year’s end. Today we had a hundred and fourteen!”
Frank heard this number and ran to his room to adjust the growing column of illegals caught by the Rio Grande Valley Sector in the graph he had started a year ago. He kept it in his secret notebook hidden under the mattress so Mom wouldn’t see it. He figured she wouldn’t understand. But Frank wanted to keep a tally of all the bad people Dad apprehended. The kids were coming from Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador, and for some weird reason the government couldn’t send them back to where they came from right away like they could the Mexicans. These kids had to see a judge or something to approve their staying or leaving. If it were up to Frank he would have flung them right back. Some of the kids, Frank had heard, didn’t even know Spanish. What did they speak? Frank was fluent in two languages. Mom and Gramps had taught him Spanish. Gramps called these aliens indiecitos ignorantes. He said the ignorant Indians were a real burden on society.
At dinner, Dad was mostly silent as he ate a second helping of Mom’s chili con carne. Mom did most of the talking, going on and on about the new exhibit she was helping curate at the Mission Historical Museum. She was all about the history of Texas. Frank got up to clear the table when Dad had finished eating.
“Dad,” Frank asked, “can we go to the shooting range?”
“No seas insistente,” said Mom. “How many times have you asked your father the same question this week? Dad is tired. And he needs to go back to work tonight. They’re short on staff.”
Dad had been working overtime since the surge of kids began, and it was taking a toll on him. Frank hated that he didn’t get as much time with his Dad as he used to. He hated the illegal kids for it.
“Come here, Frank,” said Dad. Frank went over to stand by Dad’s side. “Tell ya what, I have a break tomorrow afternoon. We’ll go check out the range then. How ’bout that?”
“Thank you, Dad!” Frank hugged his father.
The next day Frank woke up at dawn, wide-eyed with excitement. He had dreamed of guns and targets. He vaguely remembered hearing the front door closing during his sleep. Dad must have returned late. By two o’clock Frank was pacing in his room, his slingshot in the left pocket of his cargo shorts. Finally Dad woke up and, after a bite to eat, made good on his promise. They climbed into the family van in the hundred-degree heat. Frank was itching to get to the gun range.
“Don’t have too much fun!” Mom called from the doorway, a hint of worry in her voice.
It was a short ride to the indoor shooting range on West Two Mile Road. Frank and Dad took their places in the registration line behind a big woman and two kids who couldn’t have been more than eight.
Dad rented a 9 mm gun and taught Frank how to safely handle, hold, and aim it. Frank nodded after each of Dad’s instructions. An hour and a half later, Frank was tired. Managing the gun’s recoil was not easy. He had been able to hit the paper silhouette of the man thirty feet away most of the time and was proud of his first effort. So they called it a day.
“You’re a good shot, boy!” Dad said. “Look at that cluster of bullet holes!” He high-fived Frank.
Frank grinned all the way back to the van. The temperature had dropped slightly, and the blue of the sky had deepened.
“Dad, can you take me to where you caught the illegal aliens yesterday?” asked Frank.
“Call them immigrants, son, you hear me?” said Dad.
“Okay,” sighed Frank. “Can you? Please?”
“All right,” Dad replied.
They rode for half an hour to a wildlife refuge by the river. Anzalduas Park was usually full on weekends. It was almost empty on this Thursday afternoon. Dad drove up the road and parked not far from the dam. Frank was no longer tired, and he jumped out of the car and swaggered behind Dad all the way to where the trees met the dam. Dozens of lacy dragonflies flew in front of Frank, but he didn’t notice them. He could not stop staring at the river and its invisible borderline. The same rushing water had two names: Río Bravo to the south, Rio Grande to the north.
“Right over there. See the trees on the other side that are like a cove by the river?” Dad asked. “That’s where whole groups gather before crossing over. The border is so close to us we can’t do nothing until they’re almost here.”
Frank instinctively scanned the river for illegals, feeling like one of his superheroes. Suddenly he saw something in the distance.
“There!” he said. He pointed to a couple of heads bobbing in the water. “Can we arrest them?”
Dad squinted his eyes. “Naw, that’s just people swimming, not trying to cross. Even if they were, I’m off duty, son.”
�
�Aw.” Frank sighed again.
“Let’s go back,” said Dad. “I need to check on something.”
They returned to the van and drove out of the park. On 396, Dad slowed down at the sight of a Border Patrol truck parked in front of Crazy Joe’s Saloon. He pulled in next to it.
“Stay here,” said Dad. “I’ll be back soon.”
Frank heard a commotion inside the rickety wooden building and craned his neck out the window. Men’s voices could be heard inside. Frank opened the car door and peered over it, shielding his eyes with his left hand from the setting sun. From this vantage point he could see a uniformed agent out back on the saloon’s patio talking to women with babies and a bunch of children who didn’t look clean. He saw Dad join the large group. Suddenly Frank heard a rustle on the right side of the wooden building. His heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t supposed to leave the car. He heard the rustle again. He couldn’t resist. He needed to take action. He got out of the car, closed the door without making a noise, and tiptoed his way to the side of the saloon.
Frank sensed movement, and he inched forward. He retrieved his slingshot from one pocket and his ammo from another. He could do this! A few yards away, torn green tennis shoes poked out from the corner of the building. Just like he thought—an illegal alien must be hiding here. He would show Dad he could catch one! Frank readied his slingshot. He brought it to a full draw before raising his arms and aiming at his target. Just as he was about to release the ammo, a song, a string of beautiful, unrecognizable words, reached him. Frank lowered his arms, dazzled by the melody. And he walked to its source, curious.
Turning the corner, Frank found a girl. She had her black hair braided and carried a small bag. She gazed up, her almond eyes as golden as her skin. On her lap she held a vibrant drawing. She smiled, and the tiniest wrinkles formed around her nose.