The Secret Story of Sonia Rodriguez

by Alan Lawrence Sitomer

  “Buenas noches, Sonia,” he said. His thick, black mustache tickled my cheek when he kissed me goodnight, just like when I was a little girl.

  “Buenas noches, Papi,” I answered, kissing him back.

  My drunkle, of course, still had not returned to la casa from the local bars. The last thing I did before I went to bed was put a booger on his pillow.

  chapter once

  As I watched fat Tía Luna stuffing chorizo into her mouth like one of those walruses gobbling dead fish at the zoo, I realized the telenovela-size shame a scandal with my drunkle would have brought down on every Rodriguez this side of Nogales, if I had opened my mouth. Latinos love gossip more than they like big hats or rosary beads, and what could be more juicy than the conceited daughter of Alfredo Rodriguez falsely accusing her tío of being a rapist? Most of my family members thought I was stuck up and conceited anyway. Personally, I didn’t think this was true, but being the good student, the dutiful daughter, and the one who planned on graduating from school without getting pregnant, addicted to drugs, or caught having sex with a black man always made other family members jealous of me.

  How come when a person tries to do good so many people try to bring them down? Even in my own familia. One thing was segura, though, if I had been a boy, it would have been different.

  The plan to stay clear of my drunkle worked great. For weeks I had pretty much been able to avoid being alone with him without any problems, mostly because we had so many people living under one roof and someone was almost always home. Besides, he was always bebido, and it’s just not that hard to avoid someone who stumbles around all the time due to tequila.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” said Tía Luna, sucking on her teeth when she saw her brother lying bombed out on our floor at 3:20 in the afternoon. “The devil has him in his grips. We must do something.”

  She reached for more chorizo. I could tell by the way Tía Luna was gobbling down fatty chunks of pig meat that a plan was brewing in her head. On the inside, I grew excited. Of course, on the outside I couldn’t show it, and had to simply continue to sit at the dining room table doing my homework under the light of my study lamp, but it felt good to know that something big was being planned for my drunkle. Whenever Tía Luna got that look in her eye about a family member, something big always happened. Something big and unpleasant.

  Maybe she’d have my drunkle move in with her instead of us, to get more Jesus in his life. Maybe she’d take him to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and make him say, “Hi, my name is Ernesto, and I am a mean and nasty drunk.” Of course, he could also say, “I am a liar, cheater, pervert, and all-around scum-sucking dirtbag.” (I wonder if they have meetings for each of those things as well?) Maybe she’d just bring a priest over to do an exorcism, realize my drunkle was far too possessed by Satan for regular means, and shove a hot poker three feet up his butt in the name of Christ the Savior.

  No matter what was cooking inside that little birdhouse of a brain my aunt possessed, I knew something bad was going to come out of it for my drunkle. And something bad for my drunkle was, of course, something good for me.

  “He’ll be forty years old next week,” my aunt said with a serious look on her face.

  “Si, Ernesto is turning into un viejo,” answered mi ama in Spanish.

  “I know what we must do,” my aunt finally announced. I leaned forward to listen. This was going to be good. “We’ll throw him a birthday party.”

  “Qué?” I said.

  “A birthday party, a grand fortieth fiesta to celebrate this important milestone in his life.”

  “That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard of,” I said.

  My aunt scowled at me. “I’ll pretend the devil didn’t make you say that.”

  I lowered my eyes and looked back at my school-work.

  “A great expression of our love will show his heart the way to Jesus,” Tía Luna explained. “We’ll invite everyone. The cousins, his compadres, the whole neighborhood. It will be a day to honor him unlike any other day he’s ever known.”

  “Pero his birthday is Saturday,” said mi ama, concerned that there wouldn’t be enough time to properly host a party for what could easily be ninety to a hundred people.

  “Not to worry, everyone will contribute. Food, cake, cervezas,” assured my aunt. “A fiesta like this is just what he needs to show him the goodness of the Lord.”

  And just like that it was settled. On Saturday night a gigantic fortieth birthday party was going to be thrown to get my drunkle to give up his alcoholic ways. The fact that we were doing it by giving him a party that served alcohol didn’t seem to bother anyone a bit.

  Of course, I was sure that if my drunkle knew of this big party being planned in his honor, he would have said thank you; but since he was lying half conscious on the floor in front of everyone, the only sound he was able to make was a fart.

  Initially I was scared that I would have to do everything for this party all by myself, but Tía Luna took a moment to assure me that this wouldn’t be the case, that everyone would contribute.

  “Everything will be taken care of, Sonia. All you’ll need to do is make the tamales.”

  Oh, that was all, huh? Just the tamales. Why didn’t she ask me to build a barn so we could give him a horse, too?

  “Besides, your mother and I will help you with them. It will be quality mujeres time for us.”

  To this day I still don’t know why I believed her. Guess who missed the next three days of school?

  If a person watches the few movies they actually do make about Latinos, they always show the women in the kitchen sharing the joy of making tamales while smiling, laughing, and bonding in a way that passes wisdom down from one generation to the next. That’s why I hate Hollywood; it’s nothing like reality. Making tamales is a giant pain in the ass.

  First you make the dough. The masa, the chicken broth, the mixing of the lard until it’s all fluffy. I hate lard. And I hate making it fluffy. And I hate combining everything together afterward and then adding in all the seasonings. Making leather shoes for two hundred feet would be easier.

  After a whole day of slave labor in the kitchen, I had dough. Big deal. Later that night I did homework.

  Day two started with chopping. Chopping chiles. Chopping tomatoes. Chopping onions, chopping garlic, chopping jalapeño peppers. Mi ama, knowing how hard it was to chop so much food for so many tamales, finally came into the kitchen to help. That was nice of her. But after being on her feet for twenty minutes, she told me that her ankles had started to swell due to the pregnancy, and she explained how el doctor didn’t really want her on her feet, so she went back to watching telenovelas in the bedroom.

  I think she chopped a few carrots, though, but I wasn’t sure because she brought them back into her room to snack on. The only break I took was for lunch. To make my mother’s lunch. After all, pregnant women need to eat, don’t they?

  Of course, Tía Luna was a total no-show. She was probably off buying little crucifix candleholders for decorations, or something like that.

  I was so behind schedule by the second afternoon that I had to use store-bought chile sauce. You’ve heard of the seven deadly sins according to the Bible? Well, the eighth sin in mi cultura is using store-bought ingredients for homemade tamales. However, I didn’t care. If it hadn’t been for jarred chile sauce, I wouldn’t have finished until my drunkle’s four hundredth birthday.

  Then came the husks. Sorting, soaking, patting them dry, spreading the dough, filling the tamale, folding the tamale, and finally, tying the tamale. By tamale seventeen, my wrists hurt. By tamale thirty-six, my elbow ached. By tamale fifty-one my arms, neck, shoulders, and forearms were in such burning pain that I was ready to sue my mother for causing carpal tamale syndrome. Then mi papi walked in. Needless to say, I wasn’t in the best of moods.

  “Tamales,” he said in an upbeat voice. “Reminds me of your abuelita. Her tamales are made with magic.”

  “Well, unlike Grandma’
s, these are made with Old El Paso,” I answered rudely. Sweat dribbled from my temple. We sat there in silence for a minute.

  I realized I had been nasty to my father. There was no need. Mi papi worked this hard for us all the time.

  “What are you doing home?” I asked in voice that tried to sound nicer.

  “Navidad número dos,” he answered. Christmas number two, Navidad número dos, was a little joke we had about my father’s work schedule. He only got two holidays a year off from the gym where he cleaned locker room towels from 5:30 to 11:30, six nights a week. The first was Christmas, Navidad number one. The second day off was when they waxed the racquetball courts. Once a year the gym would close half a day early so that the racquetball courts could be buffed and shined to a nice polish for all the white people who played on them. We called this Christmas number two.

  I wished he would have at least gotten New Year’s off, but the gym was always open for the fat people with new resolutions and the crazy work-out freaks who had no life beyond exercise and organic foods. As mi papi said, January was always the busiest month because of all the plumpies trying to lose weight. But by February things slowed down a lot for him. I guess they all went back to eating doughnuts for dinner again.

  I spread, filled, folded, and tied another tamale. My hair stuck to my neck from perspiration. I looked at the pile of food with anger. Only in mi cultura could a person waste so much time on one meal.

  Mi papi stared at me in a thoughtful way. I bet I looked like a fifty-year-old woman to him—and I didn’t care.

  “Vamos,” he said suddenly.

  “No puedo, Papi,” I responded as I looked over at the mounds of food yet to be prepared. Even though I had no idea where he wanted to go, I knew I couldn’t join him.

  “Anda, vamos,” he said more forcefully. “Quiero una nieve de fresa.” I stopped mid-tamale. Strawberry ice cream, Spanish style, was my absolute favorite in the whole world. To me there was nothing more delicious on the planet. Mi papi knew this was my weakness.

  “No puedo, Papi,” I said again softly, though it certainly was nice of him to offer. “But really, I can’t.” There was still so much more to do before tomorrow.

  “Sí puedes,” he insisted, taking the tamale I was about to fill. “Quiero una nieve de fresa,” he repeated in a determined voice and pulled me by my arm out of the kitchen. There was no fighting him. Mi papi had a grip that could crush a metal pipe, and I was so tired that before I could even resist, we were in the living room, where Rodrigo and my drunkle were watching a fútbol game on TV.

  “A dónde van?” asked my brother, wanting to know where we were going. I’m sure he would have loved us to bring him a nieve de limón with chocolate chips on top. That was his favorite. And of course my drunkle would eat some ice cream. Usually he liked mango. Plus, my brothers in the back of the house and Ama, everybody loved nieve, no matter what the flavor. Going on an ice cream run would make the whole house happy.

  “Regresaremos,” said mi papi, not directly answering Rodrigo but instead telling him in a very clear tone something that meant “We’ll be back, and it’s none of your hot-damn business where we’re going.” My drunkle’s eyes looked away from the TV and scanned over to mi papi. A moment later, and without a word, my drunkle’s gaze returned to the television set. He didn’t dare question my father. There was only one rooster in this henhouse, that was for sure. Rodrigo took the hint as well and quietly went back to watching the game. As it happens, it was the third fútbol game in a row, a special “never-get-off-the-couch triple-header.”

  Mi papi turned to me. “Lista?” he asked, wanting to know if I was ready.

  Screw it, I thought, and took off my apron. I hadn’t even put any of the ingredients in the kitchen away.

  “Sí, quiero ir,” I answered. I slipped on my shoes and took a step toward the door.

  “Sonia …” my mother’s voice suddenly called from the bedroom. I stopped and began to turn, but my father quickly hurried me out of the house and closed the door before she could yell, “Ayúdame.”

  I looked at him with curiosity. What if she really needs something?

  “Mmm, nieve de fresa,” he said, looking at me with a small, mischievous smile. A moment later we were walking down the street. Papi wasn’t concerned about mi ama. She’d live, he figured.

  When I was a little girl, Papi and I used to go for Spanish ice cream all the time. And we always held hands. Our private walks were some of the most happy memories I ever had. Of course, when you grow up and you’re a teenager, it’s not really that cool to walk down the street holding hands with your father, but right then I didn’t care. I slipped my hand into his, and we made our way down the sidewalk. Holding hands with mi papi didn’t make me feel ashamed. In fact, I couldn’t have been more proud if my father had been the first Mexican on the moon.

  To me, mi papi represented everything a real Latino should be. He was honest, hardworking, caring, and made sacrifices for his familia without calling attention to himself and without ever asking for anything in return. He didn’t drink, smoke, lie, or complain. He even paid his taxes. Of course, he had to use a fake social security number to pay them, and the government had no way of giving him credit for his tax contributions, but mi papi felt it was the right thing to do since his kids went to American schools, his wife rode on American buses, and his feet walked on American streets. Technically, because mi papi was illegal, the government really shouldn’t have kept his money. After all, it wasn’t being properly and legally collected by them.

  But of course they did. For some reason, his check to the IRS always got cashed.

  Hand in hand we turned a corner and made our way down the street. I looked up and saw danger.

  A few cholos were hanging out on the sidewalk, some scary-looking gangsta teens with shaved heads and long white T-shirts. Around my neighborhood the police had very little control of the youth, and in many ways, cholos ruled the community. But my father paid them no mind and simply said “Buenas” as we passed. If I had been alone, I would have been terrified of these four boys with tattooed necks and baggy pants. But walking along with mi papi and seeing the way he greeted them, suddenly I wasn’t afraid at all.

  “Buenas,” one of the cholos said, nodding his head in return. Though Latino gangstas don’t respect much, they do respect a hardworking family man. We passed without a problem.

  Mi papi gets labels put on him by United States society, but I don’t see how he is any different from the Pilgrims I studied in history class. The Pilgrims came to America searching for opportunity. So did he. The Pilgrims worked hard and made positive contributions to the nation. So does he. The Pilgrims tried to live a decent lifestyle. So does he. After all, it’s not like the Pilgrims had papers. And look at what they did to the Indians when they got here. By comparison, Latinos like mi papi are a bunch of fluffy soft lambs.

  What it really comes down to, and what gabachos don’t want to hear, is that white people are hypocrites. They want their lettuce picked, their houses cleaned, and their gym towels washed, but they don’t want to give the people who do these things a good salary or job benefits. They make big money off cheap, immigrant labor like mi papi, and if the Hispanics weren’t here to do these jobs, who would do them? The whites? Yeah, right. The blacks? They might clean a few sauna towels, but do you really see them out in the fields picking fruit? I doubt it. It reminds them too much of slavery and picking cotton. Would the Asians do it? Possibly yes, possibly no, but let’s face it, a salad isn’t a salad without a Mexican.

  And we all know how white people love their salads. Could you imagine the gringa ladies without them? Ay, there’d be a revolution.

  In the back of their minds, maybe white people are scared because they know the day of the Latino in America is coming. We may be a slow people, and it may take another five or ten or twenty or fifty years, but one day, the Latino voice in America will be heard. And when it is, it will be loud. There are just too many o
f us.

  However, my guess is that our voice will probably be first spoken by Latinas. Our men are proving to be too weak in this country. Not all of them, but too many of them love alcohol, drugs, violence, and laziness way too much, and it keeps our whole culture down. But now there is a new generation of Hispanic ladies. In a way, this has been our first chance in history. Birth control, bilingualism, and bachelor’s degrees—the three B’s, are giving us power.

  Watch out, America, here come the Latinas!

  Walking along with mi papi, I grew excited about my future. We got to the ice-cream shop and ordered.

  “Dos, por favor,” said mi papi, pointing to the flavor we wanted. “Grande.” I smiled. We’d each have our own large.

  The lady filled our order, and mi papi paid with a ten dollar bill. Not being able to wait once the lady put our order on the counter, I grabbed a white plastic spoon and took a big bite. Mmm! As the taste hit my tongue, my body melted. Did I mention how much I LOVE nieve de fresa?

  Then I saw mi papi. He wasn’t eating. Something was wrong.

  Instead of taking a bite of his ice cream, mi papi stared at the change that had been given to him by the lady behind the counter. It wasn’t correct. I watched him recount the money two times as the lady who served us walked away. Papi paused and recounted it again. This time I counted it with him. The lady had mistakenly given mi papi change for a twenty dollar bill instead of a ten.

  I smiled. It was a good break for mi papi. He worked so hard for his money that free ice cream and a little extra cash never hurt. After all, if anyone deserved it, he did.

  “Discúlpeme,” my father then called out to the ice-cream lady.

  No, Papi, keep it, I thought. The lady walked back over.

  I stood there and watched as mi papi explained that she had made a mistake and had overchanged us. The lady looked at the money mi papi held in his outstretched palm, and her cheeks grew red.