Then again, yeah, they kinda were. I lowered my eyes and crossed the street. Even when you aren’t a stereotype, to some people you still are.
After going through security a second time where they checked the babies for nuclear warheads and rocket grenade launchers, we entered the correct building and set off to find my drunkle. After three-and-a-half hours of sitting on hard, wooden benches, my drunkle’s case was finally brought before the judge.
They led him into the courtroom in handcuffs. My drunkle was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit that said PRISONER in big, black letters, and slip-on shoes that had no laces in them so he couldn’t commit suicide by hanging himself while in custody. (Not that I would have minded if he did.) My drunkle looked unshaven, messy, and smelly…pretty much like he always did. The bailiff walked him to a chair, motioned him to sit, and the proceeding began.
Things started with the judge. Then the lawyer spoke.
“What’s he saying?” mi ama asked.
“He asked, How does he plead? And Tío’s lawyer just said ‘not guilty.'”
“Not guilty, that’s good,” Tía Luna said in Spanish as she leaned in and listened to my words. Then the prosecutor spoke. I translated.
“He says, ‘Bail should be denied. Enough is enough,'” I interpreted. “He says there’s no way we should let this man back out on our streets. He’s a repeat offender, he’s got multiple outstanding warrants, and he’s doesn’t even have the required papers to be in this country. The chances of flight are very high.”
“Racistas,” my aunt said. “They’re all racists.”
The public defender responded.
“Correct me if I am wrong, but the last time I checked, in the United States of America, this man is entitled to the presumption of innocence and due process. Your Honor, my client deserves his rights.”
“And what about the rights of tax-paying American citizens?” answered the prosecutor in a fiery tone. “Who is representing them? This man is an illegal. This man is a criminal. This man is a burden on society in many, many ways. Hospitals, jails, the insurance prices we pay—what doesn’t this type of person negatively affect for the average American?”
“Might I remind my esteemed colleague of a small little document called the Constitution?” answered the public defender. “To not treat my client in the same manner that all people who appear before this court are treated, regardless of race, color, or creed, is an affront to everything our founding fathers stood for.”
“Enough, gentleman, enough,” interrupted the judge as he rubbed his temples. “You’re giving me a headache.”
I looked over at my drunkle. I knew he didn’t understand a word of what was going on, but still, he sat there looking as if he really couldn’t give a damn. The lack of respect he showed for the courts, for the lawyers, for the entire judicial process was plain for all to see. My drunkle had been to jail before in both El Norte and Mexico, and he didn’t look as if he was sweating the outcome of this arraignment either way.
¿Lo que será será, right?
It turned out that this time the “stupid” American courts denied my drunkle bail.
“Racistas,” Tía Luna said when she heard the judge’s verdict.
“But, Your Honor, if I may…” said the public defender.
“I’ve made my decision, counselor. Next case. I’ve got about a thousand more to get through before we end for the day.”
The lawyers closed their briefcases and the bailiff led my drunkle, still in handcuffs, behind the wooden door through which they had entered. A moment later he disappeared.
“¿Qué pasa?” mi ama asked. “What happens now?”
“Yo no sé,” I answered, telling her I didn’t know. The public defender grabbed his briefcase and started walking out of the courtroom. I chased after him.
“Excuse me, what’s going to happen to that man you just defended?” I asked in English. The public defender kept walking, not even breaking stride.
“I’ll plea him out for a lesser charge. With his record, he’s probably looking at twenty-eight to thirty-six months in jail. Why, who are you?”
“Family,” I answered.
“Sorry,” he said.
I stopped walking alongside of him.
“Yeah, me too.”
The lawyer entered an elevator, started dialing his cell phone, and vanished behind closed doors.
On the way home, mi ama had to search for enough coins for the bus while I wrestled with getting the twins loaded and down the aisle. However, as mi ama and Tía Luna could clearly see, I wasn’t nearly as annoyed with all the little aggravations on the way home from court as I had been on the way to court.
We found some seats toward the back of the bus. My aunt stared at me as we bounced along in the plastic seats.
“¿Qué? I finally asked.
“Es familia,” she said to me. “What kind of person is happy when a member of la familia is sent to prison?”
I lowered my eyes and didn’t answer. But she was right: I was definitely happy.
chapter treinta y tres
For the first three days after my drunkle was sent to jail, I was still tense while walking around mi casa, but soon the pressure started to lighten. I don’t think I quite realized how much the presence of my drunkle had been weighing on me. But once he was gone, it was like I could breathe again.
I realized that I hadn’t sent an e-mail to Maria in quite a while. I had to admit that it was totally lame that I hadn’t at least sent her a small hello, so instead of shooting her off a note of apology, I went to the bookstore and bought Isabella a book on baby sign language. After all, sign language is a legitimate, real language, like Portuguese or French, and if Isabella learned how to sign, I figured she’d able to communicate with a whole bunch of people later in life. Any small advantage had to help, right?
Inside the package I added a twenty dollar bill and a small note telling Maria that I hoped she was not offended by my sending her this book, and that the pocha aunt from California was just trying to help out any way she could. I walked out of the post office after mailing Isabella her gift and my heart felt lighter. It was nice to do nice things for other people. It really was true what my favorite bumper sticker of all time said: MEAN PEOPLE SUCK.
When I got back from the post office, I called Tee-Ay.
It turned out that Constancy had long since given birth, and Tee had been accepted to the University of Southern California after a whole lot of drama. Her story was absolutely incredible. We were on the phone for over two hours, and after I hung up, I felt even better about the world. As Tee-Ay told me, life worked just like that stupid little sign on Mr. Wardin’s wall in history class said it did: GOOD THINGS HAPPEN TO PEOPLE WHO TRY.
While my spirits were much higher after I hung up with Tee, they still weren’t high enough for me to call Geraldo. And truthfully, I didn’t think I ever would. What was gone was gone, and I had to be a realist about that. But hearing Tee-Ay’s story did inspire me to do something I didn’t think I ever would.
“Do you remember me?” I asked. Bright and early on Monday morning I had gone to school.
“No,” said Mrs. Javellano. “I mean, I remember your face, but I see a lot of students. What was your name again?”
“Sonia,” I answered. “Sonia Rodriguez.”
“Oh, I remember. Home studies, right?” “I did the first packet,” I said, pulling out the work sheets she had given me a long time ago. “I know, it’s a little late.”
“Yeah,” she said sarcastically. “Just a little.”
“But is it too late?” I asked with hope in my voice.
Mrs. Javellano swiveled in her chair, took the packets from me, and looked at my work. I may have been preposterously tardy with the assignment, but every problem was done in its entirety and I was sure that each answer was absolutely correct. I had even double-checked all my spelling and made sure to answer all the questions in complete sentences that were properly punctu
ated.
“It’s never too late, mija,” Mrs. Javellano said as she set down my work. “Maybe we can work something out so that you’ll be able to graduate next year.”
“I would like to graduate,” I answered. “With my class.”
“With the seniors this year?” she replied with a laugh. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
“You don’t think that’s possible, or you think that you don’t think that’s possible but it might be possible?” I asked with a very serious look in my eye.
Mrs. Javellano paused and studied the determination on my face. But still, I could see she was doubtful.
“I’m willing to work hard,” I added.
“How hard?” she asked. That small opening was all I needed.
“Very hard,” I answered. “Very, very, very hard.”
Still, Mrs. Javellano stared.
“I mean, we’ve got to get more Latinas walking these halls with diplomas instead of babies, right?” I then added, throwing back in her face the same line she had used on me.
Mrs. Javellano stared for another moment, then, without a word, stood up, smoothed out her fashionable red pants, and crossed the room to her file cabinet.
“I’m not making any promises, mija. Do this and we’ll talk,” she said as she handed me a huge stack of papers.
I think Mrs. Javellano expected me to be intimidated by the large amount of work she had just handed me. I flipped through the folder. There was science, math, English, and history assignments all rolled together in one big package.
“By tomorrow,” she said in a strict tone. She informed me that the amount of work she had just given to me was supposed to take the average home-studies student two weeks to finish.
I didn’t flinch. The next day, I was back in her office ready for more.
Mrs. Javellano looked over the work I had done. I watched her as she took notice of the fact that each and every problem had been done correctly and neatly. Some people don’t think neatness counts, but it does.
“It’s good, but this is not a one-night stand,” Mrs. Javellano commented as if she were trying for a second time to scare me off. She handed me another giant bundle of assignments. I thanked her and then returned the following day with every last bit of work done. I returned a third day, too, but this time with two things for Mrs. Javellano: the first was the homework packet with every problem correctly solved. Home studies might not have been the most academically challenging work there was, but there certainly was a lot of it. I guess it had to be that way so I could make up all those missing credits in a short amount of time.
Number two, I brought Mrs. Javellano a homemade champurrado vainilla. After all, who doesn’t like to start their day off with a little hot vanilla drink to take the chill out of the air?
Mrs. Javellano didn’t accept my champurrado, though. Instead, she told me it was unnecessary and somewhat inappropriate for a student to bring her a morning drink as if she could be bribed. Then in a firm tone she said, “Now, do this,” and handed me an even bigger pile for day four.
“I know,” I answered with a forced smile. “By tomorrow.”
That day, she didn’t even smile back. She was all business.
For the next two weeks I showed up every morning bright and early at 7:10 with a large stack of work and two champurrados vainillas. And even though I was up every night until at least 2:00, I never felt tired. After three weeks, I’d only missed one question, and I’d gotten perfect scores on all my tests.
“Well, you certainly are persistent, Sonia, I’ll give you that,” she said as she took a sip of the drink I had brought her. By week three, Mrs. Javellano had started bringing muffins so that the two of us could share a small breakfast while she graded my work. I liked the blueberry ones best.
“Here you go,” she said as she handed me my next stack of work.
“Mrs. Javellano?” I said.
“¿Sí, Sonia?”
“Would it be possible for you to give me everything so that I could just get it done once and for all?” I asked before she closed her file cabinet. “It’s a holiday weekend, and I could make some good progress.”
Mrs. Javellano laughed.
“It’s Cinco de Mayo, mija. Why don’t you take a break and spend some time with your familia? she offered. “You’ve worked hard.”
“I don’t want to take a break,” I said. “I want to be la primera.”
There was a pause. Mrs. Javellano studied me and then put down her drink.
“I was la primera,” she said.
“You were the first, too?” I answered back.
“Si, not just high school, but also college,” she told me. “I started at community college then transferred to a four-year university and then went on to get a master’s degree.”
“A master’s degree?” I said. “I don’t think I can—”
“Yes, you can, mija,” Mrs. Javellano interrupted forcefully. “Si, tú puedes. And you must never think you can’t.”
A moment later Mrs. Javellano crossed the room, went to her file cabinet, and pulled out eight thick packets. My arms sank when she handed them to me.
But inside I smiled. I was only eight packets away from being the first Rodriguez in America to graduate from high school.
Me, the tortuguita.
chapter treinta y cuatro
No one in mi familia was nearly as religious as Tía Luna, and she always tried to make us feel guilty about it around holidays like Easter and El Día de la Candelaria, the day that Mary first presented Jesus in church. Year after year my aunt wanted to celebrate religious holidays much more devotedly than the rest of us. Heck, if it had been up to her, we’d have put a fifty-foot Christ-on-the-crucifix on the top of our roof for Good Friday and spent the next seventy-two hours until el Domingo de Resurrección flogging ourselves on the front lawn.
But when it came to Cinco de Mayo, the only real Mexican holiday in El Norte, our entire familia was always excited to go full speed ahead. It was our absolute favorite day of the year. The food, las hor-chatas, the dancing, las piñatas, the fireworks, la música—our whole street would close down so that every family on the block could participate in una Gran Fiesta of cultural pride. Hundreds of people would show up to celebrate. It was a real sight to see. Women would be dressed in bright, flowing dresses, while men like mi papi would wear traditional charro suits, dressing like fine Western cowboys with giant sombreros and shiny, thick boots. We had mariachi bands, dancers who would swirl and stomp their feet, delicious foods that seemed to never run out, and lots and lots of smiles and love in the air. As mi ama once told me, more than one baby was made on the night of Cinco de Mayo in our neighborhood, that was for sure. It was as if amor floated inside the oxygen we breathed. Cinco de Mayo was the only day of the year that offered something for everyone in our household.
And this year it was going to offer me the opportunity to earn my diploma. Doing all those packets made me feel like some kind of marathon runner who was getting stronger and stronger as I got closer and closer to the finish line. In my mind, Cinco de Mayo came every year, but the chance to graduate high school on time with the rest of my class only came once. I was determined to do it and made plans to stay home.
Plus, this year was a little weird anyway. Tía Luna was still depressed about the fact that my drunkle was in jail, and mi papi had chosen to work instead of taking the whole night off to come to the fiesta. Last year his gym had to close down because there were no Mexicans to clean the locker rooms—everyone had called in sick to go out and party (including mi papi)—so this year the gym offered Papi double-time wages, a seventy-five dollar bonus, and an extra night off later that week if he would work. After all, the gym had to stay open for the white people who didn’t know the difference between Cinco de Mayo and Día de los Muertos.
It was just too much of a good deal for mi papi to pass up, despite the fact that for the past sixteen years he had dressed up in a full Mexican charro costume and
ridden horses with three of his compadres in the city’s annual midnight Cinco de Mayo parade. But this year, mi papi would not be able to join his friends. They said they understood; after all, a real vato had to do what he had to do to support his familia, but Papi still packed up a bag of clothes just in case he had the chance to get off work early, change outfits at the gym, and ride a horse in the holiday parade after his shift ended. One way or another, Papi would still get in some good fun, because Cinco de Mayo parties always went on very late into the evening; but still, he was hoping not to break his tradition.
Tradiciones are big in the Hispanic community.
Lucky for me, Ama was feeling better, so she decided to take the twins out to the street fair in the made-for-two stroller. Besides, when you’re a Latina, nothing gets you more positive attention than going out with a cute little baby, and mi ama had two of them. With the way I’d dressed them, in adorable, matching, mini-mariachi outfits, mi ama would be the toast of the town all night long. It was the perfect opportunity for me to stay home and get some real work done in peace and quiet.
I held the front door open for mi ama as she rolled the babies outside.
“Sonia, come, have some nieve de fresa,” she said to me in Spanish. “It’s your favorite.” There was a spark of real happiness in her eyes. “And Cinco de Mayo is your favorite holiday.”
“No, gracias, Ama. Maybe I’ll go later with Papi when he comes home after work,” I answered. Though I admit I was tempted by the thought of nieve de fresa, I was more excited to stay home alone and get my work done.
My two younger brothers Oscar and Miguel dashed out the door. They would be out until well after midnight, eating sugary foods and causing trouble like all the other boys their age, and they were as jumpy as jelly beans with excitement. Rodrigo, of course, had long since left for the evening. Mi ama took the twins, Tía Luna took my two-year-old brother, Hernando, and everyone exited. I closed the front door and made myself a cup of hot tea.
The Secret Story of Sonia Rodriguez Page 17