Living Beyond Borders

by Margarita Longoria

  “Yaneli Anzaldúa.” Clapping and cheering.

  “Marlén Balderrama.” Clapping and cheering.

  It goes on like that until they get to the Ds and I hear my name, “Mileidy Dominguez.”

  I straighten my crown, and as I walk through the doors under the pink streamers, I am handed a single rose. Jaime walks me all the way and adjusts his pace to mine. He lets go of me in the gentlest, sweetest way, and I walk to where all of the girls are lined up for presentation. There are stacks and stacks of fathers, mothers, abuelitas, and cousins taking pictures. Mama is not among them, but that would be too much for me to expect; I know she can’t get out of work. I can’t blame her for that. I’m here because she called the school, something she’s never been comfortable doing.

  As soon as all of us are lined up, Mr. Puentes says, “Comunidad, Community of Dennett, les presento—I present to you las quinceañeras. Please sit—y que se sientan por favor.” And they are all there at their tables, looking at me, at all of us in our glittery quinceañera beauty and promise, and I feel myself bursting free from spaces within spaces within spaces, the tiny nesting doll now becoming a living princess.

  “I know we always thank the padrinos and madrinas at the end, pero antes de que se vayan—before anyone leaves quiero decir gracias, and muchos thank-yous. You made this possible. Thank you especially to the esteemed board members, teachers, paraprofessionals, all of the madrinas and padrinos who gave their time y donaciones, to Noche De Gala dress shop, Ernesto’s Quick ’N’ Clean, to Pastor Benny of Life in the Spirit Community Church, gracias—thank you for the cena! To Izquierdo and Sons Painting and Drywall for all of the decorations, thank you! But most especially, I want to publicly thank a lady who you all know and love.”

  He doesn’t even get the name out because all of the kids start chanting, “Yoli, Yoli, Yoli, Yoli!”

  “Ms. Esparza, could you please step forward so the students can recognize you?”

  Miss Yoli gives this little half wave, and I can tell she’s shy and doesn’t want all of the attention on her.

  “There are so many people to thank, but we also want to thank all the stylists of Karina’s Touch of Beauty salon de belleza, who gave our girls the five-star treatment. Mrs. Karina Galán Izquierdo, can you please wave so we see you?”

  Everyone looks around and finally we see the petite woman who was supervising in the band room. Doña looks so small, despite wearing tall heels and her hair high up in a bun. She’s all style, wearing jeans and a white gauzy blouse. She waves. There’s a lot of waving at this quinceañera.

  Mr. Puentes says, “Now, Pastor Benny, if you would please come up and say the blessing.”

  This older bald man dressed in a black suit his chest is popping out of moves forward from where he’s standing with the salon owner and the other community madrinas and padrinos.

  He steps up to the podium as Mr. Puentes steps aside.

  “Si me permites, Mr. Puentes, I’d like to read some Scripture.”

  “Por supuesto, of course, Pastor Benny.”

  He puts on some readers and pulls a little Bible out of his suit coat.

  “A traditional reading for a young lady celebrating her quinceañera. ‘Antes de formarte en el vientre ya te había elegido; antes de que nacieras, ya te había apartado, te había nombrado profeta para las naciones. Yo le respondí, ¡Ah, Señor mi Dios! ¡Soy muy joven, y no sé hablar! Pero el Señor me dijo, No digas, ‘Soy muy joven, porque vas a ir adondequiera que yo te envíe, y vas a decir todo lo que yo te ordene.’ ”

  Pastor Benny takes off his glasses and says, “Young ladies, you may not be prophets, or maybe you are, but for sure you are special and were known before you were born. This verse speaks to how you are princesses who are loved by your community, your school, and are called by nuestro Señor Jesucristo.” Some of the quinceañeras and most of the adults at the tables cross themselves. He raises his arm and extends a hand toward us. “We love you and always want the best for you. May all of your days be blessed, and wherever you are sent into the world to do good, always remember this moment, your calling, your gente, and where you come from. And with that, Lord bless the food!”

  Mr. Puentes says, “A las princesas, you are beautiful, hermosas, and we at Dennett Ninth-Grade Campus celebrate you and elevate you.” The loudest clapping and cheering is for us, the princesas of Dennett.

  * * *

  ~

  The excitement starts to fade for me through dinner because all of the girls are sitting with their families, and like any party, they’ve invited their parents, abuelitas, tíos, and tías, and so their big round tables are full of loved ones.

  Brittney sits next to me through dinner, and she must see me drawing back into myself because she says, “Hey, Leidy, did I tell you how beautiful you look? I mean, I know it’s not all about looks, but you are radiant.”

  “Thank you, Brittney. I appreciate you being so nice,” I say.

  “I mean, for real, like I thought I looked good at my quince, but wow, just wow.

  “Check it,” she says, and starts going through her feed of pictures from her own quinceañera, showing me her hair, her cream-colored dress, her professionally done photos with a real photographer and a real camera. It’s a little humblebrag on her part, but she’s trying to be sweet because, other than her, I don’t know anyone and I’m here alone.

  Friends of hers come by and she introduces me, and takes selfies with them as they make their way past our table. She stays with me the whole time even though I can tell she wants to walk around and talk to her friends.

  “You can go, Brittney. You don’t have to stay here with me.”

  Brittney thinks about it for a second, and says, “Are you sure? Are you going to be okay?”

  “Yes, Brittney, I’ll be okay.”

  “Okay,” she says. “But I’ll be back. I’m just going to check on something.”

  She touches my hand, then leaves, and I am sitting at the table by myself, and this is always how I knew this would end.

  The typical parts of the quinceañera, the presentation of the last doll from a girl’s childhood, the changing of the shoes from tennies to high heels, won’t be happening tonight. But there’s one big thing that is on the order of events, the one thing I am dreading the most: the father-daughter dance. I haven’t heard from my own father in years and it’s only been Mama and me for as long as I can remember, but she’s not here and won’t be.

  * * *

  ~

  As dinner winds down, I can barely touch the food in front of me because all it does is remind me of my sad little quinceañera with Mama where we ate only carne guisada; reminds me of Mama, who is not here now, and Brittney, who never made it back. Mr. Puentes comes up to the podium and announces what I’ve been afraid of.

  “At this time, we will have the traditional dance.” I feel like my soul is bleeding from me, pouring out all over the gym floor. “But this is not a father-daughter dance. This is un baile de amor. Whoever is special to you, quinceañera, a father maybe, or a tía, your older brother who’s always been there for you, your mother, grandmother. You decide.”

  The song, “No Crezcas Más,” comes on, and even though I don’t want to, the tears start to pool in my eyes because I see the quinceañeras with their fathers, some with their abuelitas, others holding hands with viejitos in their white Stetsons, taking the hand of their nietas, and I’m sitting there alone.

  I close my eyes because I can’t. I just can’t. This can’t be the end of my movie. Mileidy Sits Alone Crying can’t be the title splashed across the screen while this sad song about a father not wanting his daughter to grow up starts just as the credits roll.

  The song plays on and when it comes to that powerful part with the guitar and the rest of the instruments and the singer says, “Por favor, no crezcas más,” I decide it’s time to leave.
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  And then I hear my name.

  “Mileidy.”

  I open my eyes.

  Standing in front of me is Mr. Puentes, holding out his hand, inviting me to the dance floor. But that’s not it. I look past him and see a line at my table with others standing behind him. They all press in to see me. Mrs. Perez from English, and a few of my other teachers, Brittney with her hoppy expectation, Short King Jaime with his braces and dimples on full display, Beatriz, Miss Yoli, Esmer, all with their kind eyes and no pity in them, only love washing over me. They are all there, waiting and wanting to dance with me, gathered together by Brittney herself, and as each of them starts to blur because I can’t hold it in anymore with these different tears, Mr. Puentes takes my hand and gently pulls me out of my seat and hands me his cell phone and puts it up next to my ear.

  Even though I can barely hear, Mama says, “Mijita linda, aunque no puedo estar allí contigo, I am always with you and they are there for you now. We are all here for you, mi princesa.”

  And behind my eyes, as Mr. Puentes and my procession take me out to the dance floor for the baile de amor, I see the title of this uninterrupted new release of my life as the ending credits roll—

  La Princesa Mileidy Dominguez: She Finally Gets What She Wants.

  OJO

  by SYLVIA SÁNCHEZ GARZA

  Mami said she didn’t believe, but when we would throw up or spike a fever and nothing seemed to explain why, she did. She would call Mina, our neighbor, to come over and check us and, unfortunately—do the dreaded “egg thing.” Mina was a parent volunteer, a church volunteer, and a Girl Scout leader, but she specialized in ojo. My sisters and I hated it when she rubbed the egg on our belly. It was so weird. How can being stared at make you sick? None of it made sense, but we were used to it because sooner or later, “mal de ojo” happened without warning.

  “Your grandpa used to say that some people had the power to look at someone in a certain way, and for no reason, they would end up curling over with pain.”

  “Like the evil eye?”

  “It’s more than that. It’s a belief.” Mami always said that she didn’t believe in it, but we’d still get the egg thing, just to be sure—a dependable treatment.

  Today I stay home from school crying so I won’t have to face her again, but the experience is still stuck in my head; I can’t stop thinking about it. I look out through my window and observe the sun disappearing behind the grayish clouds that look like they want to explode. Shaking uncontrollably, I cover my head with a blanket.

  This past week was the worst. It started when I was transferred from my junior high English ELA class to the Honors English class. Mrs. Fritz approached with a smile as I shoved my sweaty hands into my red fringed jacket. I had worn it for protection against evil every single day since Mami bought it for me and embroidered a Virgen de Guadalupe on the inside. I took a deep breath as the teacher introduced me to my new classmates.

  “Class, this is Suzy. She’s here from English ELA. Let’s welcome her.”

  The class smiled and pretended to work on their assignment, indifferent. Gracie, with long silky brown hair, wrapped her curls around her manicured index finger and stared at her curly locks, pushing them behind her ear, showing off her gold earrings and designer denim jacket. She glared at me then quickly looked away, shuffling her expensive mall-bought tennis shoes back and forth, scuffing the floor so I would notice them. I pulled on the fringes of my jacket that was just a tad too big for me and looked down at my worn boots.

  After class, Gracie strolled up to me with her hand on her hip, stared me down, and then turned away. I followed her toward the door, where her friends were waiting. “¿Gracie, qué pasa? Did you wanna ask me something?”

  “Listen, chicklet! I don’t speak Spanish. I’m not like you. Who do you think you are, coming in here with that jacket? Where’d you get it anyway—the flea market?” My eyes got big, I didn’t hear the insult for what it was.

  “Haven’t you ever been to la pulga?” I asked. “You can find all sorts of treasures there.” On Saturdays we’d spend the entire day at the flea market, selling whatever we could for extra money and then shopping for everything from fruit to clothes and furniture.

  “Are you kidding? I go to the mall. FYI, girlie, you don’t belong in Honors English. Go back where you came from. Loser.” Proud of herself, Gracie crossed her arms, laughing and glaring at me from head to toe like I was her worst enemy.

  I was upset, but I didn’t back down.

  “This is the Valley,” I said. “Hablamos en inglés and español. We can speak any language we want to; we can shop where we want to, and we’re not into name brands like you. Besides, what’s the big deal about my jacket?” I tried to keep my voice from shaking and tears from bursting out of my eyes.

  “But why wear red? Are you trying to get noticed?” She signaled to her friends, who came over, oohing and ahhing over Gracie. They proudly listened to their leader.

  Mrs. Fritz must have heard the whole conversation. But she only chose that moment to speak up.

  “Don’t worry about her,” she said, brushing Gracie’s words off. “She’ll get over it.”

  Mrs. Fritz, surrounded by literature and poetry books, sat at the wooden desk, sipping her herbal tea, preparing for her next class to come in after lunch. Didn’t she understand? Gracie point-blank hated me and wanted the entire class to hate me too. This “mean girl” acted like the newly crowned South Junior High School homecoming queen, prancing around with an invisible crown. Of course it upset me. She had insulted me right to my face.

  Why me? I didn’t do anything to her.

  “Maybe she’s a bit jealous.” My teacher looked up at me from her steaming mug.

  “Jealous? Jealous of what? She’s not jealous. She’s seems evil.”

  “Suzy, she doesn’t understand you. Give her some time to get to know you. Our culture is new to her. Besides, I think she liked your jacket.” Mrs. Fritz went back to sipping her tea.

  “What? She made fun of my jacket. . . . Wait a minute. If she’s jealous, isn’t she supposed to touch my head or something? I don’t want to get sick because she admired my jacket. She should at least touch my jacket, or else . . .” Mrs. Fritz stared at me again, not understanding,

  For the next week, Gracie shot arrows at me with her eyes, and every time she talked to me, it made my stomach hurt. She wouldn’t stop harassing me, following me wherever I went. She was always there, staring at me with those eyes. It was unnerving me.

  Up until now, I’ve always loved school, but today I can’t make myself go. I really don’t feel well.

  The door opens, and Mami walks in. She comes in close, places one hand on my shoulder, one on my forehead, and looks me smack-dab in my watery eyes.

  “What’s wrong, mijita? Te hicieron ojo?”

  “That’s not what’s wrong with me, Mami. Please, don’t call Mina. She’ll come and start saying all this stuff in fast Spanish, then put the egg on me. I don’t want that. My stomach hurts, and I want to throw up. I’m not going to school. The last thing I need right now is Mina talking weird with her hands and trying to cure me.”

  I know what the cause of all this is, but I can’t tell Mami. She wouldn’t understand. Besides, I’d prefer to handle my problems, including Gracie, on my own.

  “Fine then, you feel warm, and you look pale. I think I’m going to take you to see what the doctor says.” Dr. García, our family doctor, delivered all five of us, and Mami trusts him with her life. “And if I need to,” she adds, “I’ll call Mina.”

  I get on my jacket even though it is warm outside, slip on my boots, and pack myself into the blue monster mobile. It’s an old used car with faded paint on each side. I hate this car. Everyone notices it, and it putters every time it turns on, which makes it even more embarrassing. Mami takes us to school in it, and it is torture. I a
lways ask her to drop me off a block away so that no one can see me. All I need now is for Gracie to notice me getting out of that car.

  I find myself lying down in the back seat, holding on to my stomach, thinking about why I didn’t just stay in my ELA class.

  We arrive at the doctor’s office, and we wait with strangers in the waiting room. What’s the point? Dr. García isn’t going to help me. He doesn’t have a medicine for me. But I sit there because I have no choice.

  There’s an older lady with a young man, perhaps her son, sitting on one side of the room. She’s wearing a huge black sweater even though it’s about a hundred degrees outside. Her perfectly braided silver hair must be twisted on top of her head at least four times. The deep wrinkles must represent all the problems throughout her life. She sits on the hard chair, mumbling to herself, wringing her hands with a rosario wrapped around her fingers. Her son is flipping through Automobile magazine with “Cars of the Month” on the cover. His eyes peer up and creep me out, but I pretend not to notice and then turn away.

  On the other side of the small room is a young mom with five kids aged about three to ten. The mom’s hair, held in place with a bulky clip, and her wrinkled, loose clothing make her appear much older than she probably is. Her pale face looks down at the floor with closed eyes. How can she possibly do it all? No wonder she’s at the doctor’s office.

  To the right of the woman is a man, sitting alone, with a cough that sounds like a barking dog, wiping his mouth with his hands.

  I shudder at the thought of sitting there among all these germs.

  The soft music is playing, and it smells like Clorox has been splattered all over the floor and seats just minutes before we walked in. There’s no place to lie down, so I lean over and rest my head on Mami’s shoulder. After what seems to be hours, I doze off and dream about how I wish things could be for me.