 
### My Mama's Tamales

### By Mia Rodríguez

### Copyright 2015 Mia Rodríguez

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

### Dedication

For Jimbo V. who convinced me to take this novel out of a dusty drawer and let it come to life again.

For my mother who taught me to be proud of my culture. Even though she's no longer walking on this planet, her influence informs every part of my life.

I hope, Mama, that wherever you are you know how much of what you've taught me I've engraved in my heart and mind. I hope I've done you proud with this novel about the Mexican culture you were so proud of and loved so completely.

For my new great _amiga_ Angelica Acosta—an earth angel helping me with my mysterious disease and lending an ear to my zany out-of-the-box ideas. _Kindred spirit friend, your truly incredible Angelus Physical Therapy is an oasis for me._

Last but certainly not least—for all the mothers out there of Mexican descent playing the cards that life has dealt them.

### Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

### Author's note

This novel has been a labor of love for me. _My Mama's Tamales_ is a love letter to my Mexican American culture. I'm appalled at all the bigotry and hatred floating out there disguised as truth. I'm deeply saddened by all the _haters_ on the internet spewing their poison.

I firmly believe that earth is on _RED_ alert. If we don't get it together then the next phase for us is extinction. We human beings have to learn to get along instead of insisting on believing lies about each other to uplift our fragile egos. This work directly confronts bigotry all the while telling about the _truth_ and beauty of my amazing culture.

Having grown up in the sixties and seventies and reaching adulthood in the eighties, this story is very personal to me. Even though it's somewhat autobiographical in its heart, it's still a work of fiction with fictional people and the fabrication of certain places.

I have interjected much Spanish in this novel to give it the flavor it deserves. Please note that the definition of those words will usually be either in the same sentence or paragraph.

I hope you enjoy this provocative, deep, and loving novel.

Prologue

Life

The world is a messy place. Very confused. Upside down and backwards much of the time. A giant ball of full-fledged problems. It's like a super-hot firecracker salsa with all kinds of chile and fixings chopped, mixed, and blended in. Take a taste and you may end up in a flood of tears.

How does a mother teach her daughter about the many, _many_ good and bad turns in life? That there are blissful days of enchiladas, tacos, and tamales. But there are also harsh days of illness, nausea, and starvation. Starvation. Even with all the necessary food, there are many other ways to starve.

How do you explain wars, genocide, hatred, guns, and atomic bombs without scaring your child half to death? How do you teach your progeny to survive in such a world?

I keep asking myself these questions.

Even though my daughter Martina is a remarkable young woman, life is still a _loco_ rollercoaster ride for everyone—as crazy as can be. In just a few short weeks my daughter will be graduating from college with honors. I know better than anyone how hard she's worked in her studies to get to this point.

But even with all her smarts, Martina is like most young people her age thinking she knows more than she really does and assuming that the world started with them because history is so ancient that it must have very little to do with their contemporary lives. Martina believes that all the books she's read, the numerous tests she's taken, and the many lectures she's attended have told her the secrets of life.

However, her college education has only taught her through a narrow keyhole about the human experience. A very limited one that books can't fully capture.

You can't just read about a _fiesta_!—you have to experience it! Especially when those books might've been written by limited people who just researched through reading about _pachangas_ and never actually _lived_ them, or who only stayed in their own tiny perceptions. It's a well-known fact that it's the conquerors who write the historical materials! For the most part, they downplay their avarice, exaggerate their bravery, and fictionalize the foe. What happens to truth?

So it's up to me, Martina's mother, to fill in the holes of her education before she goes off to this often cruel world of people who insist on _condescending superiority thinking_ **and** devastating misinterpretations of one another.

Martina is home for spring break and she's as excited as a _quinceañera_ on her fifteenth birthday about entering the _real world_. She asks me if we can make tamales. It's her favorite food. I love that the complicated process of preparing tamales will bond us—mother and daughter just like it did with my Mama and me.

Then it occurs to me—how to give her the wisdom that all her schooling couldn't even begin to touch. How to give her something much more precious than money because an overstuffed bank account can all be spent, but insight only keeps growing into maturity.

Through the years I've done as much as I can for my only child. I've made certain Martina knew that my divorce from her father when she was an adolescent had nothing to do with her. I've helped her with her homework. I've shared with her bits and pieces about how I grew up. I've even insisted she learn Spanish. I've made sure she was proud of her Mexican heritage, and she knew that her culture wasn't just about _piñatas_ and _tacos_. I wanted to make certain she didn't treat her background as a cartoon instead of as a living, breathing, and changing life force. _However,_ there's much that is difficult for her to relate to. She didn't grow up in poverty like I did. She developed during a very different time from mine. I worry that even with all my efforts she still doesn't fully understand the value of her culture.

Sometimes new generations have problems connecting with older ones. Yet, I absolutely believe that it's valuable that our children understand how from the past comes the present. There's a saying in Spanish— _saber es poder_. I couldn't agree more that knowledge is power.

Now that she's about to be thrown into a much more chaotic world than she imagines, it's a perfect time for a mother to pass down the wisdom of life to her daughter, to hand her the full spectrum of life-giving roots that tell her where she came from. She'll see how my life informed hers.

My _capirotada_ life of many ingredients going into the bread pudding.

It's a story about human beings—hatred, greed, racism, discrimination, determination, endurance, misunderstandings, faith, survival, growth, sharing, self-preservation, and love. _Lots_ of love. It's about how I came to understand and appreciate my own misunderstood culture in the middle of beauty, upheaval, and ugliness. How I came to unravel the enigmas of my own self, my humanity in a world of billions of souls fighting tooth and nail for their own self-preservation.

It's not a grandiose tale full of gigantic movie-screen-like heroines and heroes. There are no fiery dragons or massive sword combats to define the human experience in searing testosterone glory. Instead, it's a rather simple saga of what it is to be a human being in the middle of other human beings.

My _historia_ goes somewhat like this...

Chapter 1

Tamales and Turkey

I remember that when I was a little girl, I used to wake up to the shimmery red-orange of dawn on the eve of my favorite holiday. Busy sounds and vivid aromas belonged to that special day when the spiritual and the mystical sparked in the air—a magical time to believe in inspiring miracles and glittering dreams. I would lay still on Christmas Eve in my twin bed while feeling safe, snuggling in the warmth, between the striped multicolored serape-like blankets my Mama bought in _Juarez_ , Mexico.

In the meantime, I would shut my eyes. I could _see_ better this way. I could _see_ sounds like the shuffling clangs of pots and pans. I could _see_ fragrances piercing the air. I could _see_ my Mama with her old, faded, flowery apron and red bandana on her gray, curly hair in the middle of her world.

My Mama would wake up about five a.m. to start creation. As tiny as she was, she would look even smaller in the middle of a kitchen full of pots and huge hunks of masa and pork. On her face was the look of an unafraid warrior tackling what many would never attempt—the art of making tamales. She would tear the pork into strips and place them in a big pot with red chile and spices. Then her long, slightly crooked fingers (from working extensively with her hands) would knead the corn gruel and spread it lightly on corn leaves. The stack of lifeless shucks would seem endless but my Mama would patiently work on each one giving them life and purpose. This was the part I would help her with.

I would hear again and again from those begging for a taste of her creation how my Mama made the best tamales this side of the El Paso border. They were right. She did make the best tasting tamales in Ysleta, Texas, possibly the whole United States, but I was not always as appreciative of them. It was the late 1960's, and I was seven when I rebelled against the Mexican tradition of tamales during Christmas. I told my Mama I wanted her to make turkey instead.

My Mama looked at me sternly. "You don't like tamales, Rosario?" she asked me in Spanish—it was the only language we spoke at home.

When I told her that having turkey was how Christmas was celebrated on TV, she scolded me. She firmly believed I would go blind someday because I watched so much of it. In looking back, I wonder why I viewed so much English television. I couldn't understand the language very well.

"Turkey, mother," I insisted in Spanish.

"I'm not making you turkey, Rosario. I have enough work making tamales. I'm not going to spoil you like your Papa, may he rest in peace, spoiled you."

I sulked, but Mama being the kind of mother she was, didn't pay any attention to me. That blonde lady on the TV, Mrs. Brady, didn't look like she would ignore her flesh and blood. This wouldn't be happening to the Marcia daughter. I sulked even more.

"Why the monkey face?" My older brother, Jorge, asked in Spanish, stepping into the kitchen.

"Shut up, dummy," I snapped at him.

"Rosario wants turkey instead of tamales _._ " my Mama stated.

"Oh really, Rosi." Jorge started imitating a turkey all over the kitchen.

"Mom, look at Jorge." I whined.

"Neither of you let me do anything. Go outside and let me finish these tamales."

"Gee, boss-mom," Jorge said, his light green eyes merging with his full happy lips as he said _jefita_ —boss-mom. His Adonis chiseled face enveloped his wide smile. I hated how he changed the atmosphere in a room with so little effort.

"Dirt-bag, boy," I said.

"Get out of my kitchen and let me finish the _tamales_ in peace." I had already slathered masa onto many corn leaves. This part of the preparation of the tamales was almost completely done.

My brother and I obediently stepped outside. Jorge, who was about six or seven years older depending on the month, grabbed me, pulled me up to him, and tickled me.

"Let me go, dirt-bag boy."

"Let me go, dirt-bag boy," he said, imitating me calling him a _mugroso muchachillo_.

"You take advantage because you're bigger."

"You take advantage because you're bigger," he kept imitating me.

Finally letting me go, he left. I hated so much being young. I wanted to be older. To be all grown up so I could buy myself a two story house like the ones on TV, to make turkey, to tell off my brother.

I wondered what it would be like if my Papa was alive. He had died two years past. People never believed I remembered him, but I've always had a good memory and could remember morsels of life even when I was extremely young. In this case, however, I didn't need a good memory because my Mama would speak of my Papa often, as if nourishing his spirit. I guess she was really nourishing her own. She would often say, "And when Artemio was alive..." Then she would talk about something she and Papa did together. The only times she never spoke of was when he died, but those days were painfully vivid to me. No hole in my memory existed there. The luxury of forgetfulness had not been mine.

When I would close my eyes, pictures of my very ill Papa would appear. I wanted the movie projector in my head to stop, but the pictures would keep moving like a crushing tornado, and I would be forced to re-live those moments.

My Mama would tell him that she knew in her _corazon_ that something was wrong. Seriously wrong. I don't know why my Papa paid so little attention to my Mama's heart since it was rarely mistaken. She would tell my Papa to see the doctor, and he would say he couldn't possibly get off work for some little illness. They needed the money too much. How would they eat? Mama would tell him they would live in a cave and eat only _frijoles_ if it came down to it, but he had to see the doctor. We had survived on beans before and would do it again if necessary. When he finally did, the cancer had spread, and he only had a few months to live.

My Mama would cry in private but in front of the family, she never wept. She never stopped taking care of Jorge and me.

The nurse in the hospital, Nurse Jenkins, would ask my Mama if she wanted to take some tranquilizers, but my Mama would tell her with struggling English that she had two kids and a sick husband to take care of, and she could hardly do that while drugged. Nurse Jenkins would shake her head and insist on spouting out stereotypes—never realizing her own prejudices. She'd retort that it was the way Mexican women were, fatalistic and passive. If it had been her husband, she would have already gone crazy. My Mama asked what Nurse Jenkins' kids would do with a crazy mother. Nurse Jenkins stayed very quiet and eyed my Mama, and Mama's tired gaze of legions of Mexican women coping with the cards life had dealt them stared back. Nurse Jenkins would assert that in her culture women were strong and brave. From where I stood it was my incredible Mama who was strong and brave.

My Papa died one very sunny day in June. _Tía Chata_ said the angels were lighting up the earth as they were coming down to get him. My Mama arranged the funeral herself, keeping busy, as people admired her strength.

But at night, she cried.

I sat in bed wondering why _los angeles_ just didn't bring him back. It seemed to me he was needed here much more than in heaven.

Jorge cried, and my Mama would tell him to go ahead and cleanse himself because he would need to be strong now that Papa's life had ended. In the following weeks, Jorge lied about his age and began working at the grocery store packing food into bags. My Mama worked at a garment factory and did piecework after hours. That was how we survived without my Papa's income.

I started feeling sad with the pictures in my head as I relived those harsh times. I stepped over to the little house my brother had built out of old lumber for me in our backyard, and I played with my Barbie. My Mama had wanted to buy me a cheaper one with the brown hair, but I wanted what I then considered to be the real thing, the blonde one. I didn't think she would get it for me, but she had surprised me with it for my birthday.

I combed through Barbie's long blonde hair, and I put a blue outfit on her that would match her eyes. I sighed while thinking about how the apparel was not store bought. My Mama had made it. One day I would have money to buy my children doll clothes, I promised myself, not wanting to think about my mother's crooked, tired fingers making the little garments. Instead, in my child's way, I could only see how much more superior the store bought clothes were supposed to be.

I also played with the bald baby dolls I bought at the Winn's a few blocks away. They were so tiny, fitting in the palm of my hand and only costing ten cents. I would save the dimes my Mama gave me and buy inexpensive toys. Those small baby dolls were my favorite. I didn't like to buy candy because once it was eaten, there was nothing left. The investment was gone.

Since I hardly bought candies, I always saved the ones from Halloween. I ate them little by little, extending their sweet lives for as long as possible. I grabbed my small, dark-pink, vinyl purse and pulled out a little Sugar Daddy lollipop. The enjoyment of it was almost ruined as I thought about the past Halloween.

Clarissa, my cousin, had convinced Jorge to take us to the rich side of town to trick or treat. I didn't want to go. Being in a strange place made me nervous. She, however, declared that we would get two years' worth of sweets. We would get the ' _good_ ' candies, mostly chocolate. Clarissa finally convinced me. She said it would be an adventure, and we would see many magical things. According to her, the rich had money for magic.

As soon as we arrived at the fancy, subdued colored neighborhood with symmetrical lines of houses on lonely streets, I realized we had made a huge mistake. The neighborhood kids' store bought costumes menaced me. I was wearing a homemade clown costume consisting of whatever rags I could make look funny. My old blue jeans were cut at the legs to make spiky, long shorts. My Mama had bought me a tie dyed, bright pink T-shirt. She thought it was pretty. I thought it was too much, so it became a part of my Halloween attire.

Clarissa wore her sister's first communion dress that her mother made on a Singer sewing machine. Clarissa's parents converted to another religion, so the dress wasn't sacred to them anymore. I wished I had been wearing it. She must have felt like a fairytale princess since it was white chiffon with lace roses on top, a mini wedding gown. Clarissa was dressed like a bride complete with a veil floating from her head, and her waist length, thick, black hair contrasted with the startling whiteness of her dress.

Clarissa was obviously proud of her appearance. Her nose never left the air nor did her dark-brown eyes deviate from the sky. This was probably why she was not noticing the rich kids staring at us, especially her. A store bought Cinderella pointed at her and snickered. I told Clarissa we should leave. She ignored me, rushing to the largest two story house on the block. Even though the house looked like the _Brady Bunch_ home, I didn't want to be there.

Clarissa rang the doorbell and yelled, "Trick or treat!"

I stood behind her, trying to hide. Thankfully her dress was very fluffy. Not even the happy porch swing, the huge porcelain nativity scene with the sweetest looking baby Jesus I had ever seen, and a multi-colored welcome mat with smiling clowns, made me feel comfortable.

A lady who seemed to be in her sixties opened the door. Her hair was completely white, and she wore a gingham dress. She peered at us through the top of her bifocals.

"You're not from here, are you?" she grumbled.

My English was struggling, but I understood her perfectly. Maybe it was the sharp ice in her eyes that told me what she was saying.

She dropped one candy, a tiny blue lollipop, into Clarissa's Halloween bag. It was a brown paper bag from the Big 8 grocery store since plastic wasn't popular yet. Clarissa's sister was an artist and had drawn witches and goblins on it. Her candy holder was much more creative than my own light pink pillow case.

"You don't belong here," she retorted as she waved her hand, dismissing us. "Be happy I gave you anything at all."

The lady strode back into her house. Clarissa stood there staring after her with a pained expression. My face dropped, putting my eyesight directly on the welcome mat. I wanted to tell the clowns to stop grinning.

"Let's go," I finally said.

Clarissa abruptly turned around and told me we were going home. She said the lady had told her the dress was too beautiful to be trick or treating in. I didn't tell Clarissa I had actually understood the lady. My cousin often translated for me since both Clarissa's parents knew English and had taught her. The English language was rarely uttered in my house.

We told Jorge we wanted to go home. He didn't ask us why as he drove us back. Clarissa didn't say a word but kept touching her holy gown. Her small, stubby fingers kept smoothing the lace over and over again. She finally told Jorge to drop her off at her house because she decided trick or treating was childish. Before she jumped out of the vehicle, she handed me the lollipop the welcome mat lady had given her.

"I don't want it," I grumbled, shaking my head.

Clarissa left it on the seat anyway and rushed away. Jorge said we shouldn't waste it, and he popped it in his mouth. When we arrived home, we dropped off our big jalopy of a station wagon.

"Rosario, come here," my Mama said. "It's very cold. Take this." She gave me a spoonful of medicine she bought in _Juarez._ I had once asked her why she didn't buy the medicine on this side of the border.

"Really, Rosario. It's the same thing," she had stated.

_How can it be the same?_ I had questioned then and also at the moment. I had never seen Mrs. Brady with Spanish products. But there was no way I'd argue with my Mama. I gulped down the medicine, so I could get back to my trick or treating.

Jorge stepped out of the bathroom, and we left before my Mama gave me any more sour tasting medication. On the streets, no one pointed at me or laughed. It was too bad Clarissa had not wanted to come out anymore. At the first house no mean lady came out. It was _Señora Almeida_ giving me a whole handful of candies. She had smiled at me and told me she liked my clown outfit.

Jorge patiently took me from house to house. He had stopped trick or treating a year ago even though there were others his age still doing it. My brother was always proud. To him, asking for candy was undignified.

When we arrived back home, it was time to sort my treasure. I dumped the candy on a towel. In the first pile, I put the best: the chocolates, tarts, and bubble gum. I put what I would eat later like the _Juarez_ sweets in the second pile. No matter how much I liked the Mexican confections, it seemed substandard to me and to other kids. When we went trick or treating and saw it in the candy bowl, we were disappointed.

Now that I look back, I realize I never asked myself how I really felt about those candies. They were not judged on taste like the ones in the United States. They were judged on a different level. It was the kind of judgment that said Mexico was poor and substandard while a place like Italy was romantic and picturesque. My life on the superiority/inferiority seesaw began quite early where the brainwashing in my head told me to look down on anything Mexican—including myself. Up on the seesaw—turkey, blonde Barbies, wealthy neighborhoods, and American candies. _Superiority thinking_. Down the seesaw—tamales, brunette Barbies, poor neighborhoods, and Mexican sweets. _Inferiority thinking_.

I gazed at my two piles of candies. Even though I had received many peanuts, I had still done well with the treats. I placed the peanuts in a third pile, the Mama one. People in the neighborhood often mixed peanuts, because they were cheap, with the confections. I would give all of them to my Mama, since she rarely ate sweets but liked peanuts.

As I dropped a small chocolate Hershey's in my mouth, I thought of Clarissa. Her artistic bag would hold nothing but a bad memory. This was all because of a phony person with a welcome mat and a porcelain Jesus.

### Chapter 2

_Christmas Day_

I waited for Christmas day all year. It was the only time other than my birthday that my Mama bought me toys. The anticipation was almost unbearable. I would wake up several times on Christmas Eve night and would gape outside the window waiting for a golden orange to slice into the sky.

Inevitably, I would have to wait at the mercy and arrogance of time which seemed to refuse much movement like a snail plodding sluggishly forward. I wished I would have believed in Santa Claus, so I could at least be occupying this empty time by looking for him in the skies. But my Mama had never seen the logic of offering me a myth about a whited haired man with albino whiskers, skin the color of the onions we picked, and a strange red suit offering me presents.

She did, however, find it logical to gift me with a _La Llorona_ myth. A crying ghost at a river looking for her lost children would keep me from acting out. But she saw no purpose to the Santa Claus story since she wanted to make certain I understood the sacrifices the family had to make for toys.

I finally completely woke up for the last time when I heard my Mama placing tamales on _el comal_. I could hear them sizzle on the griddle, but my stomach would have to wait. I rushed to my brother who slept on the sofa. I shared a small bedroom with my Mama ever since Papa had died, leaving my even smaller, old bedroom for Jorge. He often got up in the middle of the night to sleep on the sofa where he had slept before Papa's death. Jorge didn't look like he was going to wake up any time soon, so I jumped on him.

"Rosario!" he yelled.

"Give me my toy," I demanded.

I knew that my gift was in the trunk of our station wagon. That was where it was every year. We didn't have a Christmas tree, so no gifts were placed underneath it. I tried to get my Mama to buy one, but she said we didn't have the money for one and that was that.

"Let me sleep," Jorge grumbled crossly.

I kept poking him.

"I'm going to hit you!" he exclaimed.

I wasn't scared, since I knew he wouldn't strike me. That was something he couldn't do even when I made him furious. The worst he would do was yell at me and that didn't frighten me when it was the only obstacle between me and my new toy.

"Come on, Jorge, get up! Give me my toy!"

"I'm going, you bothersome girl!"

He jumped off the sofa, grabbed the car keys, and strode briskly outside. I had to run to keep up with him. I knew I had made him unequivocally irate. My brother cared profoundly about his appearance, and normally, he would never let anyone other than Mama and I see him so _rasquacho._ His hair was standing straight up, his white T-shirt had holes in it, and his gray khaki pants were so old they were almost white. As he tore along, he rubbed his eyes to get rid of the _lagañas._ I resisted making fun of those eye boogers.

Jorge yanked open the back door, above the license plates, of our old dark-green station wagon. I remember its color, but I no longer remember the make. He swung open the trunk located on the floor where the spare tire usually sat, snatched my toy, and stuffed it into my hands. Then he returned briskly to the house without glancing back at me.

I held my new giant cloth doll with both hands. She was not wrapped since my Mama didn't believe in wasting money on wrapping paper. She would say what the purpose of it was if it was going to get torn anyway and then thrown in the trash. What a waste. That was one thing my Mama hated, wastefulness.

My new doll was one forth my size. At least, that's how I remember her. She was the biggest doll I had ever had. Because she was made of cloth, she was soft. Her hands were two stumps, her painted on eyes were chocolate, and her yarn hair was the same color. _Her hair wasn't yellow, her skin wasn't white, and her eyes weren't cornflower blue. There was_ _something_ _about her._

_She looks like me_ , I murmured to myself _._

She was wearing a turquoise dress with embroidered flowers. The two red dots on her cheeks and painted smile made her look cheerful. Many years later my Mama told me she had been so broke, she had bought the least expensive doll she could find in _Juarez._ I didn't then, nor do I now, think of her as a _cheap_ doll. She's one of the best Christmas gifts I have ever received.

I took my new doll to my bedroom and sat her on my twin bed, next to my blonde Chrissie doll. My Mama had given me that Rapunzel doll last Christmas. I had wanted her for months. When I got her, I pulled out her hair from an area on top of her head until her hair was down her waist. Her growing mane was what made her special.

I would spend long periods of time combing that Chrissie doll, wishing I could set my own long, straight, dark brown hair free. Every morning my Mama would make two ponytails high above my ears, and she would pull every strand as far as they would go like rubber bands. I'm certain that that's why to this day I have slightly slanted eyes.

Chrissie was my Rapunzel doll's official name, but I decided that since I owned her, I would give her a name. Carol. I thought it suited her fine. I decided to call my new cloth doll Jan. I could barely pronounce those two names.

"Jan," I kept saying over and over, hoping I could make it sound like it sounded on _The Brady Bunch._ There was one tremendous problem. My doll wasn't a Jan. She did not look like a Cindy either. My new doll was unlike my other dolls. And it was love at first sight with her.

Amada

That would be her new name—Loved. I took Amada with me to the kitchen where my Mama had already set a plate for me. The toasted tamales were in the middle of the table in a large bowl. A steaming cup of _Chocolate Abuelita_ was next to my plate. I imagined my Mama's crooked, tough fingers breaking the chocolate bars apart and putting them into the vessel. I sat Amada on the chair next to me. Jorge bounced into the room, shoved Amada to the floor, and sank into her chair.

"No, no," I exclaimed, grabbing Amada off the floor.

"She's made of cloth. Nothing will happen to her," he asserted.

"Behave you two," my Mama stated sternly.

"Good morning, Mother. Merry Christmas," Jorge greeted.

"Merry Christmas, son," she replied.

I sat Amada on my lap as my brother, mother, and I ate a silent breakfast. It wouldn't have been so quiet if my Papa had been there. _Navidad_ had been my Papa's favorite holiday. On Christmas day, his voice could be heard throughout the house, and he would give out the gifts. There had been no other Santa than my Papa.

Papa loved my Mama's tamales _._ His nimble callused fingers would shove his fork aside, flip the corn husks away and then grab the vaporous reddish tamales. Part of Mama's secret for award winning tamales was red chile in the _masa_ itself. My Papa could eat fifteen in one sitting, and he wouldn't eat them quietly either. The smacking noise he made drove my Mama crazy.

I breathed deep pockets of air knowing those times were forever gone, and I cuddled Amada. Time passed quickly. Jorge no longer received Christmas presents since my Mama believed they were only for kids. Jorge didn't seem to mind. Christmas wasn't the same without my Papa's crunchy mouth no matter how many gifts we got.

"Finish fast because we're visiting Lupe," my Mama stated.

My Mama's _comadre_ , Lupe Cardonez, was the mother of one of my Mama's godchildren. She lived across the border in _Juarez._ I no longer remember exactly where since _La Cuidad de Juarez_ was and still is a huge city. I do remember that it was not in the rich side of _Juarez_ where the upper crust people who appeared in the society section of the Mexican newspapers lived. It was in a very poor _vecindad._

A few doors down from my Mama's _comadre_ lived an elderly couple who resided in a one small room shack made of old faded brown cardboard. Every time my Mama visited her _comadre_ , she would take the _ancianos_ either food or clothing, sometimes both. She had tried to get me to go with her, but I would refuse. As it was, that tiny paper home haunted me at night while I slept. I would be inside the cardboard house, trapped and trying to rip out the paper walls, but as soon as I tore one layer, another one would appear. I never seemed to be able to get out and would wake up scorched with sticky perspiration.

I stared at my tamales as I thought about the _ancianos_ and their paper home. My Mama eyed me sternly, so I stuffed my mouth. She gave me a disapproving look. While my Mama wanted me to hurry, it didn't mean cramming food in my mouth. It didn't mean disrespecting it. Food was not a luxury like nail polish where if one didn't like the color, one put on another. Food was life, and life had to be respected. Mama had never said this to me but her sister, my _Tia Chata_ , had explained it. My Mama's mouth didn't need to say what her eyes did.

I finished eating at the same time Jorge did. He usually finished much sooner than me. Then again, he had eaten two more tamales than I had. I didn't look at my Mama for a nod of approval because I knew there wouldn't be one. She then told me to take some of my Halloween candies to Pilar, her goddaughter. I must have shown my inside feelings on the outside because she eyed me severely, shaking her head. Unfortunately, selfless sharing had never been one of my qualities.

Jorge shook his head. "Rosi!" I hated the disappointment in his stare.

My Mama didn't say a word but kept glowering at me. Rushing to our bedroom, I grabbed two candy handfuls, one in each hand, and crammed them into my pockets. When I returned to my Mama, I pulled them out, showing her and Jorge that I had even brought the _'good'_ candies, the ones from the United States. Jorge nodded his head, and my Mama handed me Pilar's present for safe keeping. It was a dime store coloring book and a one layer, small box of crayons. They weren't the Crayola brand but an unknown make. Pilar's Christmas gift from her _madrina_ would not be the most spectacular, but it was what my Mama could afford.

We climbed into our station wagon that we called _El Wayin_ and headed toward _El Puente Libre_ where we would cross the border and be in another country just like that. The Free Bridge, even in those days, was a large one, unlike the bridge close to my house that was much smaller and only had a few stations. _El Puente Libre_ had many and needed them because of the legions that crossed the border there instead of having to pay a toll at the one in downtown El Paso. There were times, however, that a great majority of people assumed the _Puente Libre_ was full and all went to the one with the free toll. One just never knew.

The line going to _Juarez_ was usually not very long since the Mexican border agents would pass almost everyone through without asking too many questions. The line coming back into the United States was the one that was exasperating, and it was worse on holidays and weekends. I was already programming myself for the long line back. Hopefully, it wouldn't take more than an hour to cross the border.

I watched with wonder as Jorge maneuvered himself through the unpredictable streets of _Juarez._ It was defensive driving at its best. There were so many one-ways without signs and tiny streets. Drivers often drove as if they were in the Indy 500.

My Mama would shoot Jorge a stern look if he tried to drive fast. She hated speeding. I think my Mama hated anything that seemed out of control. Jorge, on the other hand, wanted to go as fast as he could, but he would no longer try to outrun other cars when I was alone in the station wagon with him. He would call me a _chismosa_ —a big tattletale because I would run to my Mama and tell her. He thought I was being a cruel snitch. What he didn't know was that his speeding terrified me. He felt in control of the vehicle, but to me an accident was waiting to happen and would take him just like cancer had taken my Papa.

Driving wild had never been one of my Papa's favorite pursuits in life. My Papa would rarely go above forty miles per hour and would only push forty five if he was in a hurry. Jorge would get irritated and beg my Papa to drive faster. When my Papa would refuse, Jorge would hide by lying down, under the back seat, afraid that one of his friends would see him. As a result of Jorge's relentless need to speed, my Papa showed him how to drive but rarely let him actually do it.

One day, Jorge convinced my Papa to let him get behind the wheel. We were in _Juarez_ that day. Pilar and her parents were with us as we were going to _La Rosita._ This park was one of my favorite places on earth with all its huge trees and shiny swimming pools. My parents were going to _asar carne_ and a big covered pan of red steaks sat next to Pilar and me in the back of the station wagon. I undid the thin, brown paper covering the corn tortillas. They had just been bought and were still wonderfully warm. The fragrant tortillas would stick together, and we pulled each apart. Then we grabbed one for each and sprinkled them with salt. By the time they got to our mouths, the angry growls in our stomachs were hurting.

Pilar and I were eating our second tortillas when a Mexican policeman pulled over the car. Before the cop actually got to our window, my Papa was already _regañando_ Jorge, who kept asking what was wrong with getting somewhere fast. Jorge hated getting a scolding. My Papa told the boy speeder that speeding with no other purpose than getting somewhere a few minutes earlier was dumb. My Papa told him that when one went so fast, one couldn't see what was around like police. One couldn't see good things either, for that matter, like trees and sunshine.

My Papa ended up giving the _policia_ a small _mordida_ of ten dollars. The policeman told my Papa he'd better be the one doing the driving from now on. This was something my Papa didn't need to be told. He hated paying bribes.

Jorge sulked for the rest of the drive to _La Rosita._ Pilar and I ate two more tortillas _con sal_ by the time we drove into my special Eden. I pretended that the dozens of huge leafy trees held adventures for me. They were at the right and left of the park since the parking lot was in the middle. It was huge and unpaved, and our station wagon would be bouncing and jiggling when it moved over the rocks. To the left were the fenced-in swimming pools. There was no cost for getting into the park but there was for getting into the pools.

We were supposed to meet _Tia Juana, Tio Hilario,_ and Clarissa, so we drove around the parking lot until we found their car. It was no easy task since it was already full. Luckily, _Tio Hilario_ had parked slightly sideways in order to save us a space. My aunt and uncle had set up the barbecue pit close to it. When _Tio Hilario_ saw us driving up, he immediately rushed to his car and parked correctly.

My Papa slid the station wagon into the space, and we greeted each other. Music, mostly _rancherita_ s, could be heard from all around. _Tio Hilario_ had already started barbecuing on the _parilla_ he had bought. It was a round barbeque pit, close to the ground. The coals were red, making the delicious steaks sizzle, and I grinned as I looked at them. Clarissa was _haciendo caras_. Her face contorted as if she didn't like it there. It was strange behavior since she had always been as excited as I was about going to _La Rosita_. Pilar, who was also her cousin, asked her if everything was okay.

Clarissa shook her head abruptly. "It's so ugly here," she snapped.

"No, it isn't," I muttered, annoyed.

"Go swimming," my Mama told us, eyeing Clarissa with tolerant impatience.

_Tio Hilario_ and my Papa argued in a friendly way over who was going to pay for our entrance into the pools. _Ti_ o kept giving Jorge money. My Papa tried to return it with one hand and with the other, gave Jorge his own _pesos_. Finally, my Papa reluctantly gave in. Later that day, he would pay for the _nieves de coco_ we would all get from the ice cream man on his bicycle driven white cart. All of us loved the coconut ice cream bars.

Pilar, Clarissa, and I climbed into the _Wayin._ There were no changing rooms so with towels on the windows, we undressed. I don't know why we covered up so much since our bathing suits were underneath our clothes. When we were ready, we set out to the pools behind Jorge who was a lot less modest than us. He had pulled off his pants outside the station wagon. He too had been wearing his dark blue swimming trunks underneath.

Clarissa grimaced as we moved towards the pools. I was excited I would be wearing an actual bathing suit since in the past I had always worn shorts. My Mama bought the bathing suit at the Kress store in downtown El Paso. It had been the winter when my Mama took me shopping for socks. The bathing suits were marked down half price. My Mama got the manager to lower a particular one even more because of a slight tear. My Mama could always squeeze money from a stone.

Clarissa kept staring at my new bathing suit. She didn't look like she was admiring it. Pilar, who wore shorts, told me it was pretty.

"Your suit is torn." Clarissa told me in Spanish, her voice a smirk.

I lowered my head. My navy blue suit with strips of ocean aquamarine color no longer seemed beautiful as I focused on the tear Clarissa had mentioned.

Clarissa told us her red bathing suit had been bought at Cielo Vista Mall. I had never been there, but I was certain I had seen that same garment at the Kress. Clarissa said her parents had bought her a complete wardrobe at the mall, but I hadn't seen her wear anything new since the year before. It was easy keeping track of outfits belonging to those around me since we didn't have many. We were lucky if we had one change for each day of the week.

When Clarissa wasn't looking, Pilar turned to me and mouthed, " _Mentirosa,_ "as she pointed at Clarissa. I nodded my head. Clarissa _was_ a liar. I couldn't understand why she would make up such absurdity. Why did she tell us she had a new wardrobe when no one had seen it?

Finally, we arrived at the pools. There were three of them with varying levels of deepness to accommodate different sizes of people. Pilar, Clarissa, and I swam in the shallowest one. We tried to convince Jorge to let us in the one next door, the medium sized. He wouldn't, even though he himself would swim in it in order to keep a close eye on us. It never occurred to me how fastidious this situation must have been for him since he was stuck taking care of three kids rather than enjoying the deepest pool. Instead, I resented him for not allowing us in the medium one.

The smallest pool was the fullest. That was another reason we wanted to graduate to the other ones. Still, I refused to let the overabundance of kids ruin my blissful time. Clarissa, however, kept complaining. According to her, the cement around the pools was cracked and the paint over it was peeling. The pools were ugly with no design, and the _Juarez_ people were dirty, making the water filthy. Clarissa stared at Pilar when she made the last remark. Pilar furiously scowled at her.

"We aren't dirty!" Pilar snapped.

"No, they aren't!" I burst.

Pilar glared at Clarissa who would not eye her back. Instead, Clarissa dropped her sight to the water. After a hostile pause, I started swimming again and Pilar and Clarissa followed suit. They, however, avoided each other from then on.

I was excruciatingly hungry by the time Jorge told us to get out of the pool. We would return later. Our hands were stamped when we left, enabling us to re-enter.

Pilar and I served ourselves steaks, guacamole, and tortillas. Clarissa complained that the steaks were thin and that she needed a knife and fork, not a tortilla. _Tia Juana_ laughed, saying that Clarissa spent too much time with her cousin, Shana Smith. _Tia's_ cousin married Jared Smith who was a military man stationed at Fort Bliss.

Clarissa went on and on about her _'great'_ cousin Shana for the rest of the day. It was my least enjoyable time in _La Rosita_. I think it was the same for Pilar. I wished that Pilar and I were related instead of just sharing a cousin—the haughty Clarissa.

As Jorge, my Mama, and I were on our way to Pilar's house on Christmas day, I wondered if she remembered that time. Was it the same for her as it was for me when I returned to _La Rosita?_ Now I noticed the cracks on the cement and the peeling paint. I noted the unpaved parking lot, the old pools, and the beggar children asking for money. I hoped Pilar didn't see what I saw because then surely she would look down on my Mama's coloring book gift to her.

We arrived at Pilar's _vecindad_. I averted my eyes when we passed some cardboard shacks as we drove through the neighborhood. From my peripheral vision, I saw the elderly couple sitting outside on old rusted buckets their own meager home. My Mama greeted them and handed them a bundle of tamales wrapped in foil paper. It was so big that my Mama had to use both hands to give it to them. I looked at my Mama in wonderment as she chatted with them as if there was nothing wrong, as if their severe poverty didn't make them better or worse human beings.

It took me many years to realize that my Mama wasn't on the superiority/inferiority seesaw that plagued so many human beings including myself. Superiority thinking wasn't festering like toxic poison inside of her. She saw the _ancianos_ for their humanity first and then the poverty. _And_ when she did see the poverty, she didn't see shame. She saw the look in their eyes as their humanity and their cardboard house as their state of being, not their actual essence. Their importance on this earth depended on their humanness and not their material _things._

My Mama didn't live in a glass house filled with illusions of what was inferior and what was superior. Class was not about knowing the difference between grades of caviar or about which house was purchased in places like the Hamptons and Beverly Hills. It was about the graciousness amongst human beings to help each other by sharing material goods and kind polite words that built up souls instead of tearing them down, that gave respect based on being born automatically a child of God and not about wealth accomplishment. This was the basis of how she defined _una persona fina._ Instead of being born in a certain stratosphere, people could develop the qualities to make them a class act.

My Mama bade _los ancianos_ farewell, and we drove off. They weren't the only ones outside. Many people were out and about. Kids were playing games like tag, and _el bote y la patad_ a. Pilar left the kick-the-bucket group of children and rushed to our vehicle.

I shyly handed Pilar the crayons and coloring book. She took them grinning. My guess was that they would be the only Christmas gifts she would receive. That was the reason I hadn't brought my new doll with me. I felt bad that she didn't have any presents while I had a beautiful new doll. Pilar thanked my Mama and motioned me to go with her to the room that served both as a living room and a bedroom with a double bed, a chest of drawers, and a very old loveseat on the side.

We should've been better friends with her being my Mama's godchild, and about my age, but there were several reasons that we weren't. We didn't visit very often being that my Mama and Jorge were always working. When we did visit, Pilar was often at her aunt's house doing the wash on a washboard for money. She might've been my age, but Pilar could scrub dirty clothes in _el tallador_ better than any adult I had ever seen. I always admired Pilar's big hands. My own hands were thin with long fingers.

The characteristic Pilar shared with me was shyness. We would hardly know what to talk to each other about since it seemed we were part of two different worlds.

Pilar invited me to color with her since she was going to try out her new coloring book right away. I felt bad about doing it. If I used up a page, that would be one less for herm but she placed the crayons in my hand. I remembered my candies and took them out of my pockets, setting them on a cloth kitchen towel between us. We ate sweets and colored until her Mama called us to eat. My Mama informed them I had just eaten, so _la comadre_ , Pilar's mother, served me a glass of milk.

We went outside after Pilar finished eating and played tag with the rest of the kids of the _vecindad._ As we were enjoying the game, I wondered if they had enough to eat. Had they received anything for Christmas? Jorge eventually came out and told me we were leaving. _La Comadre_ tried to convince us to stay, but my Mama explained that the line at the border crossing would be long and the next day would be a work day.

Luckily, we only had to wait thirty minutes on the bridge. There was no line outside of it, but on it, there were many cars. The file of vehicles extended to about half the bridge. When our turn came up at the station, my Mama pulled out her green card. I knew the card was old because my Mama looked so young in it. Her dark brown hair flowed behind her and her beautiful face had a serious look on it. In those days, people didn't believe in smiling for the camera. Still, she was _hermosa._ The black and white picture made her look like a movie star.

The border agent nodded at my Mama and then looked at me. I said, "American." He looked at Jorge who said, "American," also.

"Where were you born?" he asked Jorge suspiciously.

"El Paso."

"Which hospital?"

"Thomas General," Jorge stated in strained English. Hearing my brother speak English was strange since he rarely spoke it.

The border agent stared at Jorge for a few seconds, and then he decided to believe my brother. "What are you bringing?" he questioned.

Jorge shook his head, "Nothing."

"No fruits or vegetables?"

"No."

"What were you doing in _Juarez_ on Christmas day?"

"Visiting people."

He nodded his head, letting us go. My Mama put away her green card. When we arrived home, I hugged my new doll.

"Amada, merry Christmas."

Even though she didn't answer back, I took her smile as happiness to see me.

Chapter 3

An Education

My Christmas vacation ended, and I had to return to school. I absolutely _hated_ school. I _hated_ the second grade. The first day back, Mrs. Davidson told me to stand up and bend over as the board of education jerked in her right hand. The fact that she was in her early sixties didn't soften the blows any.

"That'll teach you to talk in my class while I'm speaking," Mrs. Davidson snarled.

After paddling me several times more, she finally finished giving the assignment. I had to resist the temptation to rub my bottom as I turned to the girl on my right.

"What is it that we have to do?" I asked in Spanish.

Mrs. Davidson glared at me sternly. "Keep that up, Rosalinda, and I'll paddle you again."

Who was Rosalinda? Why could she never remember that my name was Rosario? I looked at the kids beside me and opened the textbook. I thought I was completely dumb. The assignment didn't make sense to me, and I had only caught some of what Mrs. Davidson was assigning. English was still a hurdle for me and even more difficult coming out of my teacher's ugly and intimidating mouth that made me too nervous to piece the English language together! I wanted to ask her certain questions, but she always treated me like I was a piece of rancid onion.

She would tell me she didn't know how I had passed the first grade. Frankly, I didn't know either. All I remembered from the first grade was playing and going to ESL, English as a Second Language, classes once a day for an hour. Then I would return to class and try to figure out what the teacher, Miss Lawrence, said. In retrospect, it was a much easier task than trying to understand Mrs. Davidson's hostility.

Mrs. Davidson would say that Miss Lawrence would pass anybody. I guess I was an _"anybody."_ Not anyone special. In fact, when I was starting kindergarten, I had been given a test. I flunked it and the next thing I knew, I found myself with the mentally challenged kids. When my parents found out, they were furious. They spoke to the administrators who promptly told my parents I had flunked an IQ test. My Mama asked them about the language of the test. They said it was in English, of course. My Papa strongly suggested they give me the test in Spanish. They refused, but they moved me into regular kindergarten.

Mrs. Davidson eyed me with disgust, "You'd better stop staring into space, Rosalinda and start doing your work."

I wanted to cry. A non-Spanish speaking Mexican-American girl, Cindy, who sat on my left, whispered, "You match this side with this," she pointed at the first question. "Used to wash dishes." And pantomimed washing dishes. "Find the answer on the other side," she said, pointing to the other side of the page.

I looked but none of the answers made sense to me, and I stared at her with a puzzled expression. _Trapos viejos._ That was what my Mama used to wash dishes with but old rags wasn't there.

"A sponge, a sponge," Cindy kept repeating.

"Sponge?" I could barely pronounce the word.

"Don't you know what it is?"

I could not understand Cindy's words very well, but her body language indicated my deepest fear. I was a dummy.

At recess, Cindy told me through an interpreter that she would let me copy her work if I would pay her five cents a day. I quickly consented, thinking that if I was not as smart as her, at least I would pass the second grade and not have to bother my Mama with this.

When I could, I would give Cindy the nickel my Mama gave me to buy candies and such. But in the end, it didn't matter because Mrs. Davidson flunked me anyway. Cindy, on the other hand, passed. I went home thinking I would never be anything other than a _cebollera_ , an onion picker for the rest of my life.

On Saturdays my Mama, Jorge, and I worked the onion fields trying to make extra money. I yanked out the stubborn onions from the dirt, and my Mama cut the white string-like hair growing from their bottom and also the thick rubbery leaves on top with huge scissor-like tools. We wore long sleeves and big straw hats to protect us from the oppressively heavy sun. By the end of the day, we were bone aching exhausted and smelled of ripe onions and perspiration combined.

No matter how many times we bathed we smelled like onion for days afterward, and at the grocery store, people stared at us in a disgusted way even when they had onions in their baskets, those that we probably picked. One particular time, a man with some kind of an accent threw soap in our basket after calling us dirty foreigners. Jorge told him _he_ was the foreigner and almost got into a fist fight with him, but the man rushed off.

Jorge would say that those people's body odor was skunky while we smelled because of a hard day's work. He would cover his nose and say, "Sniff, sniff, lazy people." I would laugh because he would roll his eyes, and he would breathe hard as if he really was suffocating. I wondered if he would be laughing once he saw my report card. Now he would have a sister who would be an onion picker forever.

When my Mama saw my report card, she was furious. The next day, she marched straight up to Mrs. Davidson and demanded to know why I had flunked. Mrs. Davidson said I was lazy and talkative. The principal sided with Mrs. Davidson even though my Mama kept telling them I was not lazy or talkative and if something was wrong, it was her teaching method.

While my Mama spoke, Mrs. Davidson interrupted every few seconds to ask my Mama to clarify what she was saying because Mrs. Davidson just couldn't understand her speech. At the end, the principal didn't budge, and Mrs. Davidson strongly suggested my Mama learn to speak English properly for my sake. My Mama told her she should respect the Mexican culture since Mrs. Davidson did live on the border, a place in which our ancestors had been in long before hers.

During the following week, my Mama talked to the superintendent, but nothing got resolved. I would remain in second grade. My Mama looked tired and old. She had never looked like that while my Papa was alive. Sometimes she would go from one room of our house to another as if to catch my Papa's spirit. I would quietly watch her, wondering what I could do.

I couldn't bring my Papa back, I couldn't ease the worry lines on her forehead, and I couldn't pass the second grade.

There was absolutely nothing I could do.

Chapter 4

Mexico

About a month into summer, my Mama said we were going to _Las Fuentes_ during her week vacation from the garment factory. I hugged my doll, Amada, tightly. I would have a break from the onion fields, and I loved going to my Mama's birthplace in _Chihuahua_ , Mexico. The only drawback was that I could not take my TV programming with me, and I would miss my shows, especially the _Brady Bunch._

The day after we packed, one of my Mama's friends took us to _La Central Camionera_ in _Juarez_. At that time, the bus depot was located close to the bridge and the hub bub of _Juarez_ instead of way over in Timbuktu as it is now. It was always exciting arriving there since it felt like we were on a huge adventure. The _Central_ would always be full of sounds of people from both sides of the border. Some wore dressy clothes while others were draped in old apparel. Most of the travelers conversed within a cluster of animated people. Two lounges, one on each side of the _Central,_ overflowed with voyagers. Where we sat depended on which bus line we took.

My Mama went straight to the _Chihuahuense_ busses as she usually did. It was the line she trusted the most, believing it was safer. I crossed my fingers hoping a bus would be departing soon. On rare occasions, we would have to wait for hours. Depending on my Mama's hurry in getting to _Las Fuentes,_ we would either take another bus line or eat something at the small cafeteria located in the middle of the two lounges while we waited to leave. That day, the bus was leaving immediately, and we had to hurry to the check point inside the _Central_ where we were told to open our suitcases. They were checked for electrical appliances since it was illegal for tourists to sell those items in Mexico.

After the quick check, we boarded the bus. There were no assigned seats and unfortunately, the empty places were scattered. But I still got to sit in front of where my Mama sat, under her watchful eye since a young man volunteered his seat to her. Jorge plopped down in the back. I tried not to squirm with excited joy since I didn't want to discomfort the elderly lady next to me. My Mama had already introduced herself to her and even though _Doña Simona_ had volunteered to switch seats with her, my Mama saw how difficult it was for the elderly lady to move with her cane and told her to leave things as they were.

People kept boarding. I wanted so badly for the bus drivers to board so we could be on our merry way. Hollywood movies often depict buses in Latin America as being extremely uncomfortable, full of farm animals, especially chickens. I never rode with any poultry. I rode with comfort and awe. I remember excitement and adventure.

Outside, a beehive of activity glided through. People climbed on and off busses, and salespeople sold their wares, mostly food. Some sellers had little buckets with burritos while others had trays with sweets like _jamoncillo_ and etc. One little girl with long, straight, dark-brown hair stepped onto the bus and started selling chewing gum. She must've been my age. Even if I had seen many kids like her, I always wondered about them. A deep sadness struck me that at eight years of age, I couldn't even begin to explain. Had she ever gone to school? Where did she live? What was her life like?

"Mama, would you give me money for gum?" I asked, turning to look at my Mama and already stretching my hand out.

My Mama eyed me and then turned her eyes to the little girl. She pulled out her purse and gave me a peso. Before the extreme devaluation of Mexican money, a peso was worth something. My Mama always exchanged United States money into Mexican currency in El Paso before going to _Las Fuentes._

When the little girl arrived at my seat once I had waived her over, I noticed that not only her hair was like mine, but her eyes were too. They were almost black. I asked her for a red block of four Chiclets that were wrapped in plastic. Cinnamon was my favorite, I quickly informed her. She told me it was her favorite too, and then we both giggled. She wanted to give me change for my peso, but I told her she could keep it, so she quickly shoved more Chiclets at me and rushed off.

After the little girl left the bus, the drivers boarded. There would be two of them and would take turns in the driver's seat. When I heard the door shut, I knew it was time to go. I smiled with my mouth bursting with cinnamon. When we left _Juarez,_ I examined the bus for the first time. It was a newer bus without cracks on the windows, but it already had a little _Virgen de Guadalupe_ statue on the driver's dashboard.

I stared outside the window amazed at the traffic. _Juarez_ was and still is full of activity. My Mama, Jorge, and I would cross the El Paso border every weekend to buy the _Juarez_ _mandado_. First we would shop at Silva's grocery store in downtown El Paso and buy certain groceries, but the next day we went to _Juarez_ and bought other items like cookies because they were cheaper in Mexico. When my Papa was alive, we would go to a restaurant in Waterfill, a strange name for a Mexican town. Throughout my childhood I never knew the correct pronunciation since my parents pronounced it _Watafil_.

The restaurant was located after the check point on the bridge close to my house. It was a little _taqueria._ I would always order the same plate from that taco place, and my mouth overflowed as soon as the waitress brought my _tostadas._ The fried corn tortillas were round, crisp, and golden. Beans, lettuce, chicken, tomatoes, and avocado were piled high.

Jorge ordered _flautas,_ and I traded one of my _tostadas_ for two of his eatable flutes. It worked out perfectly. I always marveled at how the _flautas_ really did look like the musical instruments. When I bit into one with plenty of startling white _crema_ , the taste between the smoothness of the sour cream, the fresh beef, and the crispiness of the tortilla would meld into a distinctive feel-taste flavor. Then I would take a swig of my _Manzanita_ straight from the bottle. In fact, that apple soda was the one item the whole family ordered the same. My Mama always ordered enchiladas, my Papa asked for tacos, but all of us liked drinking our _Manzanitas._

Those were happy memories I remembered as the bus left _Juarez_ and entered into an almost empty-of-human beings desert. I wondered if the heaven my Papa was in was like a beautiful desert with the sun shining on the Mesas and the sharp mesquite shrubs, or was it green like _Las Fuentes_ with growing fields of food and trees reaching towards fluffy rain clouds? Did heaven smell moist like sand after a rainfall, or did it smell fresh as newly cut hay in _Las Fuentes_?

"Child, would you like a lollipop?" _Doña Simona_ next to me asked in Spanish. I smiled in embarrassment and nodded my head. She quickly gave me a sucker from a row of lollipops connected to each other with plastic. My Mama frequently bought me those candies from _Juarez_. They were dark brown and tasted like rich sweetened milk.

"I'm taking them to my grandchildren," _Doña Simona_ told me, smiling.

"Thank _Doña Simona_ , Rosario," my Mama chided sternly.

"Thank you, _Doña Simona_ ," I said, almost whispering.

"Can you believe I can barely get her to open her mouth?" My Mama remarked, shaking her head.

_Doña Simona_ smiled at me and patted my hand. "Let her be, Mrs. Olmos. It's better that she's quiet than with a filthy mouth. Such a pretty girl."

I smiled at her and averted my eyes with embarrassment. Compliments like that weren't common in my life.

"Her skin tone is like my grandmother's. Like cinnamon," _Doña Simona_ said.

My Mama would tell me to be grateful that my skin color was dark since I wouldn't age as fast. My skin would show few lines, but at eight, this concept totally eluded me. All I could think about was in certain cousins who many considered much prettier because they were light skinned. My Mama thought it was ridiculous to base beauty on skin color.

While licking my _chupaleta,_ my Mama handed _Doña Simona_ a pillow. It had actually been for me. My first reaction was to selfishly want it back. I didn't say a word. My Mama, however, sternly eyed me as if she knew what I was thinking and shook her head. I felt bad.

_Doña Simona_ slept throughout the six hour trip, making good use of my pillow. She didn't wake up, even when we stopped in _Villa Ahumada_ to eat. _Villa Ahumada_ was a busy little town even then since most bus lines stopped there for meals. To our right were all the bright multicolored stores selling different wares. To our left were train tracks and beyond them were many houses.

Outside the restaurant many vendors sold burritos and other kinds of food, but my Mama had us enter the restaurant where Jorge and I ate burritos _de_ _asaderos_ —cheese burritos. My Mama ate a meal of _chiles_ _rellenos_ —the most tasty of stuffed peppers. She bought _Doña Simona_ both cheese and stuffed pepper burritos in case she woke up on the road and was hungry.

When we arrived at the small town of _Moctezuma_ , my Papa's voice echoed in my ears as it always did when we reached that point. "We're halfway there," he would announce when he was alive. The excitement grew!

Before reaching Chihuahua City, we passed _las curvas_. It was a winding road through the mountains that my Mama didn't like crossing at night because it seemed more treacherous in the dark. Nowadays, travelers don't have to go through those curves anymore. They just need to pay a toll fee for the new road that goes straight through, but in those days there was no choice. The mountain scenery was breathtakingly beautiful and green though. When Papa was still alive and we came in the car, we would always stop at a small chapel at the top of the curves where my Mama would say a prayer of thanks for allowing us to arrive this far safely. Usually no one was inside. When stepping in, I felt a certain degree of calmness as if the inner core of the world peacefully sang amongst wars and petulance. I missed going to the chapel when we traveled by bus.

When arriving in Chihuahua City, the bus stopped at the depot for about half an hour. I said good-bye to _Doña Simona_ since she had arrived at her destination and her daughter picked her up. She gave me another _chupaleta_ and told me how _simpatica_ I was. No one had ever used the word charming to describe me. I usually heard the word describing my brother. Jorge was _simpatico_ with his effortless charm, laughter, and smile. Saving the lollipop for later, I couldn't help thinking how lucky I was for having met _Doña Simona_ who had gifted me with candy and compliments.

My Mama, Jorge, and I stepped over to the food lounge. My Mama hated arriving at the relatives with an empty stomach. This seemed strange to me because no matter how much my Mama would insist we had just eaten, _Tia Chata_ would make something for us anyway, and we would eat again. After consuming a light meal in the depot that was much bigger and even busier than the one in _Juarez,_ we returned to the bus to continue our journey.

My Mama told Jorge to take her old seat. She sat with me in _Doña Simona's_ former place. The bus filled with more passengers to make up for the ones who had left. A young man stepped on the bus and sold booklets of _remedios,_ and my Mama quickly bought one. I didn't understand why she would need it. If there was anyone who knew about herbal remedies by heart, it was my Mama. She always concocted teas for Jorge and me to take, even when we weren't sick.

One time, my Mama had given me a strange tasting concoction. When I asked Jorge what it was, he said it was called _cola de caballo_. I immediately spat the stuff out of my mouth almost vomiting and began rubbing my lips vigorously. Jorge started laughing so hard that he had tears running down his eyes. I told him not to make fun of me. There was no way I was going to eat horse's butt or tail or whatever! He told me it was only called _cola de caballo_ , but it was actually an herb. I scrutinized the tea suspiciously and decided not to drink the rest. When my Mama returned to the kitchen, she eyed me strongly, and I gulped it down.

After my Mama bought the _remedios_ booklet, she immediately turned to the first page and started to read. When we drove away from the station, I gazed outside at Chihuahua City. It seemed so different from _Juarez_ with less people, traffic congestion, and noise. It seemed to have fewer inhabitants out and about. In Chihuahua City, the residents, along with their cars, were more spaced out instead of being in so many clusters. The car drivers didn't seem to be in as much of a hurry, and I didn't see any beggars.

Arriving in _Delicias,_ we excitedly stepped off the bus. We were almost at our final destination! My Mama hired a taxi to take us to _Las Fuentes._ Since there were no phones in _Las Fuentes_ in those days, we would arrive surprising everyone. Jorge and I plopped down in the back of the cab as my Mama sat next to the driver and made polite conversation with him. My Mama commented on how green everything looked, and the driver told her God had blessed them with rain a few days ago. I thought about the blissful food growing from the ground, feeling the water on it.

When driving in _Merida_ , the little city before the town of _Las Fuentes_ , Jorge and I shrieked when we saw the giant Coke bottle in front of the Coca Cola factory just outside of _Merida_. My Mama turned around and gave us a stern look, shushing us. As we drove through _Merida_ and towards _Las Fuentes_ , I automatically grew solemn. We neared the _camposanto_. In those days, there was no cement gate around it, and anyone driving by had a clear view.

This graveyard was not what some on the other side of the border, the United States, would think of as a _"beautiful"_ resting place since it hardly had any trees or grass. It didn't look like a park that accidentally had lifeless bodies buried in it. It's giant religious headstones, abundant wreaths, and numerous flowers, pushed death right in front of the spectators' eyes so they wouldn't forget what hand _la muerte_ took in life.

I knew it made my Mama sad that she had not been able to bury my Papa there. No money had been available to transport him. She herself had said many times that this was where she wanted to be put to rest.

"When my life finishes, bury me in my country," she would say.

The best she had been able to do was put my Papa in _Juarez_ which my Mama liked but considered influenced too much by the United States. I had promised myself that one day I would have my Papa transferred to this cemetery where so many of my ancestors resided. Both sets of my grandparents, who had died before I was born, were buried there. They had died in the same time span and from car accidents. To my Mama, it wasn't strange or mystical. It was God. It was life.

The lack of grandparents had not yet left a dark hole in me. When you haven't had something, how do you know what you're missing? I didn't feel the emptiness until other kids started commenting about _their_ _abuelos._ My Mama talked about her parents, my Papa had spoken about his, and Jorge had his own vague memories about the grandparents. All this belonged to them. It didn't belong to me, and I had a hard time relating to people who seemed to have been gone for a million years. I knew of them and how I was connected to them, but I felt left out of my family's memories.

My grandparents' houses now belonged to their kids—one being my _Tia Chata_ who we always stayed with because my Mama was part owner of the home. I felt my _abuelos'_ strong presence in the residence which was hard to escape because of how often they were mentioned. These were the ghosts that never left because the family didn't let them die, and I felt a certain melancholy because I didn't have memories to keep them alive as everyone else did.

I would scrunch my eyes and try to conjure visions, but nothing would ever come. Once, Jorge found me in this state and teased me. When he asked me what I was doing, I told him I was imagining he was eating a horse turd. His incensed face contorted, and he called me a _muchacha sonsa_ as he strode away. I yelled at him that I wasn't a dummy. Then I returned to my visions.

I decided to become a human recorder. I would build memories out of other people's remembrances. When my Mama or anyone else would tell anecdotes, I would listen and engrave them inside of me. This would be a way for me to find the truth of who I was. When I started doing this, visions came freely. My grandparents' truths became alive to me.

Chapter 5

Las Fuentes

When we drove past the green colored school that looked like a regular house, I knew we were close. I could almost see the giant coke advertisement painted on the wall of a house, also signaling that we were near. Then suddenly I could see my _Tia Chata's_ house. This year it was painted pink. Since my _abuelos_ had died, _Tia Chata_ had an obsession with painting the house a different color every year, even when she and _Tio Rigoberto_ were financially limited.

"Pink, what a beautiful color," my Mama said.

I stared at it, fascinated by its boldness. It wasn't a light wimpy hue but a dark one, proud of itself, unafraid to show its spirit. Jorge snickered as he viewed the house, and I stuck my tongue out at him.

As my Mama paid the taxi driver, _Tia Chata_ rushed outside of her house with a huge grin on her face. She first hugged my Mama, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and then shook her hand—in that order, as was the custom.

"I didn't expect you!" _Tia Chata_ burst.

_Tia Chata_ let go of my Mama and hugged Jorge, giving him a peck on the cheek. When she disengaged, she shook his hand. She hugged me, lifting me off the ground and bombarding me with kisses.

I had long ago accepted the difference between the sisters. They were almost opposites. While my Mama was quiet and authoritative, _Tia Chata_ was gregarious and outgoing to a fault. Life was strange when considering that my Mama was the one who ended up getting married young and having kids while _Tia Chata_ took care of my _abuelos_ until they died and married only a year ago.

Everyone in _Las Fuentes_ thought _Tia Chata_ would be the one who would marry first as she was a year older than my Mama and unabashedly effervescent. But she had turned down suitor after suitor while my Mama had accepted my Papa the first time he had proposed.

_Tia Chata_ met _Rigoberto_ two years ago at a dance. He was a widower who had two grown children. He had been without a wife for many years, and he was fond of saying that it was love at first sight.

I wondered if _Tia Chata_ regretted never having had children, but she would whisper in my ear that I was her child. I knew she loved Jorge, but there was a special bond between us. Her arms around me made me feel safe and adored.

"Put Rosario down, Chata. She's too heavy for you," my Mama said.

Reluctantly, my _tia_ stood me on my feet. We started dragging our abundant luggage inside the house. It wasn't that my Mama over-packed for us, but she always brought old clothes and other items for relatives. A trip to Goodwill before coming to _Las Fuentes_ was always in order.

When stepping into _tia's_ house, I felt at home. As much as she changed the outside, she left the inside alone. I would find comfort in the cement floors, the cherry clothing Armoires with the mirrors in the front, the crucifix's and pictures of saints hanging in every room, the black wood stove, the multi-colored, bright walls and the solid wood furniture throughout. Year after year, I would arrive at her house and find it unchanged inside. The furniture had belonged to my _abuelos,_ and she took good care of it.

On _every_ single trip, my Mama would look at the pieces with admiring eyes and say that she wished everything was built now the way it was then. My _Tia Chata_ smiled in agreement and commented on how she refused to get rid of any of it for modern pieces.

The next conversation they would have was the famous food discussion. My _tia_ would rush to the kitchen to make us something, and my Mama would insist we had already eaten. My _tia_ would end up cooking anyway as my Mama helped and they caught up with their lives. My Mama would tell her about friends living on the other side of the border, and _tia_ would tell her about family and acquaintances on this side. _Tia_ never seemed to finish her side of the conversation since she would try to tell my Mama about almost every single person in _Las Fuentes_. I wondered how they knew so many people.

After the food was ready, my _tia_ sat me down and served me. My Mama scolded her, telling her I could serve myself, but my _Tia Chata_ would ignore her.

"Here my Rosita," she said, placing a plate of delicious reddish pinto beans and green chile salsa in front of me. Then she handed me homemade flour tortillas.

"Thank you, _Aunt Chata_ ," I said.

"When you're finished, I'll give you apricots," she asserted, waiving a jar of apricot preserves at me. I loved going into my memory and watching her make them. I vividly remembered her stirring a big black kettle of apricots and singing _Cielito Lindo_.

As I started eating the _frijoles_ , she rushed to the refrigerator, grabbed the homemade _asadero,_ and tore pieces of the cheese to place in my beans. Eats just never got this good! As she started stepping back to the stove to take care of heating the tortillas on the _comal,_ she gave me a loving pat on the head.

People started arriving shortly to greet my Mama. They would say that somebody saw the cab drive up to my _tia's_ house, and they had figured it was her. When _Tio Rigoberto_ arrived home from working in the fields, he took us to visit relatives in his old truck. By that time, my Mama had sorted out what she was giving to whom. We would go house by house, and I would ride in the back of the truck with Jorge and other stragglers. The air would hit my face, and I felt invigorated to be experiencing fast movement so one on one.

I would play with kids at each house, but my favorite cousins were my _Tia Mema's_ children. _Tia Mema's_ personality was much more like my Mama's than _Tia Chata's_ , and she had a ranch/farm full of girls. No boys. _Tio Guisho_ had been disappointed when girl after girl started being born, but he got over it and put his daughters to work. My amazing cousins did everything. They milked cows, cleaned the house, helped with the planting and harvesting, and did a great number of other jobs.

At _Tia Mema's_ house we ate again because she insisted. She had killed a chicken earlier for soup. I made sure there was no claw in it. Like my Mama, my _Tia Mema_ hated wasting anything, so she included the chicken claws. The last time I was there, she had served me one and I was unable to eat the soup even when she took it out. No matter how many times my Mama tried to get me to eat the _caldo de pollo_ , I just couldn't. I could still see that ugly chicken claw staring mercilessly at me.

This time, I ate the soup by closing my mind to that picture. After finishing, my cousins and I went to play outside, close to the water well. It fascinated me how my cousins survived without running water. They didn't have electricity either. They would ask me about the United States, and I would ask them equally as wide eyed about life in Mexico.

When we returned to _Tia Chata's_ house, I was ready to go straight to bed. It had been an eventful day.

The rest of my stay in _Las Fuentes_ was about playing with kids, laughing, and eating. It was always disappointing when I had to tear myself away and leave for home to the United States. _Tia Chata_ would look disconsolate at the end of our visit. As _Tio Rigoberto_ took us to the bus depot, I gazed around me, hoping I could engrave my Mexico in my mind until I came back.

Chapter 6

Summer

The rest of summer was full of ice-cream, snow cones, tag, TV, music, cousins, and the blistering onion fields. As wretched as working under 100+ degree weather and pulling the smelliest of vegetables out of the earth was, it wasn't as humiliating as being in Mrs. Davidson's class. Dehydrating and aching every day was a piece of cake compared to being made to feel worthless.

One activity that took my mind off that horrible school year was going to Ascarate Drive-in with my Mama and Jorge. We would pile into the _Wayin_ and head there. It wasn't very far from where we lived since the Ascarate Drive-in was close to Western Playland Amusement Park.

Western Playland was like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory to me—full of wonders. The amusement park surged with many kinds of fun rides like rollercoasters and such. Since we rarely had any extra money, I had only been there twice with Jorge. It might've been practically in my backyard, but it might as well have been as far as Disneyland. My cousin, Clarissa, bragged that she was there all the time.

At the time, the actual location of Western Playland was inside Ascarate Park. The huge park had a lake, tennis courts, children's playgrounds, trees, grills, and a golf course. On weekends especially, low riders and cars cruised in circles around the park. Music would be blaring from everywhere, mostly oldies from the fifties and Mexican songs. It was the gathering of _la raza_ —our Brown race.

My Mama, Jorge, and I would sometimes go to Ascarate Park with my Mama's friends and relatives, but we went to Ascarate Drive-in more often. It was only about $2.00 a carload and we would get to see three Mexican movies.

My Mama didn't much care for some of the newer violent movies coming from Mexico with people murdering each other every few seconds. She preferred movies from the golden age of Mexican Cinema which were often shown at Ascarate Drive-in. I would cry with Pedro Infante in Nosotros Los Pobres or Ustedes Los Ricos. I would laugh violently with _Cantinflas_ in whatever film he was in whether black and white or color.

The reason we went often to Ascarate Drive-in wasn't because my Mama loved movies. Any type of superficial entertainment bored her. TV put her to sleep, including _telenovelas_. Not even the nail biting Mexican soap operas practically everyone we knew was hooked on would keep my Mama's attention. We'd go to the drive-in because those movies reminded my Mama of past times in her beloved Mexico.

As soon as we drove in, found a space where the audio box was actually working and strapped it on the driver's side window, and the celluloid began, my Mama was transported to a time before my Papa had died, to a place where her roots created her. It was her Mexico—where people woke up at the first orange of dawn, cooked brown eggs straight from the chickens outside, rode to the fields in a _remolque_ hay ride _,_ and everyone knew every single person in the village.

"Buenos dias—"

"Buenas tardes—"

"Buenas noches—"

It was the Mexico of the all day greetings where people automatically greeted you whether they knew you or not. Mornings were _buenos dias,_ afternoons were _buenas tardes_ , and evenings were _buenas noches_. It was the Mexico of tamales, pumpkin empanadas, fruit preserves, and _ranchera_ and _norteña_ music passed down from one generation to another. It was the Mexico of the sprinkling of water on dirt porches to sweep. It was the Mexico of the millions of dances, be it _quinceañeras_ or weddings. It was the Mexico of the world my Mama and Papa were whole in. It was my Mama's Mexico in complete pieces and making up her heart.

While I would be many miles away lost in those movies, my Mama was found. Getting lost was easier than being somewhere I didn't measure up. It was easier than being in school. Climbing into people's lives and living their adventures seemed much more pleasurable than re-living the nightmare of second grade. Films and TV became my refuge.

That summer something really amazing happened, and it was because I had been watching so much TV. One day I realized I comprehended everything on it— _all_ the English programming. If I loved TV in the past, I nearly worshipped it now.

I couldn't get over that by turning on a button, I was suddenly transported someplace else. I was going through one adventure after another. It was magic, but my Mama hated the black box and threw me out of the house to play as often as she could. She regretted having won the color television in a raffle several months before. Some of the kids in the neighborhood had black and white sets, but we had color. In looking back, I don't know why I was so excited. There weren't many people of color on TV. That's the way it was back then. Maria on Sesame Street wouldn't come until much later.

My Mama would say that sitting in the middle of four walls and fixating on a box was not healthy. I needed to be playing outdoors with other kids. But I would watch TV any chance I got. I'm grateful movie machine players weren't around yet, or I would've been in front of the TV around the clock.

Chapter 7

The Education of Rosario

To children all summers are the same. They come too slowly and end too soon. The first day of school was frightening. The night before, I had lived up to the meaning of my name by praying rigorously that I wouldn't get Mrs. Davidson again, or someone like her. It was bad enough repeating the second grade. When I saw my teacher for the first time, Miss Florentine, I breathed out. She smiled brightly at the class.

When she read out my name with a Spanish pronunciation, I knew everything was going to be fine. Miss Florentine didn't read it with a frown or sarcasm. She said it like she said everybody else's names. When she started teaching, the education world invited me in. My ears fully opened. Click!

The English language was no longer so foreign to me. The language had become more understandable the year before, but it was Mrs. Davidson who had made me nervous. I couldn't piece her words together. Even in first grade, I had been able to somewhat do that with Miss Lawrence.

I then started an activity that gave me enough confidence to believe I might not be dumb after all. I started reading Mexican comic books. I liked the English ones, but my Mama couldn't afford to buy them. Once we were grocery shopping in _Juarez_ when I saw _Archie's_ _Comics_ in Spanish. It turned out that fortunately they cost much less than the English ones. From then on my Mama would buy me two every week, and I would anxiously look forward to Saturdays when we went to _mandado_ shopping in _Juarez._

It had not occurred to me that I couldn't read Spanish when I had convinced my Mama to buy me those first two comic books. One was of Archie and the other was of _Sal y Pimienta,_ two toddlers that did many _vagancias,_ a precursor to the precociousness of the _Rug Rats_. I would look at the colorful pictures, as bright as the red _mercurio_ my Mama bought from _Juarez_ to put over our wounds.

One day it became very apparent that the Spanish letters were identical to the English ones except Spanish had a few more. If I could speak the language then there would have to be a way to read it. Between the pictures and the similar alphabet, it didn't take me long to learn to read Spanish. My Mama tells me that she spent her hard earned money on those comics because she knew they served an important purpose. I could now read my home language, and I was strengthening my new one.

Thanks to Miss Florentine's class, I didn't have to struggle with English words. They flowed freely in my mind, opening pictures. What I couldn't let flow, however, were spoken words. I didn't need to talk now that I understood what was happening. Miss Florentine tried to get me to speak in class, but I wouldn't open my mouth. I stared at her and either nodded or shook my head. It was an unfortunate remnant of Mrs. Davidson's board of education smacking me as soon as I muttered anything in class.

One unfortunate afternoon I needed to ask Miss Florentine permission to go to the bathroom, but I couldn't get the words out. I squirmed in my chair praying for the bell to ring for recess. Before I knew it, the water poured all over my seat, and I started to cry. The kids gawked at me as I stayed in my wet, dripping chair. This was worse than being paddled. Miss Florentine was heading towards me when mercifully the bell rang.

Miss Florentine asked me why I hadn't asked permission to go to the restroom. I shrugged my shoulders and kept crying. She took to the nurse who gave me a new pair of underwear and sent me back to class. By that time, the bell had rung. I returned to class, and everyone stared at me. I had my old underwear balled up in my right hand. Some faces pitied me, others were disgusted, and then there were those who snickered. I went to my chair which had already been dried off, and I plopped down. I kept my head up, trying to keep my shredded dignity together.

Later, on the bus, kids ridiculed me. I ignored them. When I arrived home, I sobbed as soon as I stepped through the door. No one was home but even if someone had been, I wouldn't have admitted to what was wrong.

After that day, there were always snickers in school at every turn. I was proud that I acted as if it didn't bother me. My friend, Mona, had stopped hanging out with me even though she hardly had friends herself on account of her right leg being shorter than her left. I was alone for most of my days except for my family and my pretend friends on TV.

Not until I reached third grade, did my school situation become bearable. I hardly heard snickers anymore, only a few here and there. It was silly how something as insignificant as body fluid could bring out the worst in people.

I was now in a classroom with new kids—finally! I even managed to make a new friend, Atocha. She was an outsider because her name was odd and it rhymed with a certain obscene word I'd rather not repeat but boys repeated it all the time. It was a wonder I survived grammar school.

Atocha and I went on our first field trip to the El Paso Zoo with the rest of the third graders. It's much bigger now than it was then. Existence has a way of growing and changing.

We had to take our own lunch. My Mama didn't understand why I begged her to pack me a sandwich instead of a burrito. She did it reluctantly. Mexican food is now very popular but back then it was something else used to make us feel inferior. Like everything else of Mexican origin, it was considered substandard. Even our food wasn't considered _good_ enough but years later salsa would overtake catsup in becoming the favorite condiment in the U.S.A. Ironic.

I was so relieved my Mama had packed me a sandwich, but Atocha apparently wasn't able to convince her mother to do the same. During lunch, she took quick bites of a burrito. She refused to take it completely out of the brown paper bag. I took one relieved bite of my sandwich to find it tasted remarkably like beans. Then a few granules of pintos slipped out and fell to the ground—quiet in sound, but clanging piercingly in spirit. Atocha eyed me, her mouth puffed out with a huge bite of her food, and nodded sympathetically.

Some of the boys started laughing and asking if my fart sandwich was good. The kids who had finally stopped calling me _fuchi_ _pipi_ were calling me fart. This was definitely a worse name than smelly urine.

I had to live with the Fart Sandwich name for a few weeks until those horrible _chamuco_ kids moved on to the next victim. Those devil children had no compassion for anybody. It seemed I should've been happy when they had moved on, _away_ from me, but because of the circumstances, I couldn't find much relief. I really felt sorry for their next victim!

My third grade teacher, Mr. Gretch, took the class to the library, one huge room full of books. He ordered us to keep quiet with his growling voice. Mr. Gretch never tired of telling us he used to be a drill sergeant in the Army. He liked his class noiseless. This was fine with me because I didn't like to talk in class anyway, and I preferred silence while I looked for books.

I was allowed to check out three books every two weeks, and I took full advantage. They weren't just novels to me. They were passports to different places and people.

Atocha hated reading. I suspected that it was because she didn't do it very well. Mr. Gretch would ridicule her in class when he'd ask her to read out loud. It got to the point where all of us would hate him to pick us since it didn't matter how well we read, he'd always find fault with it.

I tried telling Atocha that the more she read the better she would get at it. I even used myself as an example. A year ago, I was having difficulty but now I could do it well. As much as I tried, I couldn't persuade her.

I looked through the shelves searching for my next adventure. I could see a bored Atocha shuffling around the library as if she was actually looking for a novel to read. Mr. Gretch made certain all of us walked out with at least one book. At the end of the hour she would grab whatever was on hand, but she wouldn't ever crack it open. I had just picked a copy of _Mary Poppins_ when I heard it.

BRRRR—POP!

A few seconds later— _BOOM!_

Everyone turned to look at the little human being of which this incredibly huge and ferocious sound had come out. Poor Benito stared at the floor. We were speechless until—

_UUUUGH! ICK!_ — _GAG, GAG!_

It was a colorless fog of rotten egg stench, and we couldn't help reacting to it. Mr. Gretch strode furiously to the door and swung it open.

"You're not a child anymore!" he yelled at Benito. "You're already in the third grade! I can't believe you can't control your body functions!" Mr. Gretch paced in front of him. "Next time you fart, do it at home where they have to put up with it!"

Benito didn't look up from the floor. At recess, the _chamuco_ kids circled around him.

"What did you eat for lunch? A _pedo_ sandwich?"

"Fart boy! Fart boy!"

That was how I lost the humiliating nickname, but the ugliness had transferred to poor Benito. After that, every time the _chamuco_ kids would say the disgusting label, I felt a suffocating gurgle in my throat.

One day, I saw the opportunity to do something about my frustrations. I had arrived in class before anybody, even the teacher. I took some thumbtacks from my school box and put one on each of the _chamuco_ kids' chairs. Then I left the classroom.

The bell rang and I strolled back in when the kids started to file in. The devil kids were always the last ones. The worst kid finally walked in with the others trailing behind him.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I put my hand over my heart. I had acted without thinking. If they found out I had done it, my life would be pure misery.

" _Ahhhh!_ "

The main _chamuco_ kid had plopped himself down and then shot straight up.

" _AHHHH!_ " the other _chamuco_ kids had also sat down and then vaulted up. They threw the thumbtacks on their desks, staring at the sharp objects with fury. Mr. Gretch started the math lessons as if nothing had happened. Occasionally, he would glance at the thumbtacks and smile. He had had those _chamuco_ kids paddled several times because they had slung spit wads at the students in class. One time, the head _chamuco_ demon had pulled a chair from one of the kids before she sat down. The girl had violently fallen to the floor and started whimpering. The _chamuco_ kids called her _La Llorona_ as if she didn't have a reason to cry.

For the rest of the year, the _chamucos_ tried to find out who had set them up with the thumbtacks. No one knew until the beginning of the fourth grade when one person figured it out. Atocha and I were in the same classroom again. She had forgotten a pencil, so I opened my school box to loan her one. She grabbed a thumbtack and held it up.

"It was you," she said matter-of-factly.

She went on to tell me how it must've been me who got back at the devil kids because none of the other children were as prepared as I was with school supplies. No one else in that class carried thumbtacks. But being my best friend, she never told anybody.

Frankly, I was surprised she remembered the incident at all. But she wasn't the only one. Other kids often talked about the time of the butt revenge against the _chamuco_ kids.

Chapter 8

S-E-X

Because in those days there were hardly any references on TV to sex—no obvious innuendoes, no baring of bottoms, no hushed giggles—what we got came straight from the gutter. It was alarming enough that Mrs. Brady got to share a bed with her husband instead of having a twin bed like the television moms before her.

Sex was such a mystery to us that when Atocha became the proprietor of off-color jokes, we swarmed around her, making her the most popular kid in school. It all started when her cousin, Pepe, made it his sole mission in life to learn all the _Pepito_ jokes ever told. I was glad he was in another school because his vast knowledge of _Pepito_ jokes seemed to make him a pervert.

The fictional _Pepito_ boy seemed like the original _chamuco_ kid to me. _Pepito_ was always getting into trouble, and he was a giant dirty _pelado_ to boot. The dirtier the jokes, the more popular Atocha became. Still, even Atocha had her limits.

One day, Guadalupe, whose uncle was an Archbishop in the Catholic Church, asked Atocha to tell her a _Pepito_ joke. I could see Atocha squirming. Atocha's mom had told her about the numerous tragedies that could happen when a person messed with God. In Atocha's mind, telling Guadalupe a dirty joke would be akin to throwing dirt in holy water.

Atocha then pulled a non-sexual _Pepito_ joke out of thin air. I was surprised because I didn't think there were any. In this joke, _Pepito's_ mother sent him to the store to buy pepper. Instead of buying black pepper, he gambled during a game of marbles and lost the money to buy the condiment. He started walking back home, very depressed because he knew he'd be punished.

Then he saw an empty can of black pepper on the ground. Now he had to find something that looked like black pepper. He found a bullet, took out the powder, and put it in the can. Pleased, he went home and handed the can to his mother who promptly made dinner with it.

The next day, his mother asked _Pepito_ where he had bought the pepper since his father had thrown a fart during the night and killed the cat.

Guadalupe thought it was a funny joke. Atocha looked relieved. I thought that there was more to comedy than farts and sex. But I was definitely in the minority since Atocha became more and more popular. A few weeks later, my family got a telephone for the first time and Atocha thought it was her personal fame machine.

My Mama thought this magical contraption was a waste of money, but Jorge insisted we needed one. He told my Mama he'd pay for it. He wanted to talk to the ladies he flirted with on a daily basis.

Jorge let me pick the color. I didn't realize it at the time, but I ended up choosing the hue my Papa would've picked—a dark red. A nondescript black hue would've been much more my style.

Atocha was much more excited about the phone than I was. She didn't have one, and she sure took advantage of ours. She would grin every time her index finger touched the little number holes and dialed.

R-R-R-R-R

I loved the sound and miss it with push button being the norm now. It didn't occur to Atocha or myself to be impatient about how long it took to dial every number—to put the index finger through each corresponding numbered hole of the rotary pad of the phone and move it to the right until it would go no further. We were just happy about how miraculous it seemed that we could communicate with someone without being there in person.

It wasn't that we hadn't used phones before, but it was different when it was one's own. When I would get home from school, there was usually no one at my house for a least an hour. Atocha would make me huddle next to her as she called others to tell them _Pepito_ jokes. There's a name for those phone calls today—1-900 calls. Atocha was the 1-900-tell-a-dirty-joke queen. I would tell her that someone else could be on the line listening. In those days we had a party line, a shared telephone line. But she didn't care who listened. She was going to educate others about sex no matter what.

I suspected that what I was learning about sex from _Pepito_ jokes and friends was not totally accurate. I made that realization during a lunch recess. That day, I had wanted to play tetherball because I loved the game. It consisted of a pole with a ball on a rope hanging from it. Whoever got the ball to wind itself around the pole first would win. Tetherball was played with two people. One hit the ball and the other person prevented it from winding itself on the pole.

Atocha wanted to play _la liga._ Luckily this was another game that I loved. I pulled out the _liga_ I had made myself. My Mama bought a bag of thick red rubber bands from _Juarez_. I connected all of them together, making a huge circle.

This game was played with several people. Four girls stood a square with the giant rubber band wrapped around their legs. One of the girls would jump in and out of the rubber band.

We weren't playing very well that day, so we quit and started eating _tostadas_ instead. My Mama bought me the delicious tortilla chips from _Juarez._ They would be in a brown paper bag. Sometimes I would ask Mama to bring me plain and other times the ones with red chile powder clinging to them.

We were crunching them when Atocha said she had heard something very interesting from Clarissa. My cousin had told Atocha that a man's private part looked like a giant hose. Every one of us gasped except for one of the girls who had inadvertently walked into the bathroom while her adult cousin had just walked out of the shower. Alfreda had quickly rushed away but not before she saw him naked.

"It's true. It's like a hose," Alfreda informed us.

She, however, disagreed with it being big. It seemed more like a small hose to her. She couldn't get over the trauma of having seen it, though.

Atocha said that Clarissa had asserted that the little hose wouldn't remain small if it took a deep sniff of a girl. It would become gigantic and look for the girl. It would have to touch her to get back to normal.

I told Atocha I didn't believe Clarissa—the liar. The other girls decided this was necessary knowledge, and they devised a ridiculous plan to see if it was true.

The bell rang, and we filed back into the classroom. I told Atocha, who sat in front of me, that I thought it was a bad idea since she was the one carrying the scheme out. It seemed downright dangerous if my fibbing cousin was telling the truth for once.

"We have to know," she stated.

"Atocha, I heard you speak Spanish," the teacher said. "You know the rules. Give me a hundred."

Atocha looked through her notebook but couldn't find any spare sheets of ' _I will not speak Spanish'_ written out. Most of the students would have extras that were written outside of class, knowing they'd eventually be caught. The teachers and administration insisted that we speak more English, so we'd be punished if we used our native tongue.

Atocha looked bewildered at being unprepared. I opened my notebook, took out my spares, and handed them to her. I knew she would pay me back. The kids in class borrowed from each other all the time. Atocha smiled at me and rushed to the teacher's desk to give him the sheets. He briefly glanced at them and then threw them in the trash without a second thought.

The teacher gave us an assignment from our math books. We were doing long division. Then he left for the bathroom. I rolled my eyes knowing that Atocha would use this time to put her evil plan into action.

"What if you go to hell for doing this? It must be a sin." I whispered to her.

Atocha appeared a little nervous but then said no one had ever told her it was a definite sin, so she was off the hook even if it was one. God couldn't possibly punish her for something she didn't know. I only shook my head. How could a person argue with that kind of logic?

Atocha turned to gaze at Juan who was in the row next to hers. Their desks were parallel to each other. I could see the back of poor Juan's head. He was such a nice boy, unlike the _chamuco_ kids. His white T-shirt had a smiley face in front. When I saw it during lunch, I couldn't help but smile back at the yellow face with black dots for eyes and a huge line for a grin.

Atocha pulled out her ruler with glue drying in the middle where the incline was. She removed the dried glue which looked like a long fingernail, licked it, and put it on her pinky. Many of us did that, so we could pretend we had long fingernails.

I tried to avert my eyes when Atocha poked Juan with her pinky, but instead I stared at the poor victim. Juan lifted his eyes from his work and looked at Atocha. She yanked her arm underneath his nose and asked him if he could smell a bird dropping that had landed there earlier. He took a quick whiff and told her he couldn't, and Atocha told him to take a deeper sniff to make sure. Juan was in a predicament now. Most of the kids surrounding him were staring. This was nothing short of a dare. If he didn't smell Atocha's arm, he'd be labeled a wimp. He would have to do it even if smelling bird poop was the last thing he wanted to do.

I braced myself as he took another whiff. He insisted it didn't smell like anything. I placed my hand to my heart as I waited for the hose to grow and grow until it became like a snake and tried to strike at Atocha. A whole fifteen minutes passed before I came to terms with the fact that nothing was going to happen.

"I told you not to do it," I whispered to Atocha. She stuck her tongue out at me, and I kept shaking my head.

Chapter 9

Chicana

I was eleven-years-old when my cousin, Vivi came to live with us. Her name was actually Vivien. My aunt and uncle from my father's side named her after Vivien Leigh. They couldn't pronounce the name very well and called her Vivi instead.

Vivi absolutely hated her name. It was not that she didn't like the famous actress, even though she did say she didn't agree with the way _Gone with the Wind_ depicted slavery as being _slightly_ inconvenient and pleasant for the most part.

She disliked her name because it was a white name, and she wanted a Spanish one.

"Why couldn't my parents have given me a warrior name like Adelita, Juana, Emiliana, or Pancha. " _Ay!_ " she exclaimed, "I get stuck with a _gringo_ name like Vivien."

Later she would decide she wanted an indigenous name rather than a Spanish one. Most people didn't know Vivi's actual name was Vivien since it was so rarely used. The only one brave enough to say it to her face was Jorge who liked teasing Vivi because a fire would come into her eyes that would light up the whole room, threatening to burn it.

Vivi was the closest I came to having a sister. She was almost eighteen-years-old, the same as Jorge, and was from California. She was thin with coloring similar to mine—dark-brown eyes and hair and coffee skin. I would learn mountains from her as she was an amazing philosopher in the making. The way her mind put intricacies and ideas together was astonishing. Her truth-seeking ways would inspire me for the rest of my life.

Vivi had been getting into trouble, and her parents asked my Mama to let her live with us. My _Tia Vera_ and _Tio Hugo_ had never been much for discipline, but they knew my Mama's authoritative stance never flinched. They knew that Vivi respected my Mama. I would hear her answer back at her own parents, but never did she _resongarle_ _a mi_ Mama.

My Mama, not caring for the _locura_ so prevalent in California, told them to send her. She thought the flower children/ hippie culture was nothing short of the world gone haywire. My Mama promptly told Vivi there would be rules to live by. She wouldn't allow drugs.

Vivi, who seemed embarrassed about this, told my Mama very quietly that her parents hadn't believed her when she told them the marijuana they had found in her room belonged to a friend who had accidentally left it there. Vivi admitted she had experimented with drugs but was done with them. My Mama nodded her head and told her she didn't want her to even consort with people who used drugs.

The other rule my Mama was adamant about was that Vivi needed to find a job to contribute to the household. She didn't want her aimless. Vivi had just graduated from high school, unlike Jorge who had dropped out, and she refused to go to college.

"What do I need to go there for?" she asked, "So I can be brainwashed with their thoughts?"

"Whose thoughts?" I asked.

"The thoughts of those who want to keep us down."

Vivi firmly believed that after going to college, a person turned into a robot without a thought of its own.

"They make you think you have thoughts of your own," she said, "but not really. It's their thoughts you have."

I didn't understand this, so my own desires about going to a university weren't deterred. My grades were high now that I understood English. I would just have to safe vault my head from the brain stealers, whoever they were.

"Are you a hippie?" I asked.

Vivi laughed out loud. "No, Rosi, I'm a Chicana."

"What's that?"

She hugged herself and then me. "It's us, Rosario! Us! There's so much going on. There are people fighting for our rights! It's the civil rights movement!"

Vivi was unequivocally right. There was so much happening in the 1960s and 1970s. The disenfranchised seemed to be battling to be heard and given respect. African Americans had Angela Davis, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, the Black Panther party, and so forth. We, Chicanos, had Cesar Chavez, Dolores Huerta, the Brown Berets and so on. Native Americans occupied Wounded Knee. The women's movement roared. Boycotts, walkouts, and demonstrations were exploding. Unfortunately, assassinations abounded— President Kennedy, Malcolm X, Robert F. Kennedy, and Martin Luther King. Students of different races were being beaten and even killed by law enforcement for protesting the war. Vivi had been at several of these demonstrations and couldn't speak about them without getting upset, nor could she discuss Vietnam without firecrackers exploding from her mouth.

As long as I live, I I'll never forget the passion in her face and voice. The fire was a lit match in a cotton factory. I can still remember when the United States evacuated the troops from Viet Nam. Her yell could be heard for at least two blocks. She had been adamantly against the war.

"They're coming back!" she exclaimed but then she became quiet, "At least the ones who are still alive."

I only knew too well of the ones who weren't coming back. My Mama's other comadre, _Señora Luevano,_ had a son a year and a half older than Jorge. My poor brother acted tough when his best friend and another one of my Mama's godchildren, Celso, were drafted.

My Mama and _Señora Luevano_ would go to church every day to say a novena for Celso, but he ended up dead anyway. They called him a hero because he had saved his fellow soldiers by throwing himself on a grenade. Unlike with other courageous brown boys, there were too many witnesses to negate his bravery. Celso was being considered for the Congressional Medal of Honor. I wondered how much solace that metal object would give to _Señora Luevano_. The only one who could comfort her was my Mama because _Señora Luevano_ said my Mama understood what it was like to live with a hole in the heart due to a loved one's death.

It was never spoken in my household, but all of us felt how close Jorge had come to getting drafted. This fortunate turn of events did little to comfort Jorge. Since the death of his best friend, I saw a huge transformation in him.

"Why don't you cry?" I blurted out to him when we had just learned of Celso's death, and he was staring out the window.

"Men aren't supposed to cry."

"But—"

"Enough!" he exclaimed furiously as he stomped out.

I looked at Vivi who was crying in the corner. My Mama was at _Señora Luevano's_ house.

"What did I do?" I asked her.

"He's not angry at you," Vivi said.

"He's not?"

She ambled over to me and hugged me. "No, Rosi."

That was when Jorge picked up the bottle and none of us could convince him to let it go, not even my Mama. My Papa hadn't liked to drink at all. He hadn't cared for the taste of alcohol, and he used to say there was nothing more embarrassing and pitiful than a _boracho_. Jorge, however, didn't mind drunks, and he drank once a week with his _amigotes._ He said the alcohol made him forget his problems and that his friends made him laugh.

I never once bought what he said about _los hombres no deben de llorar_ since I had seen my Papa weep at the height of his illness. Men _did_ cry—even tough ones.

"The only time I've seen Jorge cry is when my Papa died," I told Vivi.

"He cries, Rosi. Believe me, he cries."

"He does?"

"He cries inside."

"You mean you can cry without tears?" I asked.

"Whole rivers have been cried without tears."

Vivi, however, _did_ cry with tears. We shared a room, and I would listen to her sobs late at night. She thought I didn't hear her, but I did. I lay quiet as I heard her muffled tears until one night I gathered all my bravery and jumped out of bed.

"Why do you cry?" I asked.

"My life is nothing."

"Why do you say that?"

"The world is so full of injustices, Rosi. It's drowning me."

Sometimes those injustices bit ferociously into me too. I would think about _Señora Lara's_ son, Chepo. He was accepted at a University when he was drafted. It would've been different if he had been Anglo, but he was brown and wouldn't be afforded a pass like white boys were given. When he came back from Nam, as he called it, he couldn't get a job. When he finally got one, he couldn't keep it. There's now a term for what he had, PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). Chepo no longer slept on a bed. Instead, he slept on the floor. He had nightmares every night about the dead buddies he hadn't been able to save. He had problems with all kinds of relationships, whether relatives, friends, or girlfriends. Chepo ended up working in _la cebolla_. Before the war, he had hated working in the onion fields which was why he had worked so hard to get to college. Now it was all he could do.

Vivi and many demonstrators vehemently believed there was a disproportionate amount of our Brown men drafted. As it turned out, they were right. More Chicanos were not only drafted but more of them were casualties than Anglo men population percentage-wise. Life was so unjust.

"Did you smoke _mota_ because the world was drowning you?" I asked her.

Vivi put her right hand on my shoulder. "Rosi, I want you to listen carefully to what I tell you."

"Okay."

"Listen to your Mama. Don't do drugs."

"Okay."

"No matter how ugly and worthless life seems don't grab for the Marihuana. No matter if you can't find your place in this awful world don't do it," Vivi burst as she started to weep again. "What a mess my life is, a mess."

"Why do you say your life is a mess? Are you...are you... _gorda_?"

"What? I'm not fat."

"No, not fat," I said, pointing at her stomach. "You know."

"Pregnant?"

"Yes. Are you?"

Viva chuckled. "No! I've never been naked with a man, Rosi."

"Naked? What does that have to do with it?"

"Rosi, don't you know what it means to have sex with someone?"

I was embarrassed to admit I didn't, but I couldn't imagine two human beings naked together. I didn't want to go over _Pepito_ jokes with her to see if any were accurate. It didn't seem like a good idea to repeat what I had learned in the gutter from other clueless children.

"Do you know what it means to make love to someone," she asked.

The phrase, _'Make love, not war'_ came to my head. I had never given it much thought.

"To make a baby two people are naked together?" I finally got the nerve to ask.

"Yes," she said smiling.

"Ugh!"

Vivi laughed. "It's beautiful when it's right."

"But it's so strange to be naked and kissing."

"It won't always seem strange."

"But—"

"Rosi, doesn't your Mama talk to you about these things?"

"No," I said, embarrassed. Just the thought of talking about such things with my Mama made me turn a bright red.

"It's okay. I'll teach you. The first thing to know is that you can't take sex lightly or you'll end up pregnant, even on the first time."

"Really, you'll end up _esperando_ just like that?"

" _Es-per-an-do_ ," she repeated proudly with hardly an English accent.

My Chicana cousin could barely speak Spanish. She could understand it well enough, and even say a few words, but her proficiency was very limited. The school administrators had suggested to my _Tia Vera_ and _Tio Hugo_ not to speak any Spanish at home, and they had abruptly stopped. Their English grew by the day, but her Spanish diminished. The administrators had even suggested they stop pronouncing their name of Gonzalez in Spanish to an English pronunciation of Gone Zales.

"Rosi, the state you don't ever want to find yourself in is _esperando_ ," Vivi said.

" _UUUGH_!" The thought of an unplanned pregnancy was too horrible to think about.

Vivi smiled. "I'm glad you see it my way."

Vivi and I came to an understanding. I would teach her Spanish, and she would teach me about sex. It seemed like a fair exchange except she didn't always live up to her bargain.

One day I was in the living room watching television when the phone rang. It was one of Vivi's friends.

"Rosi," Vivi said, breaking my concentration on the TV.

"Yes?"

"You need to leave. Don't be a _pepa_. I'm having a private conversation with Coca and Pepsi, so don't be a snoop. You're too young to hear it."

"Okay." I climbed off the sofa and stepped over to the kitchen to eat a banana.

My Mama, Vivi, and Jorge were always kicking me out of places because they said I was too young for some conversations.

My Mama would say, _"No te amayorees."_

I wasn't supposed to tread the road to adulthood because I was a kid. I resented it. Did the grown-up world have so many secrets? Why was it hidden? Was it a bad place? Why did Vivi tell me about sex and pregnancy but then she would throw me out of rooms? _Grow up, but don't grow up? Was that it?_

I still wanted to be an adult. It had to be better than having no control over my life. It had to be better than putting up with the _chamuco_ kids. It had to be better than having to wait for someone to take me somewhere. It had to be better than having to ask for money. It had to be better than a lot of circumstances.

_And_ I was tired of getting expelled from rooms, especially when I already knew what the adults were talking about. I was sure Coca and Pepsi were telling Vivi that their friend, Queta, was pregnant—to keep it a secret. In those days getting pregnant out of wedlock was akin to committing mass murder. We females, in the double standard of double standards, were supposed to arrive at our marriage beds _'pure'._

'Untouched'

'Innocent'

'Non-lustful'

Males, on the other hand, were expected to have as much sex as possible with different partners before getting married. It was not in their natures to be chaste according to them. What many weren't prepared for, though, was the outcome of their actions.

When Queta got pregnant, her boyfriend left the state of Texas. I had found out from Atocha, who in turn had heard it from Queta's little sister. As much as the adults tried to hide their torrid lives from us, we still found out. I wished Vivi would talk about sex issues as freely as she discussed cultural ones. I couldn't ask her about the phone call from Coca and Pepsi, but when I asked her how they got such names, she said their nicknames came from drinking so many of the soft drinks.

"But they're Indian," I told Vivi matter-of-factly.

I had never seen any of the Indians in John Wayne movies drink sodas. Coca and Pepsi were Tiguas. They were part of the Pueblo Indians who had settled in Ysleta.

"Indians don't drink cokes," I continued.

Vivi looked livid. "Why do you believe stereotypes?! Then we should be under a cactus with _sombreros_ over our eyes and _siesta-ing_ all the time!" She must've realized she was yelling at a kid because her voice became gentler. "Not everything you see on TV is accurate, Rosi, especially when it comes to portraying people of color."

I nodded pensively. "Okay."

"Your head gets brainwashed into thinking stereotypes are true and you don't even realize when it happens. If you see a lie over and over again you start thinking it's the truth. Understand?"

"Okay."

"You have to always be looking for the truth. Look for it in deep places because usually it's been covered up with lies."

"Okay."

"Never use the _they_ word when talking about the natives of this land, Rosi."

"Why," I asked.

"It's not a _they_. It's a _we._ We are them."

Vivi explained about the Mexican _Mestizo,_ Indigenous blood with Spanish blood. When the conquistadores arrived to the supposed new world, a new people were created—from Spanish males taking up with the native women.

"It's important for you to know who you are because if you don't someone will tell you who you are. They'll insist you're someone else to appease their own self-esteems. Their understanding of you will be about themselves and not you. Know the truth about the powerful indigenous blood running through our veins."

In retrospect, those _'radical'_ life conversations were much more important than those about sex. Finding the truths that connect us to a whole planet, that help define our humanity to the umpteenth power, and that make us dim or shine, is much more consequential than the usage of body parts.

### Chapter 10

_Changes_

"Simon ese, te voy a toriquar algo. Hay te caigo en tu chante," Jorge said into the phone.

Beyond the slang, he had basically said that he was going to his friend's house to tell him something. I enjoyed hearing him speak what I called, his _ese_ talk, his lingo. This unique language was really called _calo._ My Mama could barely understand him. Vivi would try to imitate him, and my Mama told her that if she wanted to learn Spanish, she'd better stick to me.

Jorge sauntered out the front door as he left to his friend's house. He would be informing his friend we were leaving Ysleta. We were relocating to the nearby town just outside of El Paso—Casa Sol in neighboring New Mexico. My Mama had chosen moving during summer so that I would have a fresh start at another school in August.

It was exciting and sad at the same time. We would be buying our home for the first time since a lady from the Catholic Church we attended was owner financing the house. I would be leaving my friends. The saddest part of it was that I would leave the home I had been in when my Papa had been alive.

On moving day, I kept my face down as I packed. I didn't want anyone to see me cry. Vivi kept looking my way, but she didn't say anything. Vivi always knew when to leave me alone with my ghosts.

My Papa with his effervescent dark brown eyes, his slight build emanating strength, his creased hands caressing my head as we watched _telenovelas_ , and his raucous laughter cutting through the thin walls, was penetrated in the house I was leaving behind. His touch was everywhere in that specific shelter.

As we were driving off, I closed my eyes. But then I realized I would never have a moment like this one. I forced my eyes open and gazed at the little white house.

_Goodbye,_ I thought to myself, _I'm leaving you alone because I'm talking my Papa with me. You can't keep him._

We drive down Ochoa Street. We passed _Doña Tencha's_ house where I had bought so many _raspas_ in the 100+ degree summers. _Doña Tencha_ would hand-make those snow cones with a small metal box. It had a straight horizontal opening at the bottom where the ice would be scraped over and over again until there was enough for the treat. We passed by Daniel's big two story house. Daniel was a _chamuco_ kid, but his house was still beautiful. Sometimes I would imagine living there.

We passed Atocha's home—an ashen hovel. I kept thinking about all the times I had walked to and from school with her. I saw her curtains flutter and was certain it was her. She had cried when I told her of the move. Atocha told me that even though she now had many friends, they were interested parties. All they wanted from her were her _Pepito_ jokes. I was the only one who liked her for herself.

I told Atocha that even though I may never see her again, I wanted her to dream gigantic and get out of poverty.

"Study, Atocha," I told her.

The problem was that Atocha didn't think college was for people like us. A university belonged on another planet. No one we knew had gone on to higher education. Neither of us had ever been to the University of Texas at El Paso campus.

As we drove off Ochoa street, past the Assembly of God Seminary and church at the end of the road, I wondered if Atocha would ever graduate from high school. I sighed with sorrow in the station wagon taking me away from my history. Paisano Street came at us before I knew it, and I was getting further and further away from home.

We arrived at downtown El Paso or _El Chuco_ as Jorge and his friends called it, and passed all the busy stores. Soon after, I was able to see _Juarez_ on the other side of the Rio Grande. Further down would be the I-10 freeway and on one side of it was the U.T. El Paso campus.

My eyes sat firmly on _Juarez_. I didn't remember ever having been this far down Paisano Street. The startling view was not easily forgotten—so called 'first world' meets so called 'third world'.

" _Juarez_ looks beautiful," Vivi murmured.

_Juarez_ looked attractive to her, but it looked sad to me. Vivi liked the different bright colors of the houses lining the streets on the upslope of hills that had no real organization to them. Vivi also had an appreciation for that type of haphazardness. She said there were hardly any neat boxy blocks, and the homes were like wild flowers—growing everywhere.

All I could think about was my Mama's _compadres_ and Pilar struggling to eat, the _ancianos_ living in the cardboard shack, and the beggar children pandering for pennies. I gazed at the Rio Grande where there were those trying to get across, trying to eke out a paycheck. Trying to satiate their hungry bellies. Trying to earn enough dough for basic necessities while trying to send money back to poverty stricken relatives. Unselfishly trying to save themselves _and_ others too.

Trying to stay alive.

They'd live on very little, and work very, _very_ hard in a country that would never appreciate them—never appreciate the immense contributions they made.

I had once made the mistake of calling them _'wetbacks'._ Vivi tongue-lashed me for at least twenty minutes.

"Don't you ever say that word!" she snapped. "Don't you ever put human beings in those cartoon boxes again."

"I won't ever call them that."

"It's not a _them,_ Rosi. It's a _we_. They are _us_ and we are _them._ "

"Okay," I said.

"Do you realize that white people had to cross a whole ocean, but we're the ones called wetbacks! We were already here. Remember what I taught you about our indigenous blood?"

It seemed I never stopped learning from Vivi. She had a way with cutting through nonsense and getting straight to the point. After a few moments of silence, I glanced at her. She sat next to me in the car as we drove to our new home. She looked peaceful unlike the fire woman who would come out at a moment's notice like earlier. We were about to enter a new life, and she seemed as calm and careless as a feather.

Vivi hadn't mentioned how she felt about the new place, but she liked change. The _oppressive sameness,_ as she called it, bored her.

Casa Sol was a small town in the middle of the desert. Most of the people living there were of Mexican descent. After passing the bridge over the Rio Grande, we were in the small town of Anida and then when we passed the elementary school, we were finally at our destination.

As we drove to our new house, past the Catholic church, and on Encias Street, I couldn't help but think about how worn and old it looked. It didn't look like the houses on TV, but my Mama was thrilled. At least there were three bedrooms, even if only one bathroom. I couldn't feel my Papa there, so I put his handkerchiefs in every room.

Two weeks later, I still couldn't get the feel of being at home and changes didn't stop coming. I was in the bathroom when I saw red dots on my panties. Sitting on the toilet for half an hour, I folded my hands in front of me. My life would never be the same. When Vivi had told me about menstruation months ago, it had been a tremendous shock.

"Rosi, do you know anything about the period?" she had asked.

"What's that?" I had questioned, scared at her seriousness.

"I think it's about time you know about this."

"What is it?" I had asked.

"Once a month a woman bleeds from her vagina."

"Bleeds?!"

"It's nothing to be scared of," she had said, trying to calm me down, "The blood comes out of the uterus," she said as she pointed at it, "and out—"

"Well— _Hijole!_ Don't tell me anymore!"

"Don't be scared. It's natural."

It had seemed to me that my Mama never considered any type of bleeding normal. Blood coming out of the _fuchi_ —no way that could be natural. I then decided Vivi had to be pulling my leg, and I started laughing.

"What's so funny, Rosario," she had said, annoyed.

"You're playing a joke on me."

Vivi had made an exasperated sound. "It's no joke."

"You mean it's for real?"

"Yes."

I had covered my ears not wanting to hear more, but she had quietly stayed, letting me digest the new information.

"Why?" I had finally asked.

"Why what?"

"Why do women bleed?"

"It's so we can have babies," she had said.

"What if we don't want babies?"

"We still bleed, Rosi."

I had stayed silent again, too upset to open my mouth for a few seconds.

"When do we start bleeding?" I had asked in a whisper, almost not wanting to know.

"It'll depend on your body. I started my period at fourteen."

"Oh."

"It's not that bad," she had said, hugging me. "You'll see. You'll be considered a _señorita_ then."

"I'll be a young woman?"

"Yes."

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all. I would finally have one foot in the door of adulthood. Still, I had hoped that if she had another female secret, she would keep it to herself until I was over this.

After that conversation, the girls at school were shown a film about the menstrual cycle. By that time, the shock had worn off, and I took mental notes for when the dreaded experience happened to me. No matter how many times Vivi had told me it was a cleansing and not anything bad, I didn't believe it.

"Then why does my Mama never talk about it?" I had asked.

"She's from the old school, Rosi."

It seemed that we, girls, were horribly stuck in the old school of menstrual shame and embarrassment. A girl in my school had gotten her period while in class and had bled through her clothes. She never lived it down. Some boys called her a _puta_ , as if bleeding made a person a prostitute. All of us girls were secretly enormously relieved it hadn't happened to us. It was much worse than the urination tragedy that had happened to me.

From then on, girls had been especially careful about their periods. There were whispers between girls in the halls every day, "Am I stained?" And they would walk in front nonchalantly while another girl was left behind to casually look and make certain no blood was evident on the backside. Also, a girl would never let a male know about her cycle. Vivi thought this was silly.

"What's so embarrassing about blood?" she had asked in front of Jorge, who rolled his eyes and promptly stepped out of the room.

"It just is," I had said.

"It's only blood!"

"It's coming out of the _fuchi puchi ruchi_!"

"It's still only blood."

Anyway, the dreaded day had arrived! I was only a child of 13 years of age, but changes were smacking my face in all directions. New house. New town. New body—well, it sure felt like it. I sat on the toilet imagining myself in the school halls asking other girls if I was stained. I finally stood up and tried to put on the sanitary napkin belt, but found it too much of a nuisance. It was a white belt that went around the waist and had narrow strips hanging down, one in front and one in back to attach themselves to the sheer edges of the napkin. I put the napkin on by itself and hoped it wouldn't move. If only they hadn't taken so long to invent the adhesive sanitary napkin!

I stood by the door for about ten minutes knowing that after I left the bathroom, everyone would see I was different. I was now a full-fledged _señorita_. Finally, I stepped out and sat down next to Jorge who was watching a _telenovela_. This was a secret he held Vivi and me to since he would never admit to his macho _vato_ _loco_ friends he watched Mexican soap operas, but he was addicted to them. In fact, he even missed _pachangas_ for them. He would tell the host of the party that he had promised his _jefita_ he would do something for her, and then he would rush back to watch. No one would ever question his devotion to his mother.

During the commercial, he tore his sight away from the TV and looked straight at me. I could hear the commercial say, " _Rechinando de limpio_." I loved this, ' _Screeching with cleanliness_ ' soap advertisement. I stared straight at him wanting to face my new young woman status right away and get it over with.

"Rosi?" he asked.

"Yes?" I said, bracing myself.

"Would you bring me a glass of water?"

It was like getting slapped on the stomach. How dare he ask me to bring him water when my whole body had changed! Didn't he notice how much older I looked now? Didn't he notice the new maturity in my eyes? Didn't he notice the solemnness of my smile? I could feel my breasts enlarging and my hips expanding as I sat there and this fool couldn't tell that his baby sister had turned into a young woman?! I frowned at him. I told myself that not only would I refuse to get him the water, I wouldn't make him little cakes from my E-Z bake oven anymore either. He would miss the red hot candies I put on the frosting.

"Please, little sister," he begged.

"Get the water yourself."

"The commercials are too short and I'll miss my—"

The _telenovela_ started and his eyes shot back to the TV. That soap had him by the short Parrot greased hairs on his head. I would tell Jorge not to slather on so much of it since his hair blinded me when we were outside, but he insisted on dipping his whole fingers in the Parrot grease jar, and slopping the stuff on his head. Sometimes I would hide the jar, and he was forced to use Brilliantine.

I decided to forgive my soap opera obsessed brother. "You want a glass of Tang?" I asked him.

"No, just water," he answered, never taking his eyes off the screen.

I stepped over to the kitchen and brought him the water. He barely murmured a _'gracias'_ when I gave it to him.

"Don't you notice anything different about me?" I finally asked.

"Psst! Shush!" he burst.

I stood up to leave even if the soap was ending in ten minutes and my favorite program was next, _El Chavo Del Ocho._ Nothing made me laugh harder than that orphan boy and the rest of the rag tag characters in the _vecindad._ His neighborhood was always full of mischief. Many viewers preferred the other show, _El Chapulin Colorado_ , which had the same actors but playing different characters.

I proceeded to the room I shared with Vivi who was listening to records. The previous week we had gone to Kmart and bought a suitcase-like record player. The box opened into a turntable.

Vivi picked a bright orange color since she always liked _rechinante_ colors. Jorge, on the other hand, hated startling hues and much preferred the big clumsy boxes of 8-track tapes to records.

I smiled as I plopped myself down on the bed while in rhythm with Sunny and the Sunliners' _Cariño Nuevo_ since Sanio Ozuna was one of Vivi's favorite singers _._ She started hiding something when she saw me, but then she changed her mind and handed me a record.

"Okay, so I broke down and bought a Neil Diamond record _._ I usually buy _la raza_ records, but he sings so great. Especially your song, _Cracklin' Rosie_."

"I like Neil Diamond too. . . He's _so_ grown up."

She nodded and then stretched out on her bed, "Sing _Sanio,_ sing!"

It was getting too much for me. I rushed to her. "Don't you think Neil is so _mature_?"

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

I smiled. She finally got it.

Taking me by the shoulders, she asked, "Are you in love with Neil Diamond?"

"No!"

"Why are you acting so strange?"

"Don't you see anything different about me?" I frustratingly asked.

Vivi studied me carefully. "The only thing I see is that big pimple on your—Rosi! Your period!"

I fervently nodded, and she bear-hugged me. My skin's changing texture had clued her in.

"Wonderful!" she burst. "Great!"

As soon as my Mama arrived home, Vivi called her to our bedroom and told her. My Mama only looked at me sadly and nodded her head. When she left, I turned to Vivi who was still thrilled.

"She didn't look too happy," I said.

"It's hard to see your only little girl grow up."

From that day on, my body started a rapid change. It was becoming rounder like the ones in the magazines from _Juarez_ I would peek at when we were driving by outside vendors. It was happening too soon. I had been a skinny twig before and had been called _hueso_. I hated being called bone. I would delude myself that I wasn't skinny but that I was a medium. In those days there was a stage between skinny and overweight. Medium was a balanced and healthy area, and I was actually going towards there, but I was doing it too fast.

I went from a training bra to a size 36 B by the end of the summer. I was starting a new school with a woman's body.

Chapter 11

New School

Having left behind a whole life with the vivid spirit of a father, a home, and friends, I didn't know how to even begin creating another but there I was in junior high, trying to acclimate myself. Since Gladden Junior High was in Andover, New Mexico about a twenty minute ride from Casa Sol, I had never been to the area. In trying to make myself feel better, I told myself there was an advantage of no one knowing about the horrible urinary disaster.

I thought I would be saved the grief of being introduced to the class as the new student since it was not the middle of a term. The teacher, however, made me stand up as she told everyone I came from Ysleta. Through my peripheral vision, I saw a boy with a buzz cut cupping his hands in front of his chest, causing squeaky giggles and loud laughter from the students around him. The teacher, Miss Treviño, seemed bewildered at the outburst and shushed everyone. I sat down completely upset at this evil boy making fun of my breasts.

"Rosario, it's nice to have you here," she said.

It, however, wasn't nice being there. The jerk-boy, Damian, kept cupping his hands in front of his chest every time I saw him. I avoided looking in his direction. He was one of the worse _chamuco_ kids I had ever come across. He made it his life's mission to ridicule people. This demon child never did his homework, constantly disrupted the class, and tried to get attention any way he could. One time he went too far with the faculty. Mr. Wilbert, the music teacher, asked us which song we wanted to sing from our songbook. Most of the kids wanted to sing _El Rancho Grande_ , not necessarily because they liked it but because it had the word _calzones_ in the song. Leave it to immature kids to get excited over the word underwear.

When that part of the song came, Damian stood up, put one hand under his chest, pointed at Mr. Wilbert and yelled _calzones grandes_. Mr. Wilbert turned a bright red as shrieking laughter came out of the tiniest mouths. I felt bad for him. Even if he did wear big underwear, it wasn't our business. I did, however, wish he didn't wear his pants almost to his chest, inviting smirks and rude remarks.

Damian got paddled for that one. Even though he came back to class rubbing his bottom, he was still as bad as ever. His hands still shot in front of his chest whenever he'd see me. He started calling me _peras_. I hated my breasts having a nickname. As if they even looked like pears! I called him _Damian Demonio_ because as far as I was concerned, he was a demon. He laughed it off. The other kids also started calling him _Damian Demonio_ and then they would make crosses with their index fingers as if warding off a bad spirit. Then they would laugh, pointing at him. He would glare at them with unbridled anger. To my immense relief, he stopped calling me _peras_ in front of others.

Through him, I met my best friend, Gerarda. Damian would terrorize her because she stuttered. I started yelling _Damian Demonio_ every time he started imitating her, and he stopped.

I ate lunch in the cafeteria by myself because I hadn't yet had a chance to make new friends. My innate shyness made it a very difficult task. Gerarda started bringing her tray over and eating with me. She liked tetherball, so we started playing together. She hardly spoke because of her speech impediment but like me, she loved reading and hated sports. When we had to play baseball for P.E., I would dread it all day. I called those gelatin days. Damian, unfortunately, never missed gelatin days.

I would try to strike out, but inevitably something inside me would make me swing the bat. I'd hit the ball and the gelatin would begin. I'd be running to first base knowing my breasts were jiggling. I detested the feeling. The only solution was to cover the jiggle, so I'd wear loose tops.

I didn't tell anyone at home about my problem at school, not even Vivi. I tried to deal with what was happening with boys and my changing body on my own. It was curious that in the small _novela_ booklets Vivi used to read, the drawings always had women with huge hips, big chests, and small waists. The small books were like comics in that they had bubbles coming out of people's mouths with words, but they dealt with adult human issues. They not always ended happily but gave moral lessons. Vivi read them mostly to learn Spanish since she didn't actually care for some of the stories, just as she didn't like Harlequin Romances.

"They're can be unrealistic about being a woman," she would say.

Vivi criticized fashion magazines incessantly for not portraying the reality of women. Every time she saw a picture of Twiggy, she'd be upset even if her own body was similar, though not quite as thin.

I couldn't understand the impact of Twiggy. Skinny wasn't a positive word. It wasn't attractive. Not in my world. I would watch Susan Dey playing Laurie on _The Partridge Family_ and think _, that girl looks like if a strong wind came, she'd break. She needs to gain weight._ I now know that Susan Dey was anorexic.

Even with the problems at school concerning my new body, I still didn't want to be skinny. The very thin girls were often ridiculed. The boys called them boney moronies or skeletons. In private, they would say that those girls were _secas._

Vivi despised that word. "Dry! Like if I don't have any life in me! As if I'm dry of everything."

Jorge dated curvaceous women, and his friends liked that body type too. When Jorge would say, " _Ay nalgotas_!", he wasn't making fun of a woman's big derriere but quite the opposite. He was admiring it.

A few times, I caught Vivi staring at her own small bottom in the mirror. Then she would get angry at herself for falling into the trap of the superficiality of appearances, to be judged so much by how far one's eyes were set, the roundness of the hips, or the color of one's hair and skin.

Vivi especially hated that fashion magazines rarely had women of backgrounds other than white.

"Do those fashion idiots think only white skin and blue eyes are beautiful?" Vivi grumbled.

"Yes." I don't think the fashion industry's usual aversion to beauty in a woman of color has changed that much even today.

This disgusted Vivi so much that she decided to wage a war with what was popular in the fashion industry. Vivi wanted to look nothing like a model. She couldn't help how tall she was, but she started taking vitamins and increasing her food intake. As many of her peers were lightening their hair, she colored her dark-brown hair black. Years later, when colored contacts were popular, she switched optometrists when he suggested she get blue contacts.

"Are you telling me my brown eyes aren't good enough?" Vivi questioned, eyes narrowed.

"I'm only telling you that you may like to vary your appearance," the doctor replied, agitated.

I myself would've been intimidated, but there was very little that frightened Vivi. I knew she wasn't going to back down, but what would her comeback be to what he said? I would've been stumped.

"Do you recommend your blue eyed patients go brown?" she interrogated.

"I recommend a lot of people to—"

"Do you recommend blue going brown?" she repeated with a stronger voice.

"I already said that I do suggest color changes for people who want to vary their appearance."

"Why won't you give me a direct answer? The question is very simple. Blue to brown?"

"That's enough! I think you need to leave, to change doctors."

"I'll change doctors, but I won't change my eye color."

Vivi marched out the examining room. Doctor Neilson stomped out, yanked a pack of cigarettes from his front pocket, and strode out the back door. Vivi had that effect on people.

No matter what the fashion industry tried to cram down our throats, Vivi spit it out. Her determination was so strong that her basic body structure began to change. Her body became more rounded.

Today, when someone tries to demean Vivi by telling her she has a big butt, she simply says, "Thank you but it's no use complimenting me on my appearance. I'm into personality."

Chapter 12

Lonely Passages

Years later, I turned fifteen during summer and thought I had entered the most important rite of passage I would ever go through. Little did I know that this was one of many rites of passages, many doors to open, many impossibilities to understand. But I, in all the naiveté and self-centeredness of the young, believed being fifteen put me at the cusp of wisdom and importance. If my menstrual period was a window into womanhood, my fifteenth birthday was a door into adulthood.

At fifteen in my culture, a young woman was now allowed to date, wear make-up, and listen to certain adult conversations. My mother, clearly not comprehending this big event in my youthful life, told me there would be no money for a _quinceañera._ My birthday would come and go without this wedding-like celebration. I told my Mama I didn't really want one, but it was one of the lies circumstances taught me to tell.

I only had to think back to Clarissa's recent _quinceañera_ to realize how much I wanted this ceremonial party. I didn't much associate with her after that fateful day at _La Rosita_ when we had swum in the swimming pool she had disparaged so much. We did, however, go to the same junior high school even if we lived in different towns. After the summer, we both would be attending Gladden high school which was down the street from the middle school.

While Clarissa and I were in the same grade since she had also flunked a level, we belonged to totally different circles. Clarissa went with the popular crowd, and everyone called her Claire, but I couldn't get accustomed to that name. She always had boys sniffing around her like lovesick puppies and desperate to date her. I never told my _Tia Juana_ and _Tio Hilario_ that she had already dated before her _quinceañera._ When we bumped into each other in school, we pretended we didn't know one another. She had snubbed me first, and I had decided that if she was going to be a snob, I would also pretend she didn't exist.

It worked fine until my Mama forced me attend her _quinceañera._ She said it would be rude for me to avoid it.

"I don't know why she's making me go," I told Vivi. "I don't like parties, and I can't stand Clarissa.

"What size do you think Miss Claire's head is?"

"At least twice as big as yours and mine. She tells everybody that _tia_ and _tio_ are from Spain and not Mexico!"

We started roaring with laughter at the ridiculousness of it. Claire epitomized what went inside the very heart of the superiority/inferiority seesaw—of what went into _superiority thinking_.

"So _la falla_ is saying she's a Spaniard?" snickered Vivi.

Vivi was one hundred percent right in calling her _the snob_. "I was waiting to hear her say she was an ancestor of Spanish royalty, but the bell rang."

I hate to admit that Clarissa was the _butt_ of many of Vivi and my jokes. It wasn't a one-way street, though. Clarissa also ridiculed us aplenty. I heard through the grapevine she called Vivi _Che Guevara_. Vivi wasn't bothered being given the name of a revolutionist and took it as a compliment. But when I told her that Clarissa called me _una india prieta fea_ , she didn't take it well.

"Stupid bitch!" Vivi blurted.

Vivi rarely swore since my Mama prohibited swearing in the house which was why my brother could talk _todo picardillento_ outside, but inside our home, no such words came out of his mouth. Vivi, however, completely abhorred when people insulted their own roots, so she'd let her mouth explode.

"She's an idiot calling you an ugly, dark skinned Indian! How dare she?! Your coloring is a blessing. Being indigenous is a blessing. There's nothing worse," she said, "Than a _pinchi_ person not knowing where they came from!"

I didn't teach Vivi any Spanish swear words like _pinchi_ which could be used instead of damn. Those she picked up on her own. I was proud that at Clarissa's _quinceañera_ , she didn't use one cuss word even though the giant _pachanga_ was full of Clarissa's snobbish friends. Vivi was on her best behavior.

When the night was finally over, I was the first one in the car. Vivi and Jorge came after, and we waited for my Mama.

"This cost a ton of money," Jorge muttered.

"You can say that again," I said.

"Why didn't they hold this in Juarez?" asked Jorge.

"It would've been less expensive, that's for sure," Vivi said.

"Mama told me Clarissa had thrown a fit when _tia_ and _tio_ suggested it."

"What's wrong with Juarito bird?" asked Vivi.

"Wasn't she born in Juaritos?" questioned Jorge.

"She keeps it a secret. She doesn't like saying she was born there," I said.

"Where does she say she was born? Madrid?" scoffed Vivi.

I almost didn't blame Clarissa for denying she was born in Juarez since some students made cruel jokes about the kids from there.

"Juareños! Juareños!" students would sneer at those coming out of ESL, English as a Second Language, classes.

My Mama finally reached the car, and we drove home in silence. That night, I dreamed I was Clarissa in the glamorous white dress she had worn with people telling me how beautiful I looked. A long line of anxious boys awaited their turn to dance with me.

On my own birthday there was no one proclaiming my greatness, no eye-popping gown, no blaring music. No day of _me, me, me._ Instead it was a day like every day except Vivi made me a pink frosted cake and gave me a turquoise necklace.

Twice Clarissa had been able to wear a beautiful fairytale princess gown. I hadn't worn one even once. For my first communion, I had had to borrow a plain white long dress from a cousin. My Mama refused to ask Clarissa for hers since she had used it on Halloween deeming the gown unusable in her eyes.

That birthday was the worst one I ever had. Even though I disliked parties for the most part, I still badly wished for a _quinceañera_ —a day when I could be special. I could be Cinderella at the _quinceañera_ ball. I cried, thinking that lacking a fancy dress was an enormous tragedy. I wish now I would've saved my tears and realized what Vivi was fond of proclaiming —that Cinderella was nothing but a fairytale. Nothing but a faux life of puffy dresses and impossible-to-walk-in glass high heels thrust upon unsuspecting girls like me with the idea that our sole purpose was attracting a prince. He was supposed to rescue our feeble womanhoods from thinking and doing for ourselves because he and only he could give us the happily ever after of scrubbing the castle floors, caring for the future heirs to the throne, and making certain our husband's manliness was always fluffed up. Too bad I fell for the fairytale, especially on my fifteenth birthday, my entryway into adulthood.

There was no comfort in being allowed to wear make-up and date. Make-up was a nuisance and no boys wanted to go out with me. I'm embarrassed to say I felt so disgustingly sorry for myself. My birthday, however, didn't turn out to be the saddest event during that time. Vivi left to California to spend the rest of the summer with her parents.

"Are you going to stay there?" I asked her, worried.

"I don't think so."

Her answer didn't reassure me. Vivi rarely used the words, _I think_. She was one of the most decisive people I knew.

As we were waiting for her to board the Greyhound bus, I told her, "Please come back."

She only smiled at me with watering eyes and patted my back. The line of travelers she was in reached the door. She swung her arms around my Mama first and then me before walking out the door that led to her bus.

"Do you think she'll return?" I asked my Mama.

My Mama nodded her head, and then told me we were going to _Las Fuentes_ soon. It was her way of trying to make me feel better. I, however, had mixed feelings about visiting since the last few times, it had been a different experience from when I was a child, but my Mama told me _Tia Chata_ had written to her and was anxious to see me.

When we arrived in _Las Fuentes, Tia Chata_ hugged me like she always did. The difference came with the other teen-agers. We were too old to run outside to play and I found there was little I could relate to with them. They invited me to dances, but I never cared much for them on either side of the border. They thought I was odd with my deep silences, but it was not only those teens that I couldn't relate to since I wasn't faring too well in the United States either.

Gerarda was still my best friend, but she was having a hard time understanding my dreams. It was the same problem I had had with Atocha.

"I'm not smart like you," Gerarda would say.

"I'm not smart. I study hard," I answered. "You like to read like I do. You can do the same things I do to keep up with any studies."

Gerarda and our other friends would be talking about cute boys, dorky teachers, and confusing classes. I spoke about entering college. The girls would tell me `they had heard college was expensive and difficult. Many flunked out of universities during the first years.

Sara, who everybody knew was _una enviosa de primera clase_ , would tell me, "You'll probably end up pregnant instead."

I reminded myself of her much deserved reputation of being a first class envious person and said, "No way. I'm having a career."

"You'll end up having to marry some guy who will beat you."

"No, I won't." My mouth twitched.

" _Asi pasa,_ " Sara said. "When you think something won't happen to you, it does."

I shook my head. "What a person _thinks_ will happen is what happens. So if I believe I'm going to college, then I will go there and not let anything stop me."

One year later, Sara was the one who got pregnant. She dropped out of school to marry the father and was seen at the grocery store with black and blue marks. Even if she could be an ugly green-eyed monster, she didn't deserve that fate.

Gerarda told me, "Primero cae un hablador que un cojo." I completely agreed with the saying— especially in this case. A person with a big mouth takes a fall before somebody who limps does. Gerarda didn't stutter anymore since her mother had kicked out her verbally abusive stepfather.

"I still think that if Sara had made up her mind not to get pregnant, she wouldn't have. Instead, she seems to have cursed herself with all that talk about pregnancy and wife beating. I've made up my mind to go to college."

"What if it doesn't happen?" muttered Gerarda.

"It will."

I resented that most of the middle class and rich students didn't have to _dream_ about going to college. To them, it would be like taking one more step from high school. To me it was an entire leap of which I was terrified of not reaching the other side. The road was already paved for them. For me, it was like the dirt dusty roads in Casa Sol.

Even if some of their parents didn't have the money in full to completely pay for their college, they could still give directions, and help with homework. Doing something alone, without another person's knowing spirit was difficult. It seemed almost an impossibility. And I was jealous of those who had so much fortune and often didn't even realize or appreciate what they had. They would insist everyone was dealt the same cards. As they were rebelling from their parents, they didn't realize all the tools they had already luckily received. They didn't realize how _entitled_ they felt.

I intrinsically knew that in order for me to catch up to them on the road of the middle class and higher, I would have to run long and hard. Others, like Gerarda and Atocha, must've felt it too.

We felt it when a certain school counselor dissuaded us from higher education and told us to be thinking of jobs more appropriate for what we could do like being plumbers and mechanics for boys, and maids and homemakers for girls. We felt it when others made fun of our broken down houses. We felt it when the words on the blackboard were so unreal to our experience, yet we knew they were part of someone else's reality. We felt this and much more.

The middle class and above students, on the other hand, didn't have to go home and concentrate on studying in an ice cold house in the winter because the furnace barely worked or in the oppressive heat of the sweltering season because there was no air conditioner. They didn't have to dream of one day owning a beautiful house since they usually took the one they already lived in for granted. They didn't have to worry that their parents had enough money for bills. They didn't have to pray that no one got sick because there was no health insurance. I realize now that situations aren't so cut and dry, but back then, they seemed to be for me.

I would talk to the students in the Junior Honor Society. Most of their lives were very different from mine. It was the same with the popular students. Most of us working class teens never made it to popularity—not even reached the doorstep.

Where was it that I belonged? I would ask myself. With Vivi gone to California, I would be more out of place than ever. It was a lonely existence in the world of middle class dreams with a working class reality.

### Chapter 13

_Gladden High School_

As I entered high school Vivi stayed in California abandoning me during this critical time. I felt I had lost the only sister I would ever have. Of course, this was the arrogance of youth thinking something was lost just because it wasn't there at that precise moment.

Being in high school gave me a sense of adulthood even if I was only a freshman. I loved the feeling. I could almost smell graduation and independence.

Spanish class turned out to be my favorite. Apart from being easy, I also adored the teacher, Mrs. Rivas. She would joke frequently and tell us about her exploits in Europe. She was proud of her heritage, telling us we could go almost anywhere on earth and find someone who could speak Spanish.

The person who got frustrated over the Spanish language was Shirley Garcia. She was the principal's daughter and had straight A's but couldn't speak a lick of _Español_. I had her for other classes and nothing frustrated her more than someone speaking to her in our native tongue.

"Look, I don't understand," she'd cry out. "Just because I'm Hispanic doesn't mean I know Spanish."

In her heart of hearts, Shirley must've wanted to speak it but was ashamed to even try. She ended up taking German instead.

Mrs. Rivas told us it was better to learn our ancestral tongue well instead of attempting another language. She explained that if a language wasn't spoken and practiced, it was difficult to learn. Because of our background, we could easily exercise the Spanish language.

What made me feel uncomfortable in that class was the boy who sat in the row next to mine. He would whisper to his friend who sat behind him and both guys would stare at me. They wouldn't laugh, but they still made me nervous.

I soon learned that the boy's name was Chucho, and he was a sophomore. He was a cute guy with curly black hair, dark-blue eyes, and a long, tall body. He would talk so loud to his friend that it was difficult to avoid listening to their conversations. In fact, there were times I was certain he was raucous for my benefit. Sometimes he said a funny joke and I wanted to laugh, but I bit my lip not wanting him to know I was eavesdropping.

One day after class, his friend, Yoyo, followed me. I stopped, turned around, and faced him. He regarded me so nervously that I felt sorry for him. He finally spoke when I didn't move but kept eyeing him with expectation.

"Hi, I sit next to you in Spanish," he murmured, his voice small and shaky. I nodded my head. "Chucho sits next to me, and he would like to know if you want to be his girlfriend?" he rushed, tripping on his words.

"What?"

He gulped loudly. "Chucho wants to be your boyfriend."

"Okay," I blurted.

He nodded his head. "Okay, goodbye." He rushed off.

My hands quivered. Had I just become a girlfriend for the first time? Had it actually happened? I realized I was in the middle of the hallway, standing there like a statue.

_Walk feet, walk_ , I demanded of myself in my head, _before I'm late_.

I didn't remember getting to my next class. In fact, I didn't recall much of the rest of the day except that I felt disconnected from reality.

I would see all the popular girls with their boyfriends. Unbelievable but now I had a boyfriend too. And he wasn't a freshman either.

The next day during class, Chucho and Yoyo argued. Their voices were so low that I didn't catch what they were saying. After class Chucho rushed up to me.

"Hi, Rosario," he burst nervously.

"Hi," I returned.

"Did...Did Yoyo..."

"Yes?" I asked, bewildered and quaking.

"Did Yoyo ask you something yesterday?"

This was becoming confusing. "Yes."

"Did he ask you if you wanted to be my girlfriend?"

"Yes."

"And did you answer that you would?"

I nodded my head.

"So he wasn't lying to me?" Chucho asked.

"No."

"You really want to be my girlfriend?"

"I think so."

"Okay. See you tomorrow." He strode away. I was on pins and needles from then on.

The next day after Spanish class, he walked with me to my next class where he left me at the door. As we were going through the halls, students gaped, but I didn't care. We discovered that unfortunately we had lunch at different times. There were so many students in school that the Gladden district had divided lunch into two segments. Chucho was part of B lunch while I was an A luncher. The only positive was that I wouldn't be leaving Gerarda alone.

The following week, Chucho walked me to class after Spanish every day. On Friday, he suddenly stopped outside the English building. No one was around, and he acted jittery.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, his voice shaky.

"Sure," I answered. Isn't that what girlfriends and boyfriends did—smooth? I thought to myself. A certain kind of excitement burst through me. I would be experiencing my very first kiss!

His face quickly came towards me and before I knew it, his lips were planted on my own. His tongue slipped into my mouth, and I panicked. Did good girls allow boys' tongues past their lips? I wished I could ask Vivi.

After a while, his tongue didn't feel too bad. When we disengaged, I wanted to smile, but acted cool instead. We finished walking to class in silence. As I stepped into the classroom, I twitched. Had anyone seen? Could anyone tell I had been kissed? Were my lips red and puffy?

Two weeks later, we agreed to meet at a school dance. Jorge would drop me off, and then pick me up. That night I wore a dress Vivi had given me. She had mistakenly bought it too big for herself but had decided that instead of returning it, I should have it. It was a satiny shiny purple dress, perfect for disco dancing. That night would be the first night Chucho would see me with make-up.

Jorge looked worried when I came out of my room. As we were driving away, he finally spoke to me.

"You look great, little sister."

"Thank you, Jorge."

"Let me tell you something, men are pigs," he thumped my arm so I made certain to listen to him.

"What?"

"Don't let any dirty pig touch you because I'll fu—I mean—freakin' kill him."

No matter where we went, my Mama's influence wouldn't allow us to swear in front of each other.

"Don't worry, Jorge, I know how to take care of myself."

"Little sister, you have an opportunity to go to college. We don't want you to get stuck with a baby."

"I'm not getting pregnant," I promised him.

He seemed comfortable with what I had told him as he dropped me off. Inside the dance, I immediately found Chucho. At first glance, he didn't recognize me. When he finally did, he told me I looked beautiful. Beautiful!

As I neared Chucho, I smelled alcohol. He was more than a little drunk, but I didn't want to be a party pooper. I didn't say anything. We started dancing to a Donna Summer song. It was then that embarrassment hit me like a ton of bricks. I got an overwhelming urge to jump under the bleachers and hide.

Chucho made his body rigid and folded his arms in front of him as the only movement he made was twisting his body slowly from side to side. I was not a great dancer, but I could move with some rhythm. He moved to an inner clock that didn't listen to anything around him. And to make matters worse, he closed his eyes and made a face of sheer ecstasy.

After the song ended, I swiftly blurted I wanted a soda. He got it for me, and I gradually sipped it to avoid another dance with him, but he invited me to a slow song. I gulped the soda down, hoping he was a better slow dancer. To my relief, Chucho's movements were much more fluid, and I became involved in the romance of being close to him.

"Do you see that girl with the blue dress?" he asked, pointing at her with his chin.

"Yes."

"She used to be my girlfriend."

I really didn't want to have a conversation about his old girlfriend.

"She wanted me to _cojerla_ but I wouldn't _meterle mano_ ," he informed me matter-of-factly.

"You wouldn't have sex with her?"

"Do you know the difference between _cojer_ and making love?"

I eyed him nervously. I didn't like this conversation at all.

"I don't want to use someone just for sex," he muttered.

To my great relief, he dropped the subject after that and made small talk. When Jorge picked me up, I wanted the two boys in my life to meet, but Chucho nervously told me it would have to wait for another time. I was disappointed but understood it was too soon in our relationship to meet family members.

The next week while walking to English class, Chucho kissed me and then gazed at me with a penetrating look.

"Do you want to make love?" he crooned, his voice husky.

"What?"

"Let's make love."

"I. . . I . . . I don't want to get pregnant," I blurted.

"You wouldn't have to worry. I've got rubbers."

My sociology teacher believed in sex education, so he had given us a segment on birth control. Most of the class was uncomfortable with the subject, but we knew that this was much more factual than _Pepito_ jokes. I now knew that boys often carried condoms in their wallets for extended periods of time and this would damage them by producing tiny holes in them. Also, many boys didn't know how to correctly put them on.

"Just think about it, okay?" he entreated.

"Okay," I muttered.

Chucho dropped the subject until a few days later. Before kissing me he said, "No one will ever know if we make love. It'll only be us."

In those days, there were girls who _'put out'_ and those who didn't. A girl was either a saint or a _pluma_. Society didn't make room for in between. The girls who were rumored to _'do it'_ couldn't go anywhere without being whispered about and ridiculed by _chamuco_ kids who grew up to be _chamuco_ teen-agers. The girls were tagged as prostitutes and were called very ugly names, and the boys who had supposedly had sex with them were congratulated with plenty of pats on the back. It seemed a double standard to me even then. Why did we have to stay virgins while the guys didn't? Why was our reputation completely ruined while theirs was enhanced?

The concept of sex and all the surrounding implications created more questions than answers. One Saturday I invited Gerarda to the movies to quell some of those uncertainties. I made certain my Mama and not Jorge took us to the Capri Theater in downtown El Paso. My Mama couldn't read English, so she didn't know the kind of movie she would drop us off at and then pick us up from.

Gerarda gave a loud gasp when she saw what we were going to watch. Two of the movies were fine but not the third one. In those days, one would pay a dollar and watch up to three films.

"Isn't that a dirty movie?" Gerarda questioned, gulping as she pointed at the marquee.

"We've got to learn about sex some way," I shot back nonchalantly.

I don't know why I thought that a movie about sexy cheerleaders and horny football players would actually teach me anything about sexual intercourse. But I guess that's part of being young—finding your way through somewhat clueless streets time and time again.

"There's no way they'll let us get in," Gerarda asserted. "We're underage."

"Yes, they will."

"But Rosario, what if they throw us out? _Que verguenza_."

"We won't be embarrassed because they won't throw us out."

"Let's go to the Colon Theater. There's a Cantinflas movie."

It was tempting. I loved the comic's hilarious antics. The Colon showed Mexican movies. Some people called it _El Calcetin_ claiming it smelled like smelly socks, but I never found it to be true.

"Let's go see Cantinflas another day," I finally said. "Aren't you curious about the movie?" I pointed at the posters of the scantily clad cheerleaders.

"I don't like _payasa_ cheerleaders, Rosario," she guffawed. "They think they're so good."

"We're not here to watch the snob cheerleaders. We're here to watch the sex, so we can learn about it."

Gerarda grew pensive for a while. "Okay, but get us the tickets while I stay here."

She handed me her dollar, and I nonchalantly strolled up to the payment booth.

"Two tickets please," I uttered as authoritative as I could.

The young woman in the booth eyed me suspiciously. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen," I shot back.

The young woman's eyes shot to an older lady next to her, and the older woman nodded her head. There were definite advantages to my having a voluptuous figure. Once the tickets were issued, Gerarda and I rushed in and past the concession stand. There was rarely any money for popcorn, candy, or sodas. I led Gerarda up the stairs to the balcony seats.

Sitting in the bottom seats was dangerous considering all the items people threw from the top. If one was lucky all one got stuck in the hair was popcorn. It would make me nervous when I heard a clearing of the throat coming from up there. It was disgustingly gross just thinking about it.

Gerarda and I managed to get seats in the front of the balcony. I anxiously waited for the cheerleader movie to play, but it was the last one showing. I hardly paid attention to the first two movies and wanted to hurry each intermission.

Once it finally played, I sat throughout the film in disbelief. It was one of the most ridiculous movies I had ever seen. College cheerleaders frolicked about with their football boyfriends, taking off blouses and skirts at random.

When it ended, Gerarda and I stepped out of the theater quietly.

"Man," I said. "Who wants to see all those _chichis_ bouncing around?"

"Yeah. I've got my own breasts. I don't need to see others."

"We didn't learn anything about sex," I groaned.

" _Nada_."

"Nothing, nothing, nothing," I agreed.

Chucho was uncharacteristically quiet in Spanish class. He didn't joke with Yoyo. I started to get worried. After the bell, he walked me to English as usual.

"My brother and his wife are leaving on vacation this weekend. I'm taking care of his house," Chucho announced.

"Oh."

"We can spend time at his house," he rushed. "Nobody has to know we're there. I can pick you up in my brother's car."

"Us alone at your brother's house," I muttered.

"Yeah!" Chucho burst excitedly. "Your first time will be great!"

Back then, it wasn't out of the ordinary that Chucho and I had never actually gone out. We only saw each other in school. It did bother me, though, that the only time he asked me on a real date was for sexual intercourse.

"Chucho, I don't want to have sex," I shot back. "I don't want to get pregnant."

"I've got a rubber."

"Rubbers aren't full-proof."

"Yes, they are, Rosa."

"No, they're not," I asserted. "I've got too many things I want to do in my life. I can't risk getting pregnant."

Those frolicking cheerleaders in the movie had affected me after all. They were spoiled and frivolous, as if they were going nowhere. I needed to know that in my own life I was going towards something. And sex at fifteen represented what was on the screen—irresponsibility and general aimlessness.

A few days later, he silently walked me to my English class. He seemed sullen and jittery at the same time. I didn't know how to handle his disposition. Being so young, I was unaware of the often entangled dynamics between couples. Abruptly, he stopped and faced me. "We need to break up."

"Break up?" I muttered, my throat suddenly dry.

"We don't fit."

"Fit?"

"No. You are so different, Rosa, and..."

"What?"

"I don't understand you sometimes," he declared, his eyes darting everywhere except on mine.

"It's because I won't have sex with you, right?"

"I already told you," he snapped. "We're different from each other."

"What do you mean?" I shot back.

"We'll be late for our classes, Rosa," he muttered, irritated.

"I don't care," I blurted, not allowing my tears to flow.

"Sorry," he burst, "bye." Rushing away from me, I stared after him in disbelief.

The bell rang, breaking me out of my stupor. I silently stumbled to class in a frozen ice inertia. This would be the first time I would be tardy. When I stepped in the classroom, the teacher didn't say anything about my tardiness. I sat throughout the lesson numb, not wanting to think too deeply about what had just occurred or tears would certainly gush out.

By the time I arrived at lunch, I had vigorously torn or crossed out all the _Rosa + Chuchos_ from my notebooks. It was enchilada day and I just picked at my food without saying a word. Gerarda talked about her classes and when we stepped into the library to finish homework, I made it a point of not opening my notebooks, so she wouldn't see what I had done to them. Instead, I asked her for paper. When the bell rang, officially ending lunch period, she patted me on the back.

"You'll be okay. Chucho wasn't worth it," she blurted and left.

Was my pain so obvious that she had seen through me? I questioned. When I arrived home, I didn't say anything to anybody. My Mama didn't even know I had had a boyfriend.

The next day, I quivered all the way to Spanish class. My stomach burned with blistering agony and my heart throbbed. Chucho was already seated by the time I got to my chair. I made my body stiff so the shaking inside wouldn't show outside.

_Please don't let him see how bad I feel,_ I thought.

I sat on my chair without a single glance at him. Throughout the period, I stayed in the rigid box I had created for myself. Mrs. Rivas had much work for us, so fortunately there was no time to socialize that day.

When the bell rang, I immediately left before Chucho stood up. I felt so obvious walking the hallways by myself, as if others were saying, "Look at that loser. She got dumped." The most pathetic was that I kept expecting Chucho to come after me and say, "It was a joke. Be my _novia_ again. I didn't mean to break up with you. I didn't mean to hurt you. Be my girlfriend again."

He never came. The next day, I finally asked Mrs. Rivas if she would allow me to switch seats. Fortunately, she did without asking me for an explanation. I installed myself as far away from Chucho as possible, even sitting in the back when I liked to keep to the front.

Every Spanish class period I would anxiously look at my watch counting the minutes towards the bell ringing. Out of my peripheral vision, I would watch Chucho. He would laugh and flirt with the girls around him. Then he would glance at me. But my rigid box of pride was always in place.

After class one day, he surprisingly rushed after me. "Do me a favor."

"What?" I asked, feeling my heart thumping with the hope of reconciliation.

" _Consigueme_ a Diana. She sits next to you."

"You want me to ask Diana to be your girlfriend?" I questioned him in disbelief. My pride box wanted to explode.

"Yes," he answered smugly.

"Okay," I shot back, trying to sound equally as smug. I refused to let the rigid box burst. My sense of pride insisted that he didn't see me in pain.

"Tomorrow then," he uttered, turning to leave.

"Yeah, tomorrow."

I don't know why I didn't turn around and walked away, but I stood there staring at his smug, _culeco_ butt. His black comb was sticking out of his Levi's jean pocket. It wasn't the old fashioned kind like the long ones Jorge used with the teeth coming down to the bottom on one side. Chucho's comb was more stylish with a slanted handle at the bottom and thick teeth. My pride box exploded then. I swiftly strode up to him, grabbed the comb, and flung it in a trash can. He furiously twisted around and rushed to the trash.

"Are you crazy?!" he screeched at me, gawking at his comb. He wouldn't dare take it out of the dirty trash with so many eyes on us. Someone had thrown away some rotten fruit.

I strode away. Keeping my head up, I forced a nonchalant look. My thick rigid box was in place again.

The following day, Yoyo scurried up to Diana after class. Chucho stood stealthily in the corner. I knew I should've kept moving, but I didn't. I needed to watch what was going to happen even when a feeling of being pathetic swept over me. Diana Perez was one of the popular girls. That was who Chucho was going to replace me with, Miss Daughter of Lawyer Parents, Miss Future Prom Queen. She lived in Santa Teresa where the money people lived. Many of them were actually upper middle class but where I stood, they were wealthy.

Diana's smirk came slowly as Yoyo spoke to her. Then she chuckled sturdily. Her head moved sideways with her tremendous laugh. Chucho abruptly scampered away with Yoyo rushing after him. For the rest of the day, I thought about how Chucho had been so certain she would want to be his girlfriend that he had waited at the corner for the answer. His certainty had even affected me because I also thought she would agree to his request.

Chucho must've felt humiliated because he didn't show up for class the next day. Diana nonchalantly acted as if not bothered by what had occurred at all. Everyone in class knew by now about Chucho wanting to be her boyfriend and had been ridiculing him.

"Rosario," someone behind me called my name.

I turned towards the voice which ended up being Diana's. "Yes?" I said.

"How do you spell _hacer_?"

"H*a*c*e*r," I answered.

"H?"

"The _h_ is silent."

Many students in the class asked me questions, especially those I had tutored in Junior High Spanish class. At the time, the teacher had chosen a few of us to help other students.

"Thanks," Diana said.

As much as I wanted to dislike Diana because she was part of the popularity game I despised, I couldn't. She was an authentically nice person. Whenever I bumped into her in the hallways, she'd say hello no matter who she was with at the time. She seemed to like me, so it was difficult to dislike her even when our two worlds were never likely to meet.

"Can I ask you a question?" Diana asked.

"Sure."

"You're so quiet. No one can tell what you're thinking. I was wondering why you threw away Chucho's comb?"

I didn't expect that question, and the truth would put a crack in my pride box if I spoke about how much Chucho had hurt me. "It was ugly," I responded, making my voice sound matter-of-factly.

She started chuckling so loud the rest of the class turned to us including Yoyo. I could already hear him telling his buddy the next day that we were laughing in class, probably mocking Chucho.

"Is there something funny back there?" Mrs. Rivas asked sternly.

I returned to my work and so did Diana. I hoped the conversation about the comb was dead.

"Chucho and you used to go out, no?" Diana whispered after a few moments.

"Yes." I really didn't want to talk about it, but it seemed I couldn't avoid it.

_But he dumped me—then he wanted to go out with you—but you're going to be the prom queen someday,_ I thought.

"I figured there was something wrong with him if you threw away his comb."

"He's a jerk," I said.

"He's not my type."

I smiled and nodded my head. "A jerk is nobody's type."

At home that night, I was still feeling sorry for myself. I was doing my homework when the phone rang. I was going to answer it but by the time I got to the living room, Jorge had already picked it up.

"Aay." he said curtly, pronouncing it like hay without the _h_.

I had pleaded with him to answer with hello. He gave me a big _nela canela_ no on that one.

"You've returned? . . . We'll be there," he said into the phone.

"Who was it?" asked my Mama. I was already turning around to return to my bedroom.

"Vivi."

I swished back around. "Vivi?!"

"She's at the busses. I'm going to pick her up."

"She's ba—" I started to say.

"I'm leaving because she's waiting," he stated.

"I'm going too!" I insisted.

"Let's all go," my Mama said.

I rushed to the car where I waited impatiently for Jorge and my Mama who seemed to be walking in slow motion. I eyed my old shorts since I had already changed out of my school clothes. I didn't care that people at the bus station would see me in _fachas garrientas_. I didn't know those people anyway. Vivi was back! And she didn't care about my raggedy clothes. I didn't know how long she had returned for, but I'd take whatever she could give me.

Her face was lit up like Christmas when we arrived at the bus depot. She bear hugged us.

"You're back!" I burst.

"I missed my _familia_ here. And I missed the desert."

### Chapter 14

_Finding Truth_

Sometimes a person steps through a door that accidentally opens the future.

In my junior year, the strangest of places, a step ahead of childhood, a whole foot before adulthood, a centimeter after grammar school, and an inch before graduation, I took a journalism class. Up to that point, I had mulled over time and time again what career path I would take. I knew I was going to college, but what was I going to study?

In the middle of learning about lead sentences—who, what, where, why, and sometimes how, I became fascinated with digging for truth, uncovering lies and intrigues, gluing information together and sharing it. There I was, the girl who had to learn English from scratch, and I was one of the top students in my journalism class. What would that bigot Mrs. Davidson say now?

Vivi told me it didn't matter what an ignorant person thought. Defining who we were for ourselves was important. That was why she wouldn't return to her parents. She didn't like what they stood for since she said they were hopelessly middle class.

"What's wrong with being middle class?" I asked her.

"They're _vendidos._ "

"Is everyone in middle class a sell out?" I questioned. I wanted to be in that class. Did it make me a sell out? Did it automatically mean I would turn my back on my culture?

"No, but my parents are. They don't speak Spanish anymore. They pronounce our last name Gone Zales."

"Gone Zales?" I repeated, scrunching my face.

"Why are they ashamed of our Mexican roots? They hide from the sun because they're afraid of getting darker. Can you imagine long sleeves on a hot summer day?"

"I used to wear them when I worked in the onion fields."

"There was a good reason for that. You'd get burned if you didn't protect yourself. But for my mom and dad, it's about thinking that darkness equals being Mexican. equals inferior." Vivi clutched her hand over her heart dramatically. "My parents are ignorant. It's embarrassing. How can I live with that?"

My _Tia Vera_ and _Tio Hilario_ would call every week to talk to Vivi. Sometimes I would answer the telephone, and they would talk to me for a while. They might've been coconuts, brown on the outside and white on the inside, but I had pleasant conversations with them. They'd ask me about school and would tell me how proud they were of my grades.

"Are you going to college, Rosie?" My _Tia Vera_ enthusiastically asked me.

"Yes, _tia_. One way or another."

"Good attitude!" she exclaimed, excited.

"College is a priority to me."

"I wish Vivi would go too," she murmured desolately. "When she was a little girl, we thought there was something wrong with her because she did so badly in school. Your Mama told us she was too smart for her grade level. We had her take an IQ test and guess what?"

"Vivi is very smart."

"Did she tell you about her high IQ?"

"No, _tia_ , but it's obvious."

It was impossible not to notice Vivi's photographic memory. She remembered numbers and addresses when hearing them only once.

"It's because you're smart like her," _Tia Vera_ said.

"I study hard. Vivi is naturally smart."

"If only she would go to college."

Convincing Vivi to pursue higher education was my _Tia Vera_ and _Tio Hilario's_ main purpose in calling her so often. They mentioned it _every_ time.

"What do you want me to go to college for? To brag to your other coconut friends?" Vivi told them.

Her angry quips ended as soon as my Mama heard her. My Mama sternly told Vivi that they were her parents deserved _respeto_ no matter what. From that moment on, Vivi afforded her parents the respect my Mama thought so important. Then after hanging up, she'd rush to our room where she began her _"Can you believe this"_ litanies.

" _Can you believe_ my dad told me not to marry a Chicano because they're jealous and womanizers?"

" _Can you believe_ my mom told me I should get pearl cream to whiten my skin?"

" _Can you believe_ my dad told me I should only speak English because it would give me better opportunities?"

" _Can you believe_ my parents told me not to speak Spanish in public?"

" _Can you b_ elieve . . . _Can you believe_ . . ."

Vivi would always finish her litanies with, "I love them, but they're ignorant! How can I live with that? What am I going to do?"

I thought it was a humorous predicament but to Vivi, it was the worst tragedy ever. She'd say she was sure God was punishing her. To me, it wasn't anywhere as big of a tragedy as what had happened to me in losing a parent. But maybe it wasn't about whose life was worse. Maybe it was about the battle to survive. Maybe it was about the individual realities in our lives.

During lunch at school, I was telling Gerarda about my journalism ambitions when it suddenly occurred to me she hadn't said a word. Gerarda's tray remained untouched, and her eyes were glassy.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She scanned our long table in the cafeteria packed with students and shook her head. I understood that she couldn't unload what was in her heart with so many ears close by, so I didn't ask any more questions.

"Let's go," she murmured. "I'm suffocating."

I left half the food. It bothered me to throw it away, but Gerarda looked absolutely lost. When we were outside, sitting on a bench, I asked her again.

"I . . . I . . ." she replied. "I can't talk about it."

I solemnly nodded my head. There was something obviously the matter with her but if she didn't want to tell me, then I'd have to respect her decision. Often our friendship didn't go into our secret places. My guess was that this was something about her new boyfriend, Tommy. He was her first boyfriend, and she constantly talked about him.

"Tommy likes . . ."

"Tommy wants . . ."

"Tommy is . . ."

Fortunately for me, Tommy, like Chucho, had A lunch, so I still had my lunchtime companion without having to bump into my broken heart. I hoped that whatever problems she was having with Tommy were minor and nothing like what had happened between Chucho and me.

Suddenly, Gerarda started crying. I took a tissue from my purse and handed it to her.

"It's awful," she muttered. She was making her face hard, so she could get some control over it.

"What is?" I asked.

"I'm no longer clean. I'm stained."

"What do you mean?" I questioned.

"I'm not a virgin anymore."

A few seconds passed before I took in this new reality. "Tommy?"

"Who else?" she asked sadly.

Gerarda told me that the previous night she and Tommy had parked on a dark lonely road. Tommy started kissing her. Before she knew it, her blouse was off. Then everything else came off too.

"You did it in the car?" I asked.

"Yes."

I always imagined my first time on a lace covered bed with moonlight romantically coming through a sparkling window and not intruding through the front windshield of a car.

"Was it uncomfortable?" I questioned.

She eyed me as if I had asked a dumb question. "What am I going to do, Rosario? Who will want to marry me? _Estoy manchada_. Stained! No one will ever have me like this."

"What about Tommy?"

"He hasn't talked to me at all today. He got what he wanted," she retorted.

" _Mugosos idiota_!" I burst. "He's really a filthy idiot!"

"I don't want to be his girlfriend anymore. He took my purity from me. What am I going to do? What if my family finds out? What if everyone in school finds out? I'll be known as a _puta._ "

"Stop thinking you'll be marked as a prostitute. How will they even find out about you and Tommy?"

"What if he tells everybody?"

"Say it isn't true. Boys make up stuff like that all the time. You're quiet and not a partier. That makes you more believable than him."

"What if they can tell? What if they can see my impurity?" she asked.

"I don't think so."

"Don't I look different to you?" I burst. "Like a _woman_ instead of a girl?"

"No, you look the same."

Many people believed that sex visibly changed a person when virginity was lost.

"Tommy told me boys can tell if a girl is a virgin by how she walks. Loose girls walk differently. Virgins walk tighter because they're not _aguadas_ yet."

I rolled my eyes. "I heard that one too and asked Vivi about it."

"What did she say?" Gerarda anxiously asked.

"It's bolony. _Puro Mitote._ You don't become permanently bow legged when you start having sex. My Mama isn't bow legged, and I'm sure she had sexual intercourse to have me." I contorted my face. I didn't want to think about my Mama indulging in sexual relations.

An introspective look replaced Gerarda's desperate one. "My _ama_ must've had sex too, and she's not bow legged either."

"Vivi is right. _Es puro mitote_ about girls becoming visibly _aguadas_ when they have sex. They don't become visibly loose! Don't worry about it so much."

"How can I not? My life is ruined. How can I ever respect myself again? I can never be pure again."

"Vivi says it's a double standard. Boys don't have to worry about being pure. And there's much more to us than our virginity."

"Then why didn't you do it with Chucho?" she blurted out.

"I wasn't ready. There's too many complications with sex . . . Did Tommy use a rubber?"

"Yes."

"Good."

I didn't tell her about the possible holes in it if it had been in his wallet for an extended period of time. I didn't want to scare her, so I didn't mention venereal diseases like Herpes and Syphilis. The Aids epidemic was about to hit, but not quite yet. I didn't ask her about pregnancy either.

We were silent a few minutes. I wanted to ask her a certain question. I checked my watch. There were ten minutes left before the bell rang.

"Gerarda?" I said, gulping.

"What?"

"How did it feel?" I whispered.

"Don't ask me that," she said. "I don't want to think about it. I want to forget the whole thing."

"I really want to know. Just tell me, and I'll never mention it again."

She looked annoyed, but then she nodded. "Okay, but never ask me again."

"I won't."

"Do you remember that cheerleader movie?" she questioned.

"Yes."

"Do you remember how much fun they were having with the football players?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Well, it was nothing like that."

"No?" I burst, disappointed.

"It hurt, and I bled. I had to put on a Kotex when I got home."

"Really?"

"And . . . never mind."

"What?" I asked. "You've got to tell me."

"His thing is ugly."

"It is? Does it really look like a hose?" I whispered.

"Kind of . . . I . . . I don't want to talk about it anymore. It was a bad experience."

"Okay."

And so we didn't talk about it again even when I wanted to ask her many more questions. I thought about our conversation many times. It seemed like such a ridiculous game, putting our entire value at what was between our legs. Why? Why did we play that game?

When our student counsel went on trips to other schools, they'd be asked what it was like to attend a place like Gladden. Wasn't there a killing every week? Our teachers were asked by other instructors from other schools if they had to carry weapons to class to protect themselves.

"Gladden has the worst reputation in the state," a fellow honor student told me. "We might have trouble getting into college. Some people say we have an inferior education since our district doesn't have as much money as other districts. We can't afford what they can."

If college scared me before, now it was downright horrifying. What if my education had not been good enough and I couldn't make it in higher education? I promptly went to my school counselor, Miss Rivera.

"Can you spell?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Can you put sentences together?"

"Yes."

"How's your math?"

"Not great but fine."

"Are you disciplined when it comes to studying?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Can you think?"

"Yes, of course," I said.

"Haven't you been on the A honor roll since you got here?"

"Yes."

"Why are you asking me if you'll make it through college? Don't you know the answer?"

"I'm hearing that my education is substandard."

"Do you feel it is?" she questioned.

"No."

"Rosario, your education is up to you."

"Okay," I said, insecure.

Miss Rivera smiled. "If you want to learn, the knowledge is there for you no matter where you come from."

I nodded slowly. "Okay."

"If anyone can make it, you can."

"Thank you." I stood up to leave.

"If I had said you weren't good enough for college would that have deterred you?"

"No."

Miss Rivera smiled. "I didn't think so."

Toward the end of my junior year I decided to get my class ring after all. I had resisted buying one because I didn't want any memories of being young and awkward. But Vivi said that whether phases in life were good or bad, they were still important memories. As soon as she said it, I knew she was trying to make herself feel better because this upcoming summer, she and I would go to California to visit her coconut parents.

Meanwhile, I decided to purchase the ring on the off chance that one day I would want to look back on my stay at high school crazy farm. I hadn't realized yet that every patchwork of our lives makes a full quilt.

My Mama wanted me to get a gold ring that would've been twice as expensive as the silver tone one I finally convinced her to buy me. Every time I wore the ring, I would be reminded that graduation was close on the horizon along with adulthood and freedom from the tyranny of high school.

All I had to do was stay sane a little longer.

A moment longer.

### Chapter 15

_The Summer before Graduation_

The first day of summer vacation between my junior and senior years, I plopped down in front of the television refusing to move until absolutely necessary. Vivi and Jorge were also sputtering around the house since it was a Saturday.

The telephone rang, and my Mama answered it because none of us had made a move toward it. As it happened, it was for her. After hanging up, she stepped over to us with a worried expression.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Clarissa," my Mama said, shaking her head.

"What's wrong with Clarissa?"

"Poor girl. She's in a bad state."

"Bad state?" asked Vivi.

"Pregnant," I said. That's what the _mal estado_ my Mama had said in Spanish meant.

"Clarissa's pregnant?" asked Vivi.

"She's knocked up?" Jorge questioned.

My Mama eyed Jorge as if noticing he was in the room for the first time, and he stood up to leave. He knew my Mama didn't like talking about such matters in mixed company.

"I'll be back later," he shot out, stepping over to the door.

We sat in shocked silence until the door closed behind Jorge and Vivi spoke. "What is Clarissa going to do?"

"Her parents are making her get married," my Mama responded.

"Who's the baby's father?" I asked.

"He's a boy named Chucho."

It was a few seconds before I made myself realize that Chucho was a common name. It couldn't be my first boyfriend. It was ridiculous to even consider it. My snobby cousin would never go out with a _nobody_ like him.

But in keeping with the strangeness of life, it _was_ my ex-boyfriend. Chucho was now playing football, making him eligible for Clarissa's attentions. They were forced to get married a week later in a private civil ceremony. My Mama made Vivi and I attend since my _Tia Juana_ and _Tio Hilario_ begged her to be there for support. They knew my Mama wasn't judgmental about such events. In fact, my Mama tried to convince them not to pressure her to marry, but they wouldn't hear of it. My Mama told _Tia Juana_ that my Papa, _Tia Juana's_ brother, would've also told her not to force the marriage. _Tia Juana_ told my Mama she respected her opinion but what did my Mama know about such things since she had a perfect daughter.

How could anyone describe me as the perfect daughter?

The ceremony was a miserable affair. Both bride and groom looked as if they wanted to start running out at any moment. _Tia Juana_ and _Tio Hilario_ cried throughout until my Mama told them to calm down, that it wasn't a death.

The judge told Clarissa and Chucho they could kiss, but they abruptly turned their faces to their parents instead. When the ceremony was over, I congratulated Clarissa, and she numbly nodded. I waited to the last moment to go to Chucho and almost got away with not doing it at all except my Mama gave me her disapproving glance, and I knew I had to talk to him.

"Congratulations," I said, shaking his hand and planning a quick exit, but he didn't let me go.

"Rosa, I always thought you were beautiful," he whispered as he finally dropped my hand.

I was annoyed until I looked into his moist eyes. I smiled briefly and stepped away.

My Mama finally announced we'd be going home. As I climbed into our vehicle, Jorge muttered, "Ya se caso, ya se frego." I sighed at the famous expression— _now married, now screwed_.

"I can't believe I'm going to _Californy_!" I burst, sitting next to Vivi on the Greyhound bus.

Vivi rolled her eyes. "Stop moving around so much."

"I can't help it. I'm excited. It'll be my first time in California!"

She shook her head as if she found me hopeless. I didn't care. She could be as bored as she wanted. I was on a long, interesting journey as far as I was concerned. Vivi had graciously given me the window seat, so I would have plenty of mind pictures of my travel excursion. If only we would finally leave the depot.

I took a quick look at my watch. It was six, so we would be on our way any minute. We would be traveling all night and getting to L.A. in the morning. The night tickets were much less expensive than the daytime ones.

The bus driver finally stepped onto the bus, and we started pulling out. In those days, the busses had no TV's, but I still had moving pictures by looking outside.

"We're going to Disneyland, right?" I asked anxiously.

"If you ask me one more time, I'm going to hit you with this _rede,_ " Vivi said pointing at the multi-colored vinyl bag at our feet. I had been embarrassed to carry it on the bus. It was so colorful, but Vivi hadn't been bothered by it at all.

My Mama had packed it with homemade fried chicken, juices, fruit, and potato chips. She said she imagined the high cost of depot food. When my Mama wasn't listening, I made Vivi promise we'd buy at least one meal from the depot.

"You can have that stuff if you want," Vivi responded. "I'm sticking to _Tia Martina's pollo_."

We stopped in a small town in New Mexico where I ate an overpriced hamburger. Vivi snickered at me when we returned to the bus, and I started eating my Mama's chicken.

"My Mama's a pretty good cook," I declared.

"I'm glad you realize it."

It was dawn when we arrived in L.A. The freeways were already full. There was a sense of rapid business and frenzied travel in the air. It made my already excited nerves want to explode. Los Angeles was green, so unlike the desert. Flowers and palm trees grew everywhere. When the bus finally stopped, I could see _Tia Vera_ and _Tio Hugo_ anxiously waiting for us.

"The adventure begins," Vivi guffawed, standing up.

"It already began," I asserted.

_Tia Vera_ hugged Vivi with shiny eyes. Vivi's were also moist. After all the hugs and greetings, we piled into the car.

"When did you get a BMW?" muttered Vivi. She didn't sound too happy.

"Last week," _Tio Hugo_ responded.

"It's used isn't it?" asked Vivi. "Doesn't a used BMW cost as much as some new cars?"

"BMW's are excellent cars," _Tia Vera_ announced with a touch of defensiveness in her voice.

"I'm sure everyone in the neighborhood thinks so too. They must be really _impressed,_ " Vivi muttered.

I was glad that Vivi didn't say anything else. She just rolled her eyes and stared outside. I could see my Mama's influence on her shut mouth. We drove to Pasadena where my aunt and uncle lived. Nothing prepared me for their house. I was expecting a nice _casa_ , but I wasn't prepared for nearly a mansion.

"This is nicer than the Brady Bunch house!" I exclaimed.

I couldn't stop gaping at the two story cream colored house with huge weeping willows at its sides and a tremendous flower garden in front.

Vivi rolled her eyes again. "Please."

"Thank you, Rosie," said _Tia Vera_.

"Your butcher shop must be doing well," I burst.

My uncle smiled. "I can't complain."

Inside the house, I tried to be careful with the thick beige carpet in every room. _Tia_ toured me through the formal dining room, den, four bedrooms and three bathrooms. I thought nothing else could surprise me until we stepped outside.

"A cement pond?" I asked, thrilled.

_Tia Vera_ chuckled. "Those _Beverly Hillbillies_ were so funny."

"We put in the swimming pool a few months ago," _Tio Hugo_ explained.

"You and mom don't swim," Vivi retorted.

"We're getting older and exercise is good. Swimming is the best form of exercise," _Tio Hugo_ asserted.

"I can see Mr. Jones put in a swimming pool too," Vivi declared as she looked through the chain link fence and onto the neighbor's yard.

"Vivi, why do you call him Mr. Jones? You know his name is John Jimenez."

"Does Juan also have a BMW?" grunted Vivi.

"No," _Tio Hugo_ stated. "He doesn't."

"Really?" asked Vivi, surprised.

"It's not a BMW. He has a Mercedes," _Tia Vera_ declared proudly as if she had made a point.

Vivi grunted. "I wish you'd stop _keeping up with the Joneses_."

"What?" questioned _Tio Hugo_.

"Never mind," Vivi answered, sighing.

We returned to the house, and Vivi showed me to my bedroom next to hers. I unpacked in awe, thinking how unfortunate it was that the huge house seemed lonely. My aunt and uncle had only one child, and Vivi had basically been living with us for several years now.

Vivi came to my room. I imagined she had finished unpacking her small green duffel bag. Vivi traveled light. A closet full of different kinds of clothes was of little consequence to her. As long as she had jeans and T-shirts she was happy.

"Your house is sooo beautiful," I murmured.

"Whatever."

"Why don't you want to come back?"

"I don't like this house," she snapped. "I like our house in Casa Sol."

"This is a comfortable house with central A.C. and heat. It—"

"It's a coconut house!"

"There's no such thing," I shot back.

"I'm not part of this house _or_ that swimming pool **or** the BMW, okay?"

"But Vivi, you're—" I stopped myself before saying it. She would never forgive me for calling her middle class even though I couldn't understand her aversion to it. I would've loved to have grown up in this house.

"I'm what?" she burst sharply.

"Nothing. I didn't mean anything."

Vivi lightly slapped me on the head. She knew what I had meant to say.

"This house didn't look like this when I was small," she stated matter-of-factly. "It's been remodeled."

"So it looked more like my house?"

She lowered her eyes. "Not exactly," she muttered slowly. Then spoke rapidly. "But there wasn't a pool and an expensive car. There were three bedrooms instead of four."

"Really?" I snickered, rolling my eyes.

"Do you want to go to Disneyland?" she questioned with her eyes in incensed slits, her arms crossed in front of her.

"Vivi—"

"Do you?"

"Of course. I—"

She pointed her index at me. "Then don't be calling me middle class."

"But—"

"Don't!"

"Okay," I grunted. Her threat rang in my ears.

"I'm working class."

During our entire week trip, I didn't say a word about it. When we went to East L.A. to visit with her friends and she told them her parents still lived in a working class neighborhood, I didn't mention the deception. When she told her friends her father was still a butcher, I only nodded.

I didn't say anything when she refused to drive her father's BMW which he had so generously loaned to us. I almost said something when she wouldn't even drive her mother's Lincoln Continental, but with visions of Disneyland in my head, I kept my mouth shut.

"The bus is a good experience for you," she asserted.

"Okay."

I actually grew to admire her knowledge of the bus route. She knew stops, arrivals and departures by heart. I, however, was relieved when she decided that for Disneyland, we would take the Lincoln Continental.

"Disneyland is all the way to Santa Ana," she muttered, sounding regretful. "It's like a mini trip. We'll have to go in the car."

I was in awe from the time we entered Disneyland and saw a huge likeness of Mickey Mouse on the ground to when we left with fireworks blasting in the sky. It had been a dream with different lands like _Tomorrowland_ and _Frontierland._ I had loved the _Pirates of the Caribbean_ and the feeling of flying over a city in Peter Pan's ride. Vivi looked content even though she did complain about the long lines.

On the drive back to Vivi's house I decided that the main reason I loved Disneyland was because it was like travelling to several different places. All parts of the earth seemed attainable when I entered _It's a Small World_. Each area represented a different part of the globe. Someday, I wanted to visit those places and prove to myself I didn't have to stay in one little area of the universe.

The next day Vivi took me to Universal Studios where I saw the psycho house and how the parting of the Red Sea was done in _The Ten Commandments_. A mechanical shark like in _Jaws_ came at us, and Vivi screamed an ear drum shattering screech. She, of course, denied the scream afterward.

At the end of the week, Vivi happily packed while I dragged. She had to get back to her current job as a receptionist at a law office. She changed jobs frequently, but this one appealed to her sensibilities. Her employer, an attorney, did much pro bono work.

"Vivi, let's stay for the rest of summer," I implored.

"You've got to be kidding."

"But—"

"No."

When we were leaving, she threw an ugly glance at the house. I thought it was disrespectful to do that to such a beautiful home so I blew it a kiss. I figured the act could only help me to have a house like that someday. _Tia Vera's_ eyes grew wet when we arrived at the bus depot.

"Please go to college, Vivi," begged _Tio Hugo_. Vivi shook her head.

He had been trying all week to convince her. "Vivita, you're so smart. Why don't you want to go? Rosario is going. You could accompany her, and the two of you would attend together."

Vivi stopped shaking her head as if something had suddenly occurred to her. "I may have to go to protect her from those brain stealers," she declared.

_Tia Vera_ and _Tio Hugo_ grinned from ear to ear. I was stunned that she was actually considering it.

Once the bus pulled away, I turned to her and sighed. "What an amazing trip."

"I'm glad you had a good time."

"Your house is sooo beautiful." It came out of my lips before I had a chance to stop it. I braced myself for a scolding but instead she patted my head.

"Rosi, I'm going to share a memory with you."

"Okay."

"I was about ten-years-old. We had just moved into the house. Before then we lived in a small two bedroom house in East L.A. My mom took me to the biggest most expensive looking grocery store she could find. She didn't notice the stares as we walked in, but I did. When we got to the cashier to pay, the _idiota_ lady sneered, 'We don't accept food stamps.'

"I still remember how my mom's face turned beet red. Embarrassed at the situation, she told the stupid lady we didn't have food stamps. The stupid lady then said the store couldn't accept checks from us. My mom pulled out cash from her wallet and told her we lived not too far from there. The stupid lady looked at her as if she was lying, but she started ringing up the food. My mom looked down the entire time until the stupid lady gave her the total. My mom handed her the cash and the stupid lady barely wanted to touch the money as if there was something wrong with it. When we walked out of the grocery store, my mom still had her head lowered...Would _Tia Martina_ have looked down?"

"No," I burst quickly, not having to think about the answer. My Mama most definitely didn't buy into the superiority/inferiority seesaw. "My Mama would definitely not have lowered her head for the awful lady."

"I didn't think so."

"My Mama would've given that lady a look that would've stayed in her nightmares. Then she would've unnerved her by staring at the cash register making sure the lady punched in the right prices. Then she would've slowly counted the change, making sure the lady had given her the right amount."

" _Tia Martina_ doesn't let anyone make her feel small."

"It seems to me that neither do your parents anymore."

Vivi sighed. "If that incident would happen today, my mom would be on that stupid lady's back and you know why?"

"Your mom is more assertive now?" I offered.

"It's because of money! How dare that cashier look down on her when my parents have much more money than her? Money has nothing to do with why _Tia Martina_ doesn't let anyone look down on her."

I thought about Vivi's story for miles and miles as nightfall blanketed us and all that was heard on the bus was the swish of motion. When we stopped in Phoenix for a half an hour layover, we had lemon meringue pie and milk.

"Vivi?" I was trying to be brave enough to ask what I'd been wondering since we had left Los Angeles.

"Yes?"

"Are you really thinking of going to college?"

She smiled. "I've been thinking about it for a while. I'd like to be a lawyer."

"You'd make a great lawyer!"

"Don't tell my parents. They'll want me to be a corporate lawyer, and I'll never hear the end of it. They'll insist and insist and insist—driving me crazy."

"I won't tell them," I promised.

"I wasn't going to let them know anything about my plans, but then I thought it was cruel not to give them some sort of hope."

I laughed. "Vivi, you're a softie at heart."

Chapter 16

Graduations

August crept around ending leisure time for countless students but to me it was a relief to run that last mile. _Senior_. My excruciating life as a high school outsider would soon be over. No more popularity contests with cheerleaders, homecoming queens, and football players setting the stage for their theatrical play, hogging the spotlight. No more gnawing wishes of inclusion in a place meant for exclusion. It would soon be over.

_'Senioritis'_ soon set in and concentrating on school work became a challenge. The only class where I didn't suffer from this malady was journalism. There I would write for the school newspaper. I became one of the head writers reporting happenings in school and writing feature stories.

For my other classes, I passionately wanted to wander the halls and ditch. But then I thought of Clarissa and her propensity for ditching school. Now, she wouldn't be back for her last year. She and Chucho lived with his parents. Her pregnancy was showing more and more. She told a mutual cousin of ours she desperately missed school, and she had made the biggest mistake in her life marrying a _nobody_ like Chucho.

According to Yoyo, Chucho called her la reina de la mierda. Vivi declared that by calling her the queen of shit, he proved the marriage was doomed since without respect, there was nothing.

"I give them a year at the most," Vivi asserted.

By the time I took my ACT, American College Testing—standardized test for college entrance, Clarissa had left Chucho. This was early in the year. Her parents had made her return to him. I didn't think much about my cousin's situation since I was worried about my own.

My college readiness test scores were average. Some C students scored higher than I did, and was devastated. Miss Rivera, being a good school counselor, told me that many universities realized standardized testing was not a good indicator of how ' _minorities_ ' would do in college.

"They will look at other areas, Rosario," Ms. Rivera assured. "Like your G.P.A. and your participation in clubs."

I belonged to several clubs, not because I wanted to be in them but because Ms. Rivera had told me it would be easier to get into a university if I joined. I belonged to the National Honor Society, The Quill and Scroll (Journalism club), and The Spanish Honor Society.

I applied to the University of Texas at El Paso. After Miss Rivera wrote a recommendation letter for me, I received a scholarship. It would enable me to get in-state tuition since I lived in New Mexico and would be going to a Texas University. Filling out an application for government grants, I was set.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly until prom night. I was at home with Vivi watching television since no one had invited me to that rite of passage. Gerarda had bemoaned not having been asked to the prom either. We were both in the same situation, and I had told her it was just a dance.

"It's not just a dance! It's the prom!" she had bellowed.

"So?"

"The problem with you, Rosario, is that you don't know how to have fun."

"What do you mean I don't?"

Gerarda sighed deeply. "All you ever think about is studying and college."

I didn't deny that. But what was the problem with my priorities? How were they bad? The way I saw it, I would have the luxury of fun when I was in my career.

Gerarda got a date at the last minute, and she called me excitedly gushing with the news. While solemnly sitting with Vivi watching TV, I began to wonder if I should've tried harder to make it to the prom.

Jorge suddenly stepped in through the front door holding hands with a young woman about his age. She had long, wavy chestnut hair. Her eyes were a bright green and her body was an hourglass. She had more than a passing resemblance to Veronica Castro, one of Jorge's favorite Mexican actresses. I had an abrupt bad feeling about his companion. She eyed Vivi and me without even a hint of a friendly smile.

"I want you to meet Cindy," Jorge announced.

"They call me Witchy-Woman," she swiftly grunted.

"Hello," I greeted, giving her an opportunity to dispel my first instincts towards her by beaming a welcoming smile. I got nothing but a scowl in return. Vivi nodded at her with a frown. I realized Vivi didn't seem to like this Witchy-Woman either.

"Where's my Mama?" asked Jorge.

"In her bedroom doing her prayers," I responded.

Jorge and Witchy-Woman trudged over to my Mama's door next to the living room and knocked. Vivi rolled her eyes at me. It was serious if Jorge was disturbing my Mama during pray time.

My Mama stepped out of her room holding her rosary. She didn't look too happy to have been interrupted. She had told Vivi and me to lower the TV volume earlier.

"Mama, this is Cindy," Jorge said.

My Mama politely shook her hand and mumbled a greeting. Witchy-Woman eyed my Mama with narrowed eyes.

"Mama. . . Mama. . . Cindy is my wife," Jorge mumbled with a shaky voice.

Vivi dropped the popcorn she had in her fingers.

"What?" my Mama burst.

"Cindy is my wife," Jorge repeated nervously.

I didn't know what was worse, that my dear brother got hitched, or that he married this no smiles creature.

"Are you pregnant?" my Mama bluntly asked Witchy-Woman.

"No!" she bellowed. Jorge looked absolutely uncomfortable.

"Don't lie to me," my Mama snapped, grumbling.

Jorge eyes shifted with embarrassment and shame. Witchy-Woman seemed annoyed, but then she nodded slowly. It was getting worse by the minute. Now my brother was going to be a father.

My Mama forlornly shook her head. Witchy-Woman crossed her arms in front of her chest as she shot my Mama a strong odious glare. My Mama eyed her back with her own steely firm stare, and Witchy-Woman dropped her eyes. I knew it would be her and not my Mama who would back down first. It was good that Witchy-Woman was learning who the boss was, I thought.

Jorge and Witchy-Woman stepped outside to bring in her luggage. When the door slammed behind them, my Mama's solemn eyes rested on Vivi and me.

"What a disaster," she muttered sorrowfully.

My Mama stepped back into her room to finish her prayers. She must've thought we needed them more than ever.

Vivi shook her head. "Now married, now screwed," she retorted, sighing heavily.

During the next few weeks as I prepared for graduation, Witchy-Woman stayed mostly in Jorge's room. She would listen to Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Pink Floyd and such. I would've assumed that with her nickname she would've preferred the Eagles, but she loved hard rock. The harder and noisier the better. My Mama would say, "What's she doing with Satan's music?" My Mama believed all heavy metal music was evil.

Jorge didn't like that type of music either. We could hear him arguing with her about it. When he arrived home, tired from _la chamba_ , he wanted to hear oldies. He told her she had all day to listen to that loud _musica_ , and after work he didn't want to listen to what seemed noise to him.

Vivi and I wondered if she left the room after all of us were gone. At first, I thought she would be making dinner for us since she was the only one who didn't go to school or have a job, but I was wrong. She never cooked. She and Jorge would have the dinner that Vivi, my Mama or I made. At least she did wash her and Jorge's dishes. The only room she ever cleaned was Jorge's room.

Vivi was absolutely bothered by Witchy-Woman's sour and closed disposition. Vivi would try to start conversations with her but Witchy-Woman would cut them short and stride away. I started feeling sorry for my brother. He didn't look as if he was in love. His past girlfriends had all been gregarious, but Witchy-Woman barely talked and when she did speak, she'd use a lot of slang, Spanglish, and strange word combinations in both English and Spanish.

"For sure, he _only_ married her out of obligation," Vivi asserted.

"You think so?"

"I bet he went out with her only a few times, put his _chile rojo_ in her, got her pregnant, and decided he couldn't leave her stranded like that."

I didn't know why Vivi compared a penis to a red chile. "My brother is the decent kind," I said.

"It's what _Tia Martina_ taught us."

Vivi found out that Witchy-Woman's mother was a prostitute and so was her sister who everybody called Maneater. Sometimes I would get home to find Maneater's old car outside. She would be with Witchy-Woman in my brother's bedroom. After Maneater would come out, she'd always be friendly—her disposition being the opposite of her sister's. Sometimes she would show me her latest tattoo. She had skeletons on each of her ample breasts. My Mama didn't like her to visit because Maneater's mouth was worse than a truck driver's even though she tried to tone it down when my Mama was in the house.

Actually, my Mama wasn't that much of a prude. In fact, she'd give several young _cholas_ rides. My Mama felt sorry for them because most of them came from broken families. Those female gang members respected my Mama and used very few swear words in front of her. The swearing wasn't as big of a deal as all the vulgar sexuality in Maneater's conversations.

She would freely use the very vulgar word that begins with a Pan and rhymes with my old friend Atocha's name. Maneater would say it as if she was using the word _the._ Her second favorite word started with a _c_ and ended with an _o_ or an _a_ depending on whether she was referring to a female or male. She would use it to describe just about everybody she knew.

Neither Maneater nor Witchy-Woman would ever mention their mom even through Maneater was living with her. I never knew of Witchy-Woman calling or visiting her mother, and I wondered what kind of life it would be not to have a relationship with one's Mama. On rare occasions when Witchy-Woman came out of the room to make a phone call or go to the restroom and she thought no one was looking, she'd stare at my Mama with somewhat of a fascinated gaze. Still, it didn't stop her from committing a cardinal sin one day when my Mama had just gotten off the phone. It made Vivi's blood boil more than usual.

"Hey, your screw is loose, you," Witchy-Woman said to my Mama. "Se te va la onda, esa."

"What?" my Mama asked. She had never in her whole life been told that she had lapses in brain waves of sanity.

Vivi and I stood there stunned.

"You didn't put the _fono_ right," she said as she re-put the phone on the cradle.

My Mama shot Witchy-Woman a tight glare and stepped into the kitchen. Vivi's index finger jerked up. Her face was a deep fiery volcanic red.

"Don't you ever refer to _Tia Martina_ as _hey you_ _or_ _esa_! She's _Doña Martina_ to you! Do you understand?" Vivi snapped.

Witchy-Woman looked scared. She had never seen Vivi this angry. "Simon," she muttered. "Yeah."

"Don't you ever tell her she's crazy! You and I may be crazy but _tia's_ as sane as they come!"

" _Simon,_ " Witchy-Woman's voice was small as she nodded solemnly.

"Don't you ever disrespect her again. When you meet older people who have lived longer than you, you'd better have the respect for them to use the _usted_ form and not _tutear_ them!"

I was relieved Vivi had said what she did. Witchy-Woman's penchant for using the _tu_ form with my Mama screeched horribly in my ears. With there being a formal way to speak to a person and an informal one too in Spanish, I had enough with Witchy-Woman disrespecting my Mama by refusing to use the _usted_ form with her. My Mama had drilled into me that when speaking to someone older than me, I needed to use the correct formal forms of certain words.

After the tremendous scolding she took from Vivi, Witchy-Woman didn't come out of the room for days. She made Jorge buy her a portable refrigerator. She didn't have to come out, even for food. I felt somewhat sorry for her since I thought she was trying to do a good deed in re-hanging the telephone receiver. It seemed she hadn't been taught manners in her house. I wasn't the most sociable creature, but I could greet and socialize with people. Witchy-Woman would ignore everyone by averting her eyes when we passed her.

Witchy-Woman remained almost a non-entity in the house until the day I was going to have my graduation pictures taken. From her and my brother's bedroom, her voice could be heard throughout the house with her shrieks at my brother.

"You can't pay for the _pinchi_ pictures!" she screeched. "No fucking way!"

"She's my sis," snapped Jorge, growling.

"Don't be a stupid idiot—a _pendejo_. We need the dough!"

"Stop calling me names!"

" _Pinchi idio_ —"

Jorge walked out on her. Being accused of being a damned idiot was too much for him. Vivi and I heard him slam the door behind him. He strode over to us with a furious expression on his sharply contorted face.

"Let's go," he directed.

"Jorge, you don't have to pay for—" I started to say.

"Let's go!"

It was a matter of pride. He had promised me earlier in the year he was going to pay for my pictures, and no one was going to stop him. Not even his wife.

We stepped over to the door. My Mama was outside watering the flower garden and trees, unaware of what had happened inside. Jorge had told her earlier about today being the day for my photographs, and she immediately turned off the water hose when she saw us. We piled into Jorge's new car and went to Waterfill where I took the pictures at a photography shop next to the border bridge.

Jorge was quiet even when we had finished with the photos and went to eat at the restaurant where my Papa used to take us. I ordered tostadas for old time's sake.

My Mama eyed Jorge with sadness. It wasn't only today that he was silent. Since Witchy-Woman had moved in, my once gregarious brother had turned into a morose stranger. I hardly heard him laugh anymore. Witchy-Woman just had a special talent of getting under his skin—actually everybody else's too.

A few days after the explosion between her and my brother over my graduation pictures, Witchy-Woman must've gotten frustrated with Jorge ignoring her ongoing rants about it. He'd promptly walk out on her when she started spitting out her poison, so one day she decided to empty out her venom on Vivi and me.

"Jorge's an _estupido_ for paying for your _pinchi_ pictures!" Witchy-Woman snapped at me.

A furious Vivi immediately got in her face. "The only stupid one here is _you_!—thinking you can come between Jorge and his family!"

"Jorge's family is _mierda!_ " she hissed.

" _You're_ the one who's shit!" Vivi shot back, her nostrils flaring. "Just look at _your_ family!"

"My family's been in the United States forever!" Witchy-Woman blurted. "We're not from Mexico like you!" she sneered.

An abrupt raucous laughter burst out of Vivi. "What bullshit you believe in! What stupidity!"

Witchy-Woman glared at Vivi. "It's not stupidity! My family isn't from Mexico like yours!"

"Of course they are," Vivi declared matter-of-factly. "You're not from any other Latino group. You're Mex—"

"I've already _pinchi_ told you that we didn't cross the border to get here!"

"Then you must've been here before this land became part of the United States, right?" Vivi questioned.

"Yeah, _simon_!"

Vivi chuckled. "You mean when this land belonged to Mexico?"

"Mexico?" Witchy-Woman spat out. "What are you talking about?"

Vivi sighed and shook her head. "Know your history before you open your big mouth."

Witchy-Woman's lower lip trembled as she grimaced and stomped off.

"I'm proud of my Mexican roots!" I yelled after her. "You should be too!" The superiority/inferiority seesaw was stabbing into me—royally infuriating me.

As the door to her and Jorge's room slammed behind her, Vivi retorted, "See that, Rosi?—the many kinds of coconuts?"

"Witchy-Woman is a coconut?" I questioned, surprised.

"Well, not all the way but to a certain extent."

"What do you mean?"

"Witchy-Woman's self-bigotry, really self-hatred, is ignorant of the amazing truth of who she really is. Instead, she believes the stereotypes and stupidity about her own culture, so she fights for her self-esteem by separating herself from her roots."

I groaned. "How very sad for her."

By the time my graduation came, there wasn't much of a celebratory feeling in the house. Witchy-Woman and Jorge constantly fought. He was frequently slamming the door and leaving the house. My Mama told Vivi and me that this was because Jorge was so unhappy. His personality didn't match his wife's. Also, Witchy-Woman was unhappy with herself so as a result she was unhappy with everyone around her—making them share in her misery. My Mama, however, said we had to let them solve their own problems. She refused to be _una suegra metiche._ Vivi said she was right in not wanting to be an interfering mother-in-law.

Meanwhile, I fully resented that my ending mile towards graduation, was being darkened by what was happening in the house. Vivi must've known how I was feeling because on the morning of my special day, she jumped on top of my bed to wake me and started singing _Las Mananitas_. She carried a wrapped gift.

"Okay, Vivi. Stop singing before a coyote howls," I said, giggling.

"My singing isn't that bad."

"If that's what you want to think."

" _Mugrosa_ ," she said. "Now open your gift so you can feel guilty about being mean to me, dirtbag."

I tore open the Christmas wrapping. Vivi had learned frugality from my Mama, so she shopped the after Christmas sales. I found a box with the picture of an iron.

"You gave me an iron?" I asked, puzzled. I didn't need an iron. I would be commuting to the University of Texas at El Paso, and there was already a very good iron in the house.

" _Payasa_ ," Vivi said. "Open the box, clown."

I tore the cellophane tape off, and discovered a brown T-shirt with the words, _Chicana Power._

"Don't you forget who you are when you're college."

"I won't," I said, hugging her.

"I've got another surprise," she burst.

"What?"

She left the room and returned with a big box and dropped it next to me on my bed.

"An electric typewriter?" I said excitedly as I took an eyeful of the picture on the box. "Or is this like the iron box?" My voice had deflated considerably.

"No, not like the iron box."

"You bought me an electric typewriter!" I exclaimed, jumping out of bed and hugging her.

"You're a writer. You need one."

It was the most perfect gift she could give me. My old portable one was about to give out at any moment.

"I've got one more surprise," Vivi said slyly.

"Another one?"

"I'm definitely going to UTEP with you," she announced.

"Really?!"

"I'm going to major in Chicano Studies, and then I'll go to law school."

"Aren't you afraid of being turned into a robot?" I teased.

She pointed to her head. "No one touches this brain."

We stepped into the kitchen for breakfast. My Mama had already been up for hours and had made us her specialty of _huevos rancheros_ for mealtime. She handed me a small box. As I was about to start eating the delicious eggs with fried corn tortillas and tomato sauce swimming in pieces of jalapeño peppers, I opened the container to find a pair of shiny gold earrings. Each had a white stone dangling from a round piece of gold.

"Thank you, Mama," I murmured.

She patted my shoulder, and I knew it was her way of telling me she was proud of me.

Hours later, the time came to leave for the New Mexico State University Pan American Center in the city of Las Cruces where the graduation ceremony would be held, and I proudly wore my brand new stylish brown dress with light brown flowers etched on top. Witchy-Woman shook the house with a tremendous hissy fit as she shrieked that Jorge wouldn't take her anywhere, but he was going out with his family instead of spending time with her. Jorge told her it was my graduation and that she should be coming with us. She called him a few vulgar names and as was becoming habit, he stomped out their room slamming the door behind him.

"Let's go," he grunted, striding out of the house.

My Mama walked behind him. Vivi squeezed my hand and said. "This is your day. Don't let anyone ruin it."

The drive to Las Cruces took about an hour. The Pan American Center was full of sentimental people, and many students were already crying. _Good grief,_ I thought. I didn't want to even try to understand why their experience in high school had been positive while mine had been the opposite. The only thought I wanted in my head was, _I'm outta here!_

When I slipped on my black graduation gown, and my cap with the flirty tassel, strong emotions suddenly pounded me. Feelings of incredible changes. I had of course known that graduation would signify this but _knowing_ was different from _feeling_. My dreams were within reach. I had finally reached adulthood. Still, the road in front of me was long and difficult.

I put on my yellow chords signifying I was graduating at the top ten percent of my class. I draped a yellow hanging cloth piece from the National Honor Society on my shoulders.

Gerarda, who luckily had a last name that began with the same letter as mine, stood one student down as we waited to move into the auditorium and take our seats. She seemed even happier than I was. I patted her on the back. She was the first of three kids to graduate. There were times I didn't think she would make it.

The music started, and we waited for those in front to file in. It was like a surreal dream. When I sat down, I didn't know if I had floated to my seat or walked. The speeches were the ordinary ' _Your future is in front of you_ ' ones. It was during one of them that the bullet-like shreds of razor sharp emotion dug inside me.

My Papa should've been here like other fathers were, supporting their children. He should've been sitting next to my Mama with his Christmas smile. He should've been wearing his black suit, looking like he was before the cancer had ravaged him and eaten his robustness into a skeleton.

_Why aren't you here?_ I sadly questioned him in my mind.

When I found my family after the throwing of the caps, they hugged me warmly. The pictures began—not only the ones that cameras took but the ones going on around me for my memory banks.

People hugging.

People crying.

People talking.

People laughing.

Sounds. Colors. Movement. Memories.

I hugged Gerarda and other acquaintances. Some of my teachers gave me gifts. Certain students invited me to parties. I politely turned them down.

When we were driving back home, I told Jorge I was hungry.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked.

"Chicos Tacos," I quickly responded.

Vivi smiled her approval. It was her favorite fast food restaurant. Jorge drove us to my preferred one, as there were several, on Alameda Street, close to the El Paso Zoo. It was the first one founded in 1953.

Chicos Tacos wasn't an ordinary fast food place. It was and still is a major hangout for _La Raza._ It didn't matter whether you were rich, middle class, or poor, whether you had a tie or a _guayabera_ , or whether you spoke struggling English, formal English, or no English, you were greeted with open arms full of delicious tacos. That was why all kinds of Chicanos ate there.

Once I received my double order of little rolled up tacos floating freely in a special tomato sauce inside a little paper container, I felt special.

Vivi smiled at me. "Congratulations, Rosi. You're a graduate."

I smiled back at her. "Thank you."

### Chapter 17

_Finally In College_

The summer was a time warp between worlds, between one life and another, between the old and new. There were moments of frenzied anticipation and then heavy anchor-like fear. Vivi, however, floated around the house whistling as if no life altering event was about to take place.

"Aren't you the least bit scared about college?" I asked.

"No."

"How can you not be?"

"Rosi, you worry too much."

Vivi was right about one thing. No matter how much I fretted, the day came anyway.

Unfortunately Vivi and I never went to freshman orientation since we got our lines crossed with the university and never realized it until the event was over. We stood in line outside what was then the Special Events Center to register when most of the first semester freshmen had already done it.

I waited anxiously, but Vivi seemed bored until she struck up a conversation with the student next to us. It turned out he was in MEChA, _El Movimento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlan_. He started telling her of all their activities, and Vivi asserted she planned to join.

Leave it to Vivi to immediately and accidentally find the amazing radicals on campus, I thought. While Vivi and the Mechista started having an animated discussion on Chicano issues, I thought about Gerarda—she had married her prom date a week ago.

"You barely know him," I had told her. It's too soon to marry Artie."

"Your dream is to go to college and have a career. My dream is to get married and have children. Is there something wrong with that?"

"No, but are you sure Artie is the right one?"

"I'm in love with him," she insisted.

"You've only gone out with one other guy and that was a horrible experience. Remember Tommy? Are you sure you know what love is?"

She pointed her index finger at me. "Just because you'd rather go to school than fall in love doesn't mean I should too."

"Okay," I said, exasperated. "If that's what you want."

"Don't ever talk about Tommy again, okay?" she snapped. "Artie doesn't know about Tommy and me."

"Artie doesn't know that you're not a virgin?"

"No."

A few days after Gerarda's wedding she told me she had bled again after sexual intercourse. Gerarda wanted to believe her hymen had miraculously closed again, leaving her virginal once more.

"Nope," Vivi told me. "Once your cherry's popped, that's it."

"Why did she bleed again?" I asked, puzzled.

"Sometimes it takes more than once to clear the passageway. She had only done it once, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, there you have it."

"Are you sure you've never had sex, Vivi? You know a lot about this stuff."

"I told you that the day I get the _chorizo_ injection, I'd tell you, but I'm not ready for the sausage shot yet. I know about sex because so many of my friends are having sex."

The way I saw it, Vivi would be far into her unmarried thirties before she lost her virginity. Men didn't ignite her passions like causes did. A few weeks ago she turned down a date with a guy because he didn't know what _16 de Septiembre_ was. I told Vivi she should explain to Ross that the date signified Independence Day for Mexicans and not refuse him solely on what he didn't know. But Vivi turned him down flat anyway.

"Ross thinks _16 de Septiembre_ is a street in Juarez," she said, frowning.

"It _is_ a street in Juarez," I remarked.

"Why doesn't he ask himself why it's a street? Does he think the people decided to pick a date randomly just like that? _16 de Septiembre_ will look attractive on the sign post," she snickered. "I won't go out with a guy who doesn't think for himself."

The Mechista she was having a deep discussion with, as we waited for college registration, couldn't be defined as a person who couldn't think for himself. He knew his Chicano issues. He and Vivi were now discussing voter registration. The line shortened, and we finally moved into the building. Vivi and I, who were taking most of our basic courses together, would go to tables representing classes and get a sticker from them if they weren't full. Fortunately, all the classes we needed were open. We'd have basically the same schedule which was very lucky for me since I didn't have a car and would ride with her.

Vivi and I parted ways when it came to paying for our schooling. She was using a check and I had to sort out my finances. I found that my Pell Grant wouldn't be lessened because of my scholarship. The government wouldn't punish me for having received the award.

When I stepped over to the scholarship table, I met Mr. Chapel who was head of the Scholarship office. He was a man in his fifties with white hair and horn rimmed glasses.

"Hello, young lady," he greeted me with a welcoming grin.

"Hi."

I told him I had received a general scholarship from the university. His records proved me correct.

"Where did you go to school?" he asked.

I didn't want to say. What if Gladden's undeserved bad reputation was here to haunt me? But he cheerfully kept eyeing me, expecting an answer.

"Gladden High School," I almost whispered.

"In Andover?"

"Yes."

"My niece went there many years ago. Good school."

"Yes," I said brightly, relieved.

"What are you majoring in?"

"Journalism," I said.

"Going to set the world on fire?"

I smiled. "I hope so."

I stepped out of the Special Events Center with a Cheshire cat smile and money in my pocket. The grant alone covered my tuition with some cash left over. Miss Rivera had warned me the books would cost about two hundred dollars. After buying the texts, I would put the remainder of the money in the bank for school expenses throughout the semester.

Vivi dropped me off at home and went to work. I rushed to my Mama and showed her the money. Witchy-Woman, who was on the phone, suddenly hung up and glared at me.

"That money," Witchy-Woman snapped, "is Jorge's."

"What?"

"He's paid for you _toda la pinchi vida_! _All_ his fucking life!"

She was lucky Vivi wasn't there to hear her use the _p_ and _f_ word in front of my Mama.

"Hand me the damn dough!" she menaced, stalking towards me.

My Mama shot up from the sofa, slammed her hands on her hips, and set her relentless glare on Witchy-Woman. The bratty woman didn't dare move further. Witchy-Woman knew my Mama wasn't going to put up with her taking my money from me, especially since she was no longer pregnant and would no longer be treated with such delicacy. A few weeks ago, she had had a miscarriage. I wondered if the baby had wanted to be born to such unhappy parents. The family had tried to show her compassion, but all we got was ugliness for our well-meaning actions.

"That money is hers," my Mama stated sharply.

Witchy-Woman shook her head furiously and stomped off to her room. My Mama told me I needed to get to the bank first thing in the morning. Then she gave me a piece of cloth with a safety pin and showed me how to wrap the money in it. She told me to go into the bathroom and stick it in my bra. I realized my Mama didn't trust Witchy-Woman. I didn't either.

Recently, Witchy-Woman had taken to complaining to Jorge about my lack of employment. Jorge told her I needed to concentrate on my studies. He understood my schooling came before anything and that I never squandered money. I would only attend dollar films—no popcorn or soda for me. No restaurant lunches, not even fast food. Even sodas and chips from vending machines were on a limited basis. Although I would now have money in the bank, I would only touch my funds for my schooling needs. I had done without for much of my life and for a few more years, I would continue to do so.

At 8:00 a.m., my first class was History in Magoffin Auditorium. Vivi scampered briskly through campus, and I hurried along to keep up with her. She chatted enthusiastically about M.E.Ch.A. I barely paid attention as I etched into my mind this amazing place that was my university now.

This was the place so many told me or implied I couldn't get into, that I wasn't good enough. But I was here. The University of Texas at El Paso was my promised land.

Inside me, I said hello to the Burmese styled buildings, the dark green grass, the tall trees, and the desert motif. My classes were spread throughout, so I knew I'd be running everywhere. But that was fine because this was my university and I would baptize it with my feet.

I looked at Vivi who kept talking about how in 1961 UTEP, back when it was Texas Western College, had the first Peace Corps class to graduate. She also remarked about how basketball coach Don Haskins had the first African American majority on any major university team. In fact, the Special Events Center where I had registered to come to school is now the Don Haskins Center.

Magoffin Auditorium was almost filled when Vivi and I stepped in. Most students were seated towards the back, and Vivi was heading there too.

"You can sit there, but I'm sitting in front," I said matter-of-factly.

"Why in front?"

"I can see and hear better."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay. Whatever makes you happy." She sauntered behind me as I picked a seat. "You're getting bossy in your old age. Did you know that?"

Within a few minutes, the auditorium finished filling. There were hundreds of students.

_This is college_ , I murmured to myself, excited bubbles in my stomach.

The instructor stepped in, passed out some sheets where we would write our names, and told us what books we needed. His teaching assistant passed out the syllabuses that would tell us the assignments for the entire semester.

"Look, Vivi," I whispered. "We know what we have to do for class." I had never seen a syllabus before.

"Wonderful," she grunted.

When the class was dismissed, Vivi finally showed some spark. Throughout the day, it was much of the same. After the classes Vivi and I had together, I forced her go to the bookstore with me.

"Let's just wait a week to buy the books," she said.

"You can wait if you want. I'm buying them now."

"You can loan me yours."

"No." Vivi had a habit of misplacing items, especially the things she didn't care about.

"Okay, Ms. Stingy Bossy. We'll get the books now."

I bought them immediately because I liked to be prepared for class and if I waited, I might've not been able to get the used books.

I couldn't get over that my day was done early. I was taking fifteen hours which were five classes. I took three courses on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday that ended about 2:00 p.m. and two longer classes on Tuesday, Thursday, ending at about 12:30 p.m. Already I knew I was going to prefer college to high school by far. During one of my last counseling visits with Miss Rivera, she told me that while some students couldn't discipline themselves in college, others preferred the freedom and did better academically.

Unlike high school, there were no monitors in hallways, no back to back classes all day, and no popularity contests. UTEP was a commuter college, and most students lived outside campus. A continuous movement in the atmosphere didn't settle on any particular group of people causing the affliction of popularity.

During the first week, I discovered my favorite spot at the university. The library was too quiet and staunch. My new place was located in the Union Building East where the students congregated. In those days, the bookstore, the Prospector (the college newspaper), and many organizations were located there. On one of the top floors was my special oasis, the Conquistador Lounge. Vivi hated it because of the name—Conquistador.

"Those worthless conquistadores came to this part of the world and ruined it!" she burst. "That greedy Hernan Cortez."

I wasn't thinking about Spanish Conquistadores when I sat down in one of the many comfortable sofas to relax and study. Sometimes I would scan the place and feel happy to see other brown faces. What were _their_ stories?

It was during one of those times when I was glancing around me that I saw a face that looked familiar. She wasn't a student. She was cleaning the lounge. I had a difficult time placing her, and I was too embarrassed to go up to her and ask her who she was, so I stayed put while trying to place her. As she came closer, I recognized her with an explosion detonating inside me.

"Atocha!" I blurted.

She eyed me with a questioning expression.

"Atocha, is that you?" I continued.

"Yes." She nodded, still with the same look.

"It's me—Rosario."

"Oh," she said.

"We used to hang out together when we were _chavitas_ in Ysleta. We used to play _la liga_ and tetherball. You used to come to my house to use the red phone. Remember?"

"Rosita?" she murmured, using the nickname she used to use for me.

"Yes!" I hugged her.

"You've changed. Just look, where's the skinny one?" she asked, poking my ribs.

"Once I got my period that was it for my skinny body. I developed."

"You look nice. _Muy guapetona_."

"Thank you. You look good too, Atocha. What have you been doing with yourself? You work here?"

"After my worthless man left, I had to get a full-time job."

"Your husband left?"

"He wasn't my husband, but he's the father of two of my three kids," she declared.

"You've got three children, Atocha?"

"Yes, can you believe it?"

"I hope you don't tell them any of your _Pepito_ jokes."

Atocha chuckled. "A lot of good those stupid jokes did me. I didn't know anything about sex. The first time I didn't think I could get pregnant. The second time his rubber tore. And the third time my diaphragm didn't fit me anymore."

"So that's how you got three children."

"Yes. _Y tu?_ What about you?" she asked.

"I don't have any children."

Atocha smiled. "I didn't think you did. You're a student?"

"Yes, my first semester."

Atocha patted me on the shoulder. "I didn't graduate from high school. I remember when we were _chiquitas_ that you used to say you were going to college—yes, ever since we were little girls." She took in a breath. "Now you're here."

"I'm here."

We reminisced for a few minutes, but Atocha had to continue her cleaning duties, and I had to study. Instead of concentrating, I kept thinking about this strange coincidence. How was it that the world could be so small, I thought as I glanced at Atocha clutching a well-used mop, and how could the world be so huge at the same time?

As the semester progressed, I did well in my non-lecture courses like Spanish and English. Vivi and I took the same Spanish class. It was the first course for the native speaker and during the first week, the professor informed Vivi and I that we were too advanced to be there. He had Vivi step up to the course after it and me to the class after Vivi's.

The classes that were giving me nightmares were the lecture courses. When I received a D for my first test in History, I imagined my scholarship swishing down a long ugly drain.

"Don't be so upset," Vivi said. "It was only a stupid test."

"That's easy for you to say. You got a B, and you never study."

I stomped off to the Union Building where I plopped down in the Conquistador Lounge. What was I supposed to do? I couldn't study any harder. Why had I gotten that horrible D? While it had been multiple choice test, and I preferred essay ones, I had never done this bad in high school.

When I finished feeling sorry for myself, I stood up, went downstairs, and marched straight to the study skills table I had walked past many times. It had pamphlets and a smiling blonde woman sitting behind the table.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," she shot back. "Are you interested in study skills?"

"I think so. Tell me more."

"There are tricks to studying. I teach non-credit classes on how to make the most out of classes and the process of study."

"Really? There are tricks?"

"Definitely. There are ways to make the process much more efficient."

"How much do your classes cost?" I asked.

"They're free."

I signed up that instant and gave up my lunch hours on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to learn about how to study. The blonde lady, Ms. Bryant, turned out to be the coordinator for the Learning Assistance Lab, a study skills tutoring place. By now the title of Ms. was replacing Miss and Mrs. in many professional areas. Other Labs in the Union Building tutored in areas such as math, English, foreign languages, and so forth. The tutors were students who were advanced in these areas and were paid to teach.

Vivi proudly informed me that her friend, the Mechista, had told her the tutoring labs had been started because Chicano students had fought for their creation to help others make it through their studies.

I immediately saw the value in the study skills class. Ms. Bryant showed us to take notes in outline form instead of in paragraphs. I learned to leave the left side of my pages blank, so I could write questions. I would fold the paper so only the questions showed, and would have a makeshift study guide.

I started highlighting my books with a marker and writing summaries on top of each page. I made flash cards with probable test questions that were easy enough to stuff in the gray backpack I carried with me at all times. Ms. Bryant said the index cards would trick the mind into thinking there was only one item to learn verses a whole page where the brain might feel overwhelmed, and they would be easy enough to carry and pull out for study in any spare time.

My D in History turned into a B on the next test. Vivi started taking her skimpy notes in outline form too. After the study skills course was over, Ms. Bryant asked me to work in the lab for ten hours a week.

I was depending less and less on my Mama's meager paycheck. I wasn't earning much money, but I would buy my own school supplies and incidentals. I looked forward to the day when I was earning enough money, so my Mama wouldn't have to work so excruciatingly hard outside the home.

### Chapter 18

_Melt Down_

My sophomore year started well enough. With a year behind me, I was firmly entrenched in college. The dropout rate at this point was high, but it wasn't an option for me. Before registration, I went to my advisor's office for approval of my choices for classes in the upcoming semester.

"Everything looks fine," Dr. Jordan, who was also the chairman of the Journalism Department and my advisor, said after checking my paperwork. "You're not taking any electives?"

"No,"I responded. "I'm going to get my basics out of the way and then get onto the fun stuff."

"You did that last year."

"I'm doing it this year too."

When I finished registering at the Special Events Center and went up to Mr. Chapel at the scholarship table, he eyed me in a serious manner.

"I don't have a general scholarship for you this year, Rosario."

I suddenly suffocated. "What?"

"You can't have the general scholarship."

"What do you mean?" I asked, panicking.

He smiled. "I was hoping you'd trade me. You give me that scholarship, and I'll give you another one."

"What?"

"I've got the Journalism Pride Scholarship for you. It's twice the amount the general one is."

"Really?" I asked, excited.

"You bet."

Mr. Chapel had come through for me in a very big way. I deposited the extra money as I had done the past two semesters in the bank.

"Hoarding your money?" Vivi asked.

"Yes," I said.

My scholastic year started. Vivi and I still took certain courses together. She was breezing through them while I was studying during every spare minute I had.

At home, Witchy-Woman and Jorge's relationship steadily grew worse. They seemed to be fighting every time they saw each other. Jorge took to sleeping on the sofa, but that didn't ease the arguments. My Mama would knock fiercely on their door, and they would stop yelling for the moment. I would shut the door to my room and try to ignore the harsh bickering and concentrate on my studies.

"Why does she call him those ugly vulgar names?" I asked.

"That's probably how they talked to each other at her house," Vivi responded.

Vivi and I knew that the only reason she was still allowed to live in the house was because of her second pregnancy. It was thinking about the unborn child that one day made me pop out at Witchy-Woman and Jorge. They came in the door with two bags of groceries when Jorge tripped and the bags ripped open. I expected food but instead there were several six packs of beer.

"You drink it?" I asked Witchy-Woman.

"What damned business is it of yours?" she snapped.

"It's bad for the baby. Do you want to have another miscarriage?"

" _I_ drink it," snapped Jorge.

Witchy-Woman and Jorge stomped off into their room. I was quietly crying when Vivi arrived moments later.

"What happened?" she asked, trying to speak over the heavy metal music resonating from Jorge's room.

"You should've seen the way he spoke to me."

"Who?"

"Jorge. You know what they fill that little refrigerator of theirs with? Beer!"

"What?"

"Jorge said he's the one who drinks it. He yelled at me."

Vivi hugged me. "It's the alcohol and the unhappiness inside of him, Rosi."

The call came late at night. I was the one who took it, but my Mama still got up sensing what it was about. As I put the phone back on the cradle, she asked me if it was about Jorge.

"He crashed and is in jail," I said, my throat constricting .

"Is he okay?" my Mama questioned, thick worry in her voice.

"Yes."

"Who did he crash?"

"With a post."

My Mama's deep facial lines eased a little. Jorge hadn't hurt anyone. We sat in the living room sofa trying to digest everything. Jorge had been drunk when it happened just like the last time when he had run his car into a ditch. My Mama's gray hair looked especially white and wiry in the middle of the night.

"He's better off in jail," my Mama said.

I agreed that he was probably better off in the slammer than out on the road where he could either hurt himself or others. Maybe he'd dry out.

"What's wrong?" asked Vivi, stepping out of our bedroom.

"Jorge's in jail," I said.

She sat on the sofa with my Mama and me and rubbed her head. I didn't need to explain anything. She knew. I hadn't wanted to face it, but the truth-monster had smashed into my face giving me no choice but to look at it. Jorge had been drinking for years, especially now when the arguments between him and Witchy-Woman became at their ugliest. Somewhere in time my brother had turned into an alcoholic except he held a job so it was easy to believe he wasn't one. It was easier for me to buy the lie than to torture myself with something I had so little control over.

The next day, my Mama, Vivi, and I, as a family, made a decision not to bail Jorge out. Witchy-Woman didn't care. She wouldn't go with us to see him. During visiting time, my Mama visited with him alone then I did and Vivi last.

"How can you do this to yourself?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes. "Don't start, Rosi. Mama already scolded me."

"You're an alcoholic! A drunk! Why don't you admit it?"

"Just shut up. You don't know what you're talking about," he snapped .

The next day a ' _friend'_ bailed him out, and they both went partying that same night. My charming, good looking brother, who my acquaintances throughout my life had been enamored of, was now coming home totally drunk. I hated the worried look on my Mama's face. Every time he left, I could see she was wondering whether he'd return.

_Can't you do something?_ I wanted to tell her. _Can't you get him to stop?_

Wasn't she the strong one? Wasn't she the one with all the answers? Wasn't she the one who had been so brave about my Papa's death? I couldn't look into her eyes anymore. I saw the insecurities. I saw how she needed my Papa to be going through this with her.

Meanwhile, I was getting more adept at shutting everything out, so I could study. Even with what I had learned in Study Skills, I was still spending an enormous amount of time on school work every day. I once counted the hours and came up with an average of six hours daily. It seemed that it took other students much less time to get through schoolwork. I would read everything at least twice until it made sense to me. There were so many ideas, theories, and intellectual formulations hitting me at once that it was overwhelming. It was mental gymnastics every day. The assignments kept piling up, and I navigated through them as I simultaneously tried to move from one day to the next at my chaotic home. I was super-stressed out.

When Clarissa and her mother, my aunt, came to visit one day, I almost told my Mama to pretend we weren't home, but I didn't. I knew my Mama wouldn't have gone for it. My cousin had left Chucho and was now married to someone else. I would've thought that that the Chucho fiasco would've made her a nicer person, but she was worse than ever. Clarissa had married an Anglo, and she now thought she was made of gold.

_Tia Juana_ joined my Mama in the kitchen for coffee while I had to sit in the living room with Clarissa and her little girl, who kept fussing.

"I heard about George having gone to jail," she said, twirling her newly bottled-platinum strands of hair.

"Who's George?"

"Your brother," she retorted.

"My brother's name is Jorge."

"Wasn't he in jail just a few weeks ago?"

"Yes."

"Mexican men," she said. "Always drinking." She gave little Shawna a bottle of milk.

"Really? My dad never drank."

"Tom never drinks."

"Who's Tom?" I asked coyly. I knew perfectly well who he was.

"My husband." She yanked out a picture of her husband from her wallet.

"How old is he?" I asked.

Clarissa fidgeted. "He's mature."

"About seventy something?"

Her eyebrows slammed together. "He's only sixty-years-old," she snapped.

"Oh," I said, faking surprise.

'You know, he's not Mexican."

"Really?"

"He's white. You see the light skin and blue eyes?"

"Several of our cousins have light colored skin and blue eyes, Clarissa."

"Well, Tom is Anglo He's the foreman of a construction crew and makes lots of money—more than if he would've gone to college," she sniped.

"He makes tons of money?"

"Yes, he—"

"And because of this you think he's better than other people?" I scoffed, rolling my eyes.

"I...I—"

"You're proud that he's white? Is that something to be proud of? Is that why your natural black hair looks like fake snow now?"

She jerked herself up. "I don't like the way you're speaking to me."

I got on my feet and faced her. "I don't like the way you come to my house and insult me. I don't like the way you think you're big stuff because you married that old man."

Clarissa rushed to the kitchen with Shawna in tow. Sitting next to her mother, she avoided conversation and maintained a grumpy expression. Vivi had a good chuckle when I told her how I had returned Clarissa's snobbishness back to her. I didn't laugh. The incident had made me angry.

"Why are you always in a bad mood?" asked Vivi. "I know things are hard at home, but we have to get through them."

"I'm just exhausted from so much studying. Some people get decent grades without even trying."

"My grades aren't as good as yours," she shot back, knowing I had meant her.

"Why should your grades be as good as mine? You don't need a scholarship. You've got someone to pay your way."

"My parent might pay for my college, but I still work."

"You're middle class, Vivi."

"What are you talking about?" she snarled.

"You don't have to lie awake wondering if someday you'll earn enough money to help your parents. You don't have to worry if you'll fit into those strange worlds out there where you barely know the rules. You—"

"Stop! Rosi, I was practically raised with you," she snapped.

"You were already seventeen by the time you got here, and you always had your parents and their money to fall back on."

"But I never did," she retorted.

"But you had the choice."

"The problem with you, Rosario, is that you think you're the only one with problems. Do you think you're the only person coming from poverty who went to college? Do you think you're the only person in the world with an alcoholic brother and a father who is dead?"

"No, I know I'm not but sometimes it _feels_ like I am."

"Life is not the _Brady Bunch_ for anybody."

Vivi and I made polite conversation. We didn't talk about the blow-up. We talked about the weather, how it was getting cold now that winter was coming. That was the only type of discourse either one of us wanted to handle with each other.

When my adviser, Dr. Jordan, called me to his office, I procrastinated seeing him. Anyone who knew the chairman of the department knew he didn't like small talk. Why did he want to speak to me?

"How have you been?" Dr. Jordan asked.

"Fine."

"No, not fine," he shot back.

"What?"

"I've been worried about you."

"You've been worried about me?"

"I've been watching you around the department. You look out of sorts. Is anything wrong?" he asked.

"Life."

"Excuse me?"

"Life is wrong. I can't handle school anymore," I announced.

"What do you mean?"

"Just that. I can't handle school anymore."

"You're not thinking of quitting, are you?"

"Maybe."

"I don't believe you would quit," he stated matter-of-factly.

"You don't?"

"You're going through sophomore slump," he asserted.

"I'm not going through sophomore slump. I can tell you that."

"Tell me what one of my brightest students is going through then."

"I'm not bright." I burst.

"Not bright? Where did that come from?"

I clenched my teeth. "I have to read some of those stupid textbooks three times before I understand them. I'm not a quick learner."

"You think that learning quickly is all there is to intelligence?"

"Isn't it a big part of it?"

"There are many aspects to intelligence. Don't pigeonhole it."

"I'm just so frustrated," I said. "I'm being graded in some of my classes for how often I participate. I don't like talking in class. I don't want to say anything stupid. Everybody is throwing out all of these intellectual ideas while I'm trying to figure them out. Who was Socrates? Who was Plato?"

"Do you know who Benito Juarez was and what he stood for?"

"Yes, but I'm not studying Benito Juarez. I'm studying Abraham Lincoln."

"Osmosis," he said.

"Osmosis?" I asked. I was about to pull out my American Heritage Dictionary from my backpack.

"From the time we're born, we gradually pick things up from people around us and our environment."

"I don't understand you point," I said.

"Did you know that I came from the backwoods of Kentucky?"

"No, I didn't."

"I have eight siblings. I was born in an old shack with no utilities," he said.

"Really?"

"Some people would call us 'white trash.'"

"How can people be trash just because they're poor?" It was the superiority/inferiority seesaw all over again!

"My sentiments exactly. When I first got to college, I was overwhelmed to say the least. I had never had books in my house or ' _professionals_ ' walking in and out showing me different ways of life like most of my peers did."

"It's not fair is it?"

"Whether life is fair or not is beyond the point."

"What's the point?" I asked.

"The point is that it's _your_ life—a life belonging to _you_. If you quit now the person you're most hurting is yourself. If you have to study three times more than other students because they had advantages in their households you didn't have, then crack the books, Rosario. They can't live your life, and you can't live theirs. All you can do is make the best of what you've got and please believe me when I tell you that you've got much more than you think you do."

"You really think so?"

"I know so. When all is said and done, you'll have the ability to navigate through more than one world when those students you envy will probably still be on just one. You'll be able to experience the different sides to life. That's what I call not merely intelligence but brilliance."

"But—"

"No, _buts_. I know there are hurdles you've got that I can't begin to understand with you being of Mexican descent and a woman. I do know without a single doubt that you can overcome whatever comes your way."

That night, I waited for Vivi to get home. She was working late and stepped in the door at eleven p.m.

"I'm sorry," I simply said.

"I'm sorry too," she simply answered, hugging me.

### Chapter 19

_The Push_

Reaching my junior year put me closer to the pentacle. Now I was towards the top instead of the bottom of what I considered at the time to be the highest mountain. I could learn everything through books, so I believed. My brain was the most important and vital organ in my body, so I believed.

Meanwhile, at home when my brother came home drunk, I was enormously disgusted with him. I didn't know how to handle his alcoholism. It was a confusing addiction that I knew so little about. I hadn't learned to recognize the functional drinking in some of the professionals around me. All I knew at that time was that it was causing horrifying chaos in my home.

Vivi wasn't home and my Mama had gone to _Las Fuentes_ for a few days when the pulsating yelling started. I tried to ignore it as usual but then I heard Witchy-Woman's scream along with something smashing. Rushing into my brother's and her room, I quickly noted a broken vase on the floor.

"What's happening?" I asked anxiously.

"He wants to fucking hit me!" Witchy-Woman cried. "Look at how he flung the vase!"

"What's wrong with you? She's pregnant!" I asked Jorge. I could smell the stench of alcohol from where I was standing.

"I'm not going to hit her, but I'm furious!"

"Why?" I questioned.

"It's not _my_ baby! She screwed another dude!"

"You're not worth a damn!" she squealed. " _No vales madre_! That's why I screwed anoth—"

" _SHUT UP!"_ my brother screeched.

I rushed in between them, trying to get some kind of control over the situation.

"You're worthless! You're not worth a damn!" Witchy-Woman kept shrieking at him.

"Stop it, Witchy-Woman!" I snapped.

"Jorge, you're a _pinchi carbon sin huevos_!" roared Witchy-Woman. "Yeah, a fucking asshole without balls!"

The terrible series of accidental events that would happen would sear themselves to my mind. Witchy-Woman kept bellowing her awful vulgar profanities at my brother. I moved closer to her to get her to stop, but unfortunately Jorge raised his fist to hit the wall but with me suddenly stepping in the way, his gnarled hand accidentally pushed me and I smashed into the barrier instead. Luckily, it wasn't so hard that I made a hole in it or knocked myself out, but unluckily it had been harsh enough to hurt the shoulder that had crashed into it.

Jorge stared at his fist and then at me with a horrified expression. After a few dead seconds, Jorge stumbled out of the house. Having seen Jorge brusquely drive away when arriving home, Vivi stepped into the room.

"What happened?" asked Vivi, aware of the palpable tension in the air.

Witchy-Woman shook her head but said nothing. The silence was so loud I wanted to rush out of the room.

"What's wrong with your shoulder, Rosi?" asked Vivi with concern. I had subconsciously kept rubbing my shoulder.

I shook my head wanting to shake out the situation and forcing a cap on any tears that were threatening to fall. Crying would surely make what had just occurred real. Maybe it had been only a nightmare.

"What happened?" Vivi asked, her trembling voice insistent as she stepped over to me.

"He fucked her up," Witchy-Woman blurted.

"Who?!" asked Vivi, puzzled and confused with the conversation.

"Jorge," Witchy-Woman shot back.

"Jorge?!"

" _Simon._ "

"Jorge hit you?!" she questioned me with disbelief.

I shook my head. "No."

"No?" Vivi asked, relieved.

"Yeah, he did! _Simon, simon, simon_!" snapped Witchy-Woman. "She's lying!"

"Jorge wouldn't do that...Would he?" muttered Vivi.

Witchy-Woman nodded vehemently. " _Simon!_ He would and he did—that fucking asshole without balls! _Pinchi_ —"

"STOP IT!" I bellowed. "Stop insulting my brother!"

" _Pero te desmadro_!" Witchy-Woman shot back. "He fucked you up!—that _pinchi_ —"

I had had enough of her. "It was an accident and you know it!"

"An accident?" Vivi asked, her eyebrows knit together as her sight shifted from Witchy-Woman to me as if trying to dissect us.

I nodded. "Jorge was trying to hit the wall but I accidentally got in the way."

"He still fucked you up," growled Witchy-Woman.

"Should I ask what made him so angry that he wanted to hit the wall?" snapped Vivi, glaring at Witchy-Woman.

"None of your business!" Witchy-Woman retorted. "Jorge is a _pinchi_ —"

"What about you?!" I roared. "What are _you_? You got preggers from another guy and tried to hoist the poor child on my brother!"

"The baby isn't Jorge's?!" Vivi burst.

" _Nela Canela_ ," Witchy-Woman shot back calmly, with not even a smidgen of shame in her voice. "There's no way this baby is Jorge's. We haven't fucked in a long time, but I told him we had when he was drunk. I'm telling you he's _a pinchi estupido_. Stupid _idiota_ without any balls."

My insides twisted so much that I had to stop myself from smacking her. Glancing at Vivi, I saw the same overwhelming rage in my cousin's expression. If I didn't do something at that precise moment, Vivi could unload her verbal fury at the pregnant Witchy-Woman. I rushed to Vivi and scuttled us out of the room. It seemed that she too understood the gravity of the extremely tense situation and allowed me to get us out of the fire.

Vivi and I stayed quietly fuming in the living room, trying to calm ourselves down.

A knock on the door startled us. Witchy-Woman rushed to answer it as I was about to jump up from the sofa. The visitor was a rough looking guy with all kinds of obscene tattoos. I couldn't help wondering if he was the father of the baby she was expecting. Witchy-Woman stepped outside with him for a short moment and then came back inside casually telling him over her shoulder to wait outside and that she'd be ready in a minute. She strode to the room she shared with Jorge.Vivi and I followed behind her to ascertain what was happening. She nonchalantly started packing her belongings.

"Where are you going?" questioned Vivi.

"I'm fucking leaving."

Then she did one of the strangest things I've ever seen her do. She started to cry.

"Jorge doesn't love me," she said.

"But—" Vivi started to say.

"And he didn't marry me," Witchy-Woman asserted.

"You and Jorge aren't married?" asked Vivi. Witchy-Woman shook her head with desolation. "Why did you say you were?"

"The mother."

"Was Jorge too embarrassed to bring a pregnant woman to live here without being married?"

Witchy-Woman nodded.

Witchy-Woman finished packing in silence. No one knew what to say. She packed three boxes. It was amazing to me that a whole life could be slipped into a few pieces of cardboard containers. Didn't _recuerdos_ fit into more than a few receptacles? Were her memories that small that they barely took any space?

Witchy-Woman stepped over to the door and let her male friend come in to help load her contents. He nodded his head at us almost embarrassed that he was there.

He bent down to scoop up two boxes, and I wondered if he would be able to carry them. This man was one of the skinniest males I had seen in my life. Vivi stared at his arms. When I followed her gaze I saw all the holes where the obscene tattoos of naked women couldn't cover them. He noticed where we were looking and abruptly stepped out.

Witchy-Woman took the last box, the smallest one and proceeded over to the living room not allowing Vivi and me to help her.

"Your _familia_ is one of the best families I've ever known." With those words, Witchy-Woman and her skin and bones companion stepped out of the house.

When the door closed behind her, Vivi turned to look at me. "Are you okay? Does your shoulder still hurt?"

"I need to get out of here."

"Out of this room?"

"Out of the house," I said.

Vivi and I ended up at Chicos Tacos. Once I saw the little rolled tacos in a tomato sauce, I felt better.

Jorge didn't come home at all that night. The next morning he called and told Vivi he was in Detox. I hadn't slept all night and almost stayed home from school but finals were the following week, and the class was reviewing.

Jorge stayed in Detox for the whole program which took a few weeks. After Vivi told him Witchy-Woman had left, he didn't ask about her again. Witchy-Woman never called or came by. It was as if she had disappeared. Vivi heard she was living with the heroin addict who had picked her up that awful night. She had another miscarriage so even if there was the remote possibility that the baby had been Jorge's, there was no baby anymore.

By the time Vivi and I would have to register for the spring semester of our junior year, Jorge was home. We never talked about what had happened that disastrous night. His first day back, he looked at me and solemnly nodded his head. I nodded back. He had apologized in his own way, and I had forgiven him. He gave the small refrigerator to a friend, and no more beer was in the house after that.

"I kind of feel sorry for Witchy-Woman," I told Vivi as we were going through our degree plans and picking classes.

"Why?"

"She can be horrible for sure, but I've had to consider the fact that she had a terrible home life. She almost didn't know better."

"I think she senses what's better, but she doesn't know how to live a better way. I'm sure that's why she's living with a drug addict."

"That's sad."

"Yeah. You've got to take your life in your own hands."

"Even when things around you are falling apart," I mumbled as I glanced at her schedule. "What's that?" I asked pointing at what she had highlighted.

"Chicano Literature. It counts toward my Chicano Studies degree, but I haven't decided if I'm taking it."

"Sounds interesting."

"I guess," she said, uninterested. She found no use for literature. It didn't excite her, since it represented _'made up'_ events according to her.

Being a journalist, different kinds of writing fascinated me. After all, couldn't truth be found in diverse uses of words? Having had a love for fiction books practically all my life, Chicano Literature seemed not only an important class but a necessary one.

"I'm taking Chicano Literature," I announced.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure you want to take it?" she questioned.

" _Yes_."

"If you take it, I guess I'll take it too."

In life there are times a person takes a sharp turn that absolutely enlightens her. Vivi and I were about to enter a new dimension.

### Chapter 20

_Chicano Literature_

Vivi yawned nonchalantly. "I knew I should've never let you convince me to take this course. What a waste of time."

I thumped her head with my index finger. "I didn't convince you to do anything, and literature is not a waste."

We were sitting next to each other at a long table instead of in desks with about ten other students. Apparently, this would be an intimate class. After all those lecture courses packed with restless bodies, this was a treat. I surveyed the place and smiled.

The classroom was unremarkable, devoid of any bright colors, as if nothing earth shattering took place between its walls. The professor, Dr. Villalobos, stepped in with untidy, waist length, curly hair and a bright turquoise skirt. She had in her hand a screwdriver which she placed in the middle of our table. While she seemed preoccupied in her thoughts, she inhabited the whole room.

"C'mon," Vivi whispered. "Give us our syllabus and let us go."

But of course she didn't. Dr. Villalobos said there was too much to cover to waste a single second. Our education was at stake. She wouldn't even take the time to have us introduce ourselves to each other. We'd have to get to know one another as the semester progressed.

"Get out your pens and paper, people." she directed strongly.

Vivi breathed out a profound sigh and shook her head. She wasn't the only one who was irritated. Hardly anyone expected to do anything on the first day.

"Define art," Dr. Villalobos demanded.

The students looked at one another. Had we heard right?

"Define art,"she repeated.

"Art? I thought this was a literature class," muttered a male with thick glasses.

Dr. Villalobos eyed him. "And you think art is..."

"Van Gogh, Picasso, the Sistine Chapel etc.," responded Thick Glasses, exasperated.

Dr. Villalobos stood next to him. "You think art is just pictures."

"What does art have to do with literature?" Thick Glasses questioned.

Vivi's body leaned forward. My cousin never backed away from a good argument even when it was someone else's.

"Literature is art, Mr....," Dr. Villalobos stated, waiting impatiently for Thick Glasses to give her his name.

"Mark Vila," he announced. "It may be an aspect of art, but I don't see why we're discussing it."

"Mr. Vila, art defines humanity."

"And?"

"Our literature defines us."

"Isn't that a given?—that literature defines human beings?" Mark Vila muttered wryly.

"Nothing is a given when it comes to us. Our culture has been distorted in so many ways."

Vivi took a pen from her purse and borrowed a sheet of paper from me.

"Ricardo Sanchez, writer/poet," continued Dr. Villalobos, "put it best when he said, 'Chicano Literature is very encompassing—it is not only poetry or stories about life in the tenements nor is it only protest. It is such a vast and panoramic state of flux that it has room for writings that deal with love, hope, aspiration, death, existence, etc. Because it merges all human experience, and also because Chicano writers are as diverse as the different bloods making up _La Raza,_ Chicano Literature deals with existentialism on a transcendental level. It is the kind of literature that affirms existence and human validity, and because it deals so strongly with life, it is adamant and forceful. . . life for the Chicano is—and has always been—a survival test. The literature reflects it in words that have strength, and words that testify to a people's experiential/existential quest for human liberation—'"

"That's quite a panorama of ideas and thought," interrupted a student across from me.

"Absolutely, as complex as we are," Dr. Villalobos asserted. "That's why we're also going to study our history. In order to understand our literature, we also need to be fully aware of our past."

Mark Vila shook his head and pursed his lips. "With all due respect, Dr. Villalobos, I've already taken political science and history classes. I took this class to study literature."

"Didn't you listen at all to the quote by Ricardo Sanchez?" Vivi chimed in.

"Of course I did."

"Then I don't see how you don't get it," Vivi blurted bluntly, her voice exasperated.

Mark Vila's lips pursed tighter. "Hey—"

"We've studied the likes of Hemingway, Steinbeck, Frost and so on," proclaimed Vivi. "We know their historical perspective because we're taught western thought from the onset of schooling, but do we know the history of this continent before Columbus landed or do we think _'civilization'_ started when he got epically lost thinking he had reached India and misnamed the natives while bringing much disease, pestilence, and oppressive ideas to what was the New World to him. It makes perfect sense to me what Dr. Villalobos is saying, that we have to put our literature in some perspective that we haven't been taught before or how else do we understand it?"

"Wouldn't the literature speak for itself?" asked Mark Vila.

Dr. Villalobos wrote on the board, ' _internalized oppression_ '. "Mr. Vila, when you want to fix something, unscrew a screw, do you use a hammer?"

He rolled his eyes. "No, I use a screwdriver, of course."

Dr. Villalobos grabbed the screwdriver she had placed at the center of the table and waved it in the air. "Well, I'm going to hand you the screwdriver so you don't use the wrong tool."

Vivi grinned at me and nodded enthusiastically.

Dr. Villalobos set the screwdriver in the middle of the table again and then underlined _internalized oppression_. "Let's reflect on this first: At the school of _'learning'_ they gave out the school books for the year. Johnny got the new book and when he complained about it not being big enough, they gave him an even larger one. Jane got the book with many words rubbed out. When she complained, they called her a whiner and a bitch. Juan got the used one with entire pages missing and when he complained, they called him an ungrateful foreigner. Juana got the used, torn book with rubbed out words and falling and missing pages. When she complained, they called her a bitch and an ungrateful foreigner.

"So, to emphasize—Johnny got the new and bigger book, Jane got the one with many words rubbed out, Juan got the used one with torn pages, and Juana got the used book with whole sections missing and pages falling out."

Vivi nodded her head vehemently as she wrote on the sheets of paper I had kept supplying her. I glanced over to Mark Vila who looked as if he was searching for something in his head. And the silence continued for a few moments as Dr. Villalobos allowed us to absorb what she had just said.

Dr. Villalobos stepped over to the chalk board and wrote _underlying assumptions_ and _osmosis oppression_ under the banner of _internalized oppression._ "Human beings assume so much without questioning what is in front of them. Without questioning how thoughts are built, where they're coming from, and why they are what they are. Then oppression occurs—those committing the horrible act and those receiving it. The prison of oppressive ideas starts taking root—even by osmosis—passed down from one human being to another with assumptions in the air. Questions, people, always ask questions so you're not trapped in these prisons of wrong beliefs.

"Who decided to give Johnny the bigger book? Why? Because he got the new and bigger one, does he think he has all the answers? Does he think there are no other books to learn from? Does he comprehend his privileged status, or does he refuse to acknowledge his entitled state? If he reads about Byron, Freud, and the ancient Greeks, does he think he doesn't need to learn about Neruda, the Mayas, Tomas Rivera, Visconsuelos and others because he thinks he knows what the world is about? Does Jane think the rubbed out sections are for her own good? Does she expect as much from Johnny as from herself and those of her gender? Does she make comparisons with Juana and other women around the world on an equal basis or does she think her book, even when not up to par, is still superior to theirs? Does she think she has much clearer views than them?

"Does Juan internally start believing what is shoved at him time and time again?—that he should be grateful to get any book at all? That he should aspire to be exactly like Johnny? What measuring stick does he use? Does he ever dig deep down to uncover his roots, deep vines in this land, so he can come up with his own measuring stick? Does Juana measure poverty through Johnny's book as a deserved state? Does she believe her color and her bone and body structure are wrong when she compares them to Jane's? Why should she compare? Why should this matter at all? Does she doubt in herself, her abilities, and her position in this world?"

The class stayed in silence.

Dr. Villalobos folded her hands in front of her. "Who wrote these books anyway? Who wrote Johnny's? Who gave him the bigger one? Who gave the books out? Who decided who should have them? Who buys the bill of goods? Who is in your head? What is in your head? Why do limited, blind, and ethnocentric people get to decide what's in your subconscious? It's time to start questioning or else we're chained in the prison of internal oppression others have hoisted on us so that we're stuck in the quicksand of insecurity instead of breaking out to our greatness."

"It's time for the screwdriver," Vivi whispered.

I nodded. "Definitely. _Si._ "

I would blast out the infernal superiority/inferiority seesaw in my head once and for all.

Chapter 21

History

Vivi no longer accused me of forcing her to take Chicano Literature. Instead she was the first one in class and the last one out, always bombarding Dr. Villalobos with deep questions. Mark Vila stopped complaining and in fact had a crush on the teacher.

And me, I started to know who I was, not in the sense that I needed to ' _find myself'_ but instead I realized how crucial it was for me to discern and absorb the realities of a past or else be doomed to myths and misconceptions that shaped my present and future. It was part of my fascination with truth and a deep knowing that my integrity as a journalist depended on it.

I took that screwdriver Dr. Villalobos had offered and started the unscrewing. Most American Social Scientists had traditionally viewed us, people of Mexican descent, as passive, fatalistic, no ambition, lazy, emotional rather than rational, sexually irresponsible, basically alike, and prone to being criminals.

According to Raymund A. Paredes, the origins of anti-Mexican sentiment were multi-fold. The English settlers' dislike of Catholicism and the Spanish transferred to Mexicans. While some writers of that time admired accomplishments such as the architectural building wonders like the city of Tenochtitlan—the capital of the Aztecs which had a good system of education, democratic elections, and so forth, other writings solely emphasized human sacrifices and witches and sorcerers declaring my ancestors heathens, making them savages in their biased and limited opinions.

According to Octavio Ignacio Romano, social science studies on Mexican-Americans had defined our culture as traditional culture, an ahistorical, passive one where we were not seen as participants in History until we acculturated. The reality, however, was that we've been far from passive, and we've had a tradition of resistance and insurrections. A few examples were: Juan Gomez called a strike of hundreds of cowboys in the Panhandle in 1883. The labor strife of over seventy years between Chicanos and their employers began.

Dr. Villalobos reminded us of what had happened during or around our lifetimes. During the sixties, Dolores Huerta and Cesar Chavez and the United Farm Worker's cause reached national and even worldwide terms with strikes and boycotts. Luis Valdez, the godfather of Chicano theatre, demonstrated through plays the importance of unions. Reies Lopez Tijerina formed the Alianza and claimed land grants for New Mexican families that still had documents of land ownership that had originally belonged to their ancestors.

In 1967, the Brown Berets were formed protesting police brutality and educational disparities. Jose Sanchez was the first Chicano who publicly resisted the Vietnam War draft. As I've said before, Chicanos were being drafted in disproportionate numbers. In 1966, Rodolfo Acuña, author of _"Occupied America,"_ started teaching the first Chicano History class. Corky Gonzales formed The Crusade for Justice, a civil rights organization.

Meanwhile, there were walkouts like in 1968 where over 1000 students walked out of Abraham Lincoln High School in Los Angeles. Moratoriums abounded like the march in Houston with 5,000 people, and the one in 1970 in Laguna Park with 10,000 to 30,000 protesters where Ruben Salazar, a journalist who wrote weekly columns in the Los Angeles Times on Chicano issues, was killed in the Silver Dollar Cafe by a stray gas canister thrown by police. In Indiana, the vice-principle said, "Mexicans are lazy and ignorant," prompting a 600 student walk out.

Organizations were formed. In 1947, The American G.I. Forum for the protection of the civil rights of Mexican-American veterans was organized as a response to a funeral home in Texas denying burial to a WWII soldier. After our participation in wars, we were still subjected to all forms of segregation. It wasn't only African Americans who got the back of the bus. There were places we couldn't share fountains, school rooms, theaters, restaurants and etc. with Anglos. Other organizations formed such as the League of United Latin American Citizens ( LULAC), Mexican American Youth Organization (MAYO), Mexican American Legal Defense (MALDEF), United Mexican American Students (UMAS), El Movmiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlan (MEChA), and more.

In Crystal City, Texas, Jose Angel Gutierrez led a takeover of the community run by a white minority. In the high school, students protested the unjust practices of school administrators and boycotted it. Gutierrez helped form the _Raza Unida Party_ in 1970 and won four of seven seats on the school board. In 1972, the political party held a national convention in El Paso. In 1974, Willie Velasquez established the Southwest Voter Registration Education Project.

As I looked at our history I now saw the holes, distortions, and justifications. In the United States' Manifest Destiny and Western expansion policies, Mexico lost half of its country. The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo ended the Mexican-American war, promising protections to the Mexican people of California, New Mexico, Arizona, Texas, Colorado, Nevada, and Utah—including allowing their use of the Spanish language. But these protections didn't last since courthouses were burned so records of property ownership disappeared—displacing people who had been on that land since before the pilgrims. Seeking justice and refuge in the law was impossible. Certain Texas rangers harassed us. Folk heroes emerged resisting this abuse of power like Gregorio Cortez, Joaquin Murrieta, Juan Cortina and etc. During the Great Depression, thousands of United States citizens were deported to Mexico. In the Sleepy Lagoon Riot, Los Angeles police threw a group of Chicanos in jail with insubstantial evidence for the murder of a Chicano. Then in 1943, the Zoot Suite Riot occurred. A gang of sailors and marines beat Chicanos and black Americans while the police did nothing.

During this time, we of Mexican descent hadn't always agreed with each other. We've had our own controversies within our culture. But as Dr. Villalobos said, "We are a diverse population. Why should our culture be any less complex than the majority one? Are they together on everything?"

Armed with this knowledge, my class we went on to study great _American_ writers we were never exposed to like Denise Chavez, Arturo Islas, Tomas Rivera, and so forth. We now had knowledge of our own backgrounds to give their work justice and to figure out why the superiority/inferiority seesaw game was so prevalent inside of us, causing the internalized oppression. Even though Chicano Literature didn't have the respect it deserved from many circles, I, myself, now had the ability to not only look but see what I had never seen before.

### Chapter 22

_Boyfriend_

In romance novels, the heroine sees the handsome stranger from across the room and knows he's her one true love—the one person she's meant to be together with all her life. He'd be the person she'd share her hopes, dreams, and heart.

What stayed with me about those books was the idea of instant love, eternal togetherness, and soulmates forever. Sometimes I would sit in the Conquistador Lounge and observe couples in their lovemaking moments. It wasn't the kisses that made me envious but the obvious comfort of two people who understood each other's paths. So far I had only had one boyfriend—Chucho. And it had turned out badly. After him I had put blinders on and dedicated my whole self to my studies. Yet, I yearned for romance. I wondered if it would ever happen for me. Would I ever shower a man with kisses and _I love_ _yous_? I should've asked if a man would do the same for me.

As strange events went, I did eye my future boyfriend from across a room and was immediately enamored of him. Aaron Roth walked into _The Prospector,_ the campus newspaper, office to place a classified ad—he was hoping to sell an old textbook. I was working as a reporter trying to get experience before I graduated. He was filling out a form in the front lounge area when I stepped in and was struck by his ash-blond hair, dark-green eyes, and overall handsomeness. He looked up, catching my stare, and smiled before I had a chance to avert my eyes. Discombobulated, I stumbled into the back area where the journalism offices were located. Finishing the story I had been assigned, it hadn't been the usual smooth path. I finally stepped out of _The Prospector_ , wondering how I let a stranger affect me so much, and I moved toward the bookstore.

"Hi," a voice behind me said.

I turned around to find him, Mr. Handsome himself. "Hi," I said, my heart thumping a zillion miles per second.

"You're very pretty," he said matter-of-factly.

Blushing deeply, I averted my eyes from his gaze. "Thank you," I murmured.

"I know it sounds like a line, but it isn't. You're so pretty."

"Thank you," I repeated, my face red.

"I'm glad you finally came out of _The Prospector_."

"Were you waiting for me?" I burst.

"Yep."

"Really?" I murmured, shocked.

He chuckled. "Yeppers."

"But I was in the office for over an hour."

"I did some studying," he said nonchalantly, pointing at the lounge close to _The Prospector_. "Would you like to have lunch upstairs?" he asked eagerly.

"Sure."

I forgot all about the book I needed to buy from the bookstore and ate upstairs at Food Services with him. Aaron Roth turned out to be an honor student majoring in engineering. He was a senior like me, but he would be graduating the semester we were in while I would be graduating the next one. His parents were entrepreneurs, and he had an identical twin brother who also attended UTEP and a sister.

He liked socializing but not hard partying. I liked that he didn't do drugs, alcohol, or questionable activities. He was fun-loving, easy-going, and kind. An overall amazing guy.

During a lunch date he nervously confessed that after he graduated in a few months he was already set to join a charitable organization that built such life-saving things as dams, water wells, and the like in struggling places all over the world. Then he solemnly told me he hoped with all his heart that I didn't want to put a stop to our brand-new relationship.

"Why would I do that?" I questioned him, puzzled.

He gulped. "Rosario, I'll be leaving in a few months."

"Then we'll have to make the best of the time we have left," I declared. Aaron sighed as if relieved and his lips upturned in a huge grin.

Even though I was very well aware of the limits to our relationship, I still felt that getting to know him would be a big positive in my life. He was always so kind and attentive to me, telling me how wonderful he thought I was. Vivi adored him when first meeting him—the only problem being that she despised his identical twin brother Arnet who was by coincidence in our Psychology class.

"Why don't you like him?" I bluntly questioned, upset. While it was true that Arnet seemed nothing like his brother in personality, the always solemn, scowling guy wasn't _that_ bad. Even though the brothers were born identical twins, they were easy to tell apart just by their facial gestures and apparel. Aaron was always in well-worn jeans while Arnet used designer suits. Aaron had confessed to me that he felt sorry for Arnet who was awkward and a bit bumbling. Arnet had no friends and would hang around his extrovert brother who was always swamped with people around him. After watching a gawky Arnet trying to converse with students, I felt bad for him too. "Why do you dislike the poor guy, Vivi?"

"I don't know exactly," she answered nonchalantly.

"Is it because he's so serious?"

"No, it's not that, Rosi."

"Then what is it?"

"I just have some suspicions," Vivi declared. "There's just _something_ about him. _Something_ rancid."

"What?"

"I bet he's going to try to come between you and his brother."

"Why do you say that?" I questioned, surprised with her assertion.

"He won't have his brother to himself if you're around."

"What?" I burst again.

"The guy depends on his brother for some kind of a social life and you're in the way."

"That's ridiculous!" I shot back.

She shrugged. "We'll see... There's something else that bothers me about him."

I sighed. "What is it?"

"I suspect he's prejudice."

I flung my hands in the air. "What?"

"I bet he's a bigot."

I sighed with frustration. "Just because he's Anglo doesn't mean he's a bigot."

"I know, but I really think this particular Caucasian is a racist."

"But his brother isn't—"

"Yes, I know Aaron is a peach, but that doesn't mean his brother can't be prejudice," Vivi assured matter-of-factly.

"You shouldn't make such ugly accusations without being sure."

"Haven't you noticed the way he looks at us?" Vivi grumbled.

"Vivi, he's awkward around people—that's all."

She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm just sharing my suspicions with you, so you're warned and not taken by surprise. He probably doesn't even know he's a bigot."

I shook my head. "Vivi, you're hopeless."

"I'm just saying that after having taken Chicano Lit, I realize how multifaceted bigotry is."

"Vivi, the stink of bigotry seems pretty straightforward to me." At that time in my life I thought I'd be able to discern a prejudice person a mile away—that intolerance was very obvious. Luckily, I had Vivi to straighten me out.

"That's where you're wrong, Rosi. That poison is like a sneaky disease."

"Sneaky disease?" I could see in her eyes the wheels of her mind churning swiftly and non-stop in the Grand Canyon of her philosophical ideas.

"Hmmmm," she murmured, deep in thought, "Bigotry thinks it's dealing in truth when it's submerged in _perceived truth_ and/or _truth in pieces_ instead of _all-encompassing truth_ —the sum of all parts. All parts true and not just perceived crap that people twist to their convenience."

I eyed her, puzzled. "I'm still not sure what you mean."

"Okay, let me explain it this way: Truth—Aaron is going out with you, a person of Mexican descent. _Perceived truth_ —his family members can't be a bigots because of it. _Piece of truth_ —the _fact_ that you're his girlfriend lulls his brother into permission for _superiority_ _thinking_ since his _perceived truth_ is firmly in place. In other words, if Arnet takes a _piece of truth_ and stereotypes our whole culture because of it, his _perceived truth_ will convince him that since his brother is dating you, he can't be accused of being prejudice, so he insists his accusers are wrong and he's right. However, _all-encompassing truth_ looks at the whole forest and not just the trees. The sum of _all_ parts. It takes apart actual truths and also puts them together in variations to see how they really work _both_ together and apart to come up with reality."

I sighed. "Vivi, you've been taking too many philosophy courses."

Vivi shrugged. "Maybe so, but I just want you to know what you're in for with your new boyfriend and his family. I just have a bad feeling about his brother. I hope I'm wrong."

Aaron and I studied together, went to movies, and attended interesting lectures. We laughed at the same jokes and enjoyed the same food. We saw each other almost every day, and he was so much fun to be around. He declared he loved the Mexican culture and would insist on going to events celebrating it like colorful fiestas or traveling artworks from such painters as Frida Kahlo or Diego Rivera.

The first time he picked me up at my house at Casa Sol, he looked like an excited puppy wagging its tail. "What a great place!" he burst, his eyes roving the neighborhood. "There are people actually walking around."

"What?"

"The streets are pretty much deserted in my parents' neighborhood." While Aaron and his brother shared a dorm room at the university, their parents lived in the country club in El Paso.

When Aaron met my Mama and Jorge, he actually got smiles out of them. Aaron could be so charming that it was nearly impossible to dislike him. His brother, on the other hand, was unfortunately starting to prove Vivi right.

One evening while the brothers were picking me up for a city library lecture series we were attending together, Arnet blurted, "You live _here_?"

"What?" I shot back, startled.

"You like living in _Casa Sol_?" he questioned, grimacing contemptuously.

"I _love_ living here," I burst, gritting my teeth.

"What's wrong with where she lives?" Aaron snapped.

Arnet ignored his brother. "After you graduate, you can get out of here."

Aaron eyed his brother furiously. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," mumbled Arnet. "Just making conversation."

One day, Arnet asked to speak to me privately after our Psychology class. Vivi didn't want to leave me alone with him, but she had another class while I was free for the day.

"What do you need to talk to me about?" I asked with curiosity.

"Well, Aaron is such a good guy."

"I know."

"Don't you think you should be more considerate of him?" he muttered.

"What?"

"You should take his feelings into account."

"What do you mean?" I questioned, puzzled.

"He always does what you want to do—like all that Mexican cultural stuff—but doesn't he deserve to do what he wants once in a while?"

"He said he liked what I liked," I shot back.

"He was being nice."

"But—"

" _And_ I should tell you that it embarrasses him when you wear those peasant blouses you like so much and those big hoop earrings. You don't want to be a stereotype," he declared.

"I'm not a stereotype," I snapped.

Arnet sighed. "I'm just trying to help."

With me being so young and inexperienced, Arnet's explosive words shook me to my core. Even when Vivi had warned me about him interfering in my relationship with his brother, I started wondering about Aaron. Was my boyfriend who he appeared to be or was he faking me out for unknown reasons? I also started questioning myself—my discerning abilities. After Vivi's class, she confronted me about Arnet. I guess she noticed how discombobulated I was.

"What did that dumbass tell you?" she snapped.

I sighed. "Arnet may be a lot of things but he isn't a dumbass."

"Want to bet?"

"You know, Vivi, Arnet has a genius IQ."

Vivi shook her head. "IQ doesn't mean jack anything," she snapped. "It's just numbers. "

"You can say that since you've got a high one yourself."

"That's why I can say it," she burst. "You can't quantify what you know. You can't quantify wisdom. IQ doesn't tell how you put ideas and thoughts together. How you come up with answers."

"I—"

"Why do you let Arnet get behind the steering wheel in your head? Don't you get it? "

"What are you talking about?" I burst.

"You're doing what millions of women around this world have always done!—give up their power to a jerk!"

"What are you talking about?" I repeated.

"I've already told you that he's the instigator type."

"But—"

"But nothing," Vivi burst. "Rosi, don't sink to the bigot's level! Force the idiot to rise to yours!"

"Vivi—"

"Remember who you are," she barked.

"What do you mean?"

"You're Rosario Olmos, a Chicana smart enough to go from the onion fields to college when everything went against her. You've got a mother who never lowers her proud head, and a brother who went to rehab because he hurt you. You're a woman who shouldn't doubt in herself. Don't give up your power, Rosi. Once you do, you'll never like yourself, and you'll be _very_ frustrated."

Vivi's explosive words rolled in my head over and over again. _Could Arnet be lying to get his brother away from me?_ I asked myself. _Could he be that much of a jerk?_ Aaron was only the second boyfriend I had ever had and I was still learning to be in a relationship with a significant other—I was educating myself on imperfections, compromise, understanding, and sharing.

When Aaron asked me to dinner with his family I was beside myself. The fact that he wanted me to meet his kin surely meant something good. I told myself that Vivi had been right about Arnet and that Aaron was positively true blue.

As Aaron and I arrived at his parents' home in the country club, my mouth fell open. I had no idea he was wealthy. I suspected he came from money but wasn't certain. He would talk about trips to Europe he'd taken, but he drove a modest car and lived in the university dorms with his brother.

"This is your family's house?" I questioned with a shaky voice. The huge mansion was two stories high and seemed to belong on the cover of architectural digest. Elegantly white and imposing with a front yard garden that held an Eden full of greenery and flowers, I stared at it stupefied.

He chuckled. "Yes, it's the old shack."

"Old shack?—right!" I guffawed.

He chuckled louder. "Let's go in. My parents must be waiting for us."

A butler attended us as soon as we entered the door. Frankly, the place was even more imposing on the inside with the luxurious cream furniture and stucco walls. The sophisticatedly quiet décor seemed to smell of money—lots of it with delicate figurines in neutral and light colors and paintings of muted outdoor scenes.

My hands shook as I was introduced to the rest of his family. Arnet was already there, a wry smirk on his face. His parents were friendly enough, not warm kind of people, but amicable. They both were attractive, about in their forties, with an air of classiness that put certain walls between them and other people. Both had ash-blonde hair and long lean bodies. Aaron's older sister, Alvinia, was almost a replicate of her mother. Alvinia's two young sons, Blane and Benton, seemed rambunctious tykes obviously disliking the suits they were wearing. Squirming and pulling at their ties, the pre-tweens seemed uncomfortable.

We sat at the long cream decorative dining room table. It seemed a bit much with so many empty chairs, but Aaron's parents seemed as if they belonged there—inhabiting the entire room. I couldn't help feeling underdressed even though I had worn my best outfit—a sky blue sheath with pretty flowers embroidered on it. Aaron's affluent family wore costly apparel of neutral colors while I stood out in the inexpensive pastel dress.

As we were being served squash soup, I noticed that the help was all Latino. They moved around silently as if trying not to be observed. Not a _thank you_ or a _please_ was heard anywhere except from my mouth.

This bothered me.

"So, Rosie," Mr. Roth addressed me, "Tell us about yourself. I confess we don't know much."

"Dad, don't badger her," Aaron blurted. "Don't scare her off."

Mrs. Roth's eyebrows shot up. "Phillip Aaron, we just want to get to know her. You haven't told us much."

"Yeah, tell them more about her," smirked Arnet. "I haven't said anything because—"

"I told Arnet to let _me_ tell you about _my_ girlfriend," snapped Aaron.

"I'm sure Rosie can tell us about herself," Mrs. Roth stated.

"You're also studying at the University of El Paso, aren't you, Rosie?" questioned Mr. Roth.

"Yes, I am," I answered,

"What's your major?" asked Mrs. Roth.

"I'm majoring in journalism."

Mr. Roth seemed to frown. "Interesting career choice. Fortunately, Phillip Aaron is going into engineering, and Perry Arnet is going into business."

"Rosie is going through school on scholarship," Aaron burst proudly.

Mr. Roth's eyebrows shot up as he nodded his head. "That speaks very well of you, Rosie."

"Rosie's GPA is higher than mine," Aaron declared. "She studies hard."

"Wonderful," stated Mrs. Roth. "So many young people today waste valuable opportunities. It's such a shame."

"That's why we're showing Phillip Aaron and Perry Arnet the value of a dollar," explained Mr. Roth. "No apartment for them or expensive toys. They'll have to earn them for themselves."

Arnet rolled his eyes. "Dad, I think we've already _earned_ those things. While losers are partying and ditching classes, we're always on our schoolwork—except for when Aaron goes on dates," he muttered.

"Rosie and I have study dates at least once a week," Aaron declared.

"Exceptional, son," Mrs. Roth asserted. "Your dad and I are proud of you and Perry Arnet."

"Then why won't you get us our own apartment?" Arnet burst. "You just don't know what it's like at the dorms with so many jerks disrupting us all the time."

"Speak for yourself," Aaron declared. "I'm happy at the dorms."

"You can't possibly be happy there," Alvinia burst. "Dad, get my poor brothers their own apartment for heaven's sakes. You've got them living like some of those wet—"

"Alvinia!" blurted Aaron. I glared at her knowing the word she was about to use.

"What?" Alvinia questioned her brother sharply.

Mr. Roth cleared his throat. "Actually, your mother and I have been considering renting an apartment for the boys," he asserted, obviously trying to change the subject. "We'll talk about it tomorrow, boys—in private."

Arnet grinned. "Okay, Dad."

"But I already said I like the dor—" started Aaron.

"We'll talk about this _tomorrow_ ," chastised Mr. Roth.

"So, Rosie," Mrs. Roth addressed me, "tell us more about yourself. Where do you live?—also in the dorms?"

"I live in—"

"She lives in Casa Sol," blurted Arnet, a snicker in his tone.

"Casa Sol?" questioned Mr. Roth, frowning. Mrs. Roth visibly grimaced.

"She lives with her mother while she graduates from college," Aaron explained.

"Oh," Mrs. Roth muttered, her face in a scrunch.

Mr. Roth's expression was also in a twist. "Hopefully you'll be able to become independent once you graduate. Independence is so important—standing on your own two feet."

"Rosario is very independent," burst Aaron.

"I've lived on my own since I graduated from high school," Alvinia declared proudly. "Now I'm married and I'm still independent from my parents."

"Yes, still independent from our parents," declared Arnet.

Something inside of me contorted. This turn in conversation where I looked like a dependent person who couldn't manage on her own absolutely bothered me.

"So, Alvinia, you paid for your own college?" I questioned.

Her smirk crumbled. "Er, well, no."

"So your parents paid your tuition," I declared. "I had to find my own way."

"Yeah, she had to find her own way," Aaron reiterated.

"I still lived on my own and not in my parents' house," Alvinia burst with angry undertones in her voice.

"I'm assuming your parents paid for your living space, didn't they?" I shot back.

"Yes, we paid for it," answered Mr. Roth, amused with the conversation. "As I've said before, your resourcefulness speaks well of you, Rosie."

"Thank you," I muttered.

Mrs. Roth nodded. "It's truly remarkable that someone like you is going to college."

"What?" Aaron blurted.

"Someone like me?" I burst.

"Someone of your background," Mrs. Roth explained uncomfortably.

Mr. Roth nodded. "All we're trying to say, Rosie is that we think it's remarkable that you're going to college and not barefoot and pregnant with ten kids."

"What?" I blurted.

"Dad, don't stereotype her!" Aaron snapped.

"I didn't mean to offend you, Rosie," Mr. Roth muttered. "It's just that with you being Mexican—"

"Are you a wetback?" questioned little Denton with acute curiosity. Along with his brother, he had been very quiet until now.

Aaron's face contorted. "Don't ever use that term again, Denton!"

"Where did you learn that word?" I sharply asked the little boy as I glared at his mother. She quickly shifted her eyes away from me.

'"Mom," Denton stated simply as Alvinia and the other adults at the table turned a bright red.

"Are you from Jarez?" Blane questioned, pronouncing the word _jar_ and then _ez_ instead of articulating the _j_ the way it was enunciated in Spanish—like an _h_ in English.

It took me a few seconds to realize he meant Juarez. "No, I'm—"

"Did you swim in the Rio Grande to get here?" asked little Blane.

"What kind of question is that?" burst Aaron sternly.

"I was born in El Paso, Denton," I answered stiffly. "I'm an American citizen like you are. I'm as American as everybody in this room."

Little Blane and Denton eyed me with puzzled and startled looks. "But you're Mekskin, aren't you?" asked Denton.

My insides contorted furiously. It was the old superiority/inferiority seesaw again!

"Mex-i-can," Aaron enunciated, "and that doesn't mean she swam the river to get—"

Arnet glared at his brother. "Many Mexicans do get here that way, don't they?"

"But—" Aaron started to say.

I could most certainly defend myself. "Many of us do get here that way to work the worst jobs with little pay only to get no recognition and many, many insults," I burst. "Many of us have been here since before these lands became part of this country, and as for me—I'm of Mexican descent—and proud of it," I declared. " _And_ that doesn't make me any less American."

Little Denton didn't seem satisfied with my affirmation. "But—"

"That's enough, you two," blurted Mr. Roth to his grandchildren. He changed the subject and the whole family seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. I boiled from the inside for the rest of the blessedly short evening. It didn't escape me for a single second as I was putting the food in my mouth how it was probably picked and packaged by people in my culture. In this case, it was also being served by us. People Aaron's uppity snob family looked down on.

_It's amazing how people bite the hand the feeds them,_ I told myself. _How admiration and respect is reserved for those with the artificialness of money, status, and prestige—plastic prestige at that—instead of for the providers of life giving and sustaining food._

Pretty screwed up priorities!

No wonder this world is in such a mess!

Later, in the car with Aaron, I started the conversation I had wanted to have with him since the dinner had begun.

"Aaron—"

"Bet you didn't know that my first name is Phillip, right?" he rushed.

"No, I didn't—"

"I prefer Aaron. What about you? Do you have a middle name?"

"No. Listen, Aaron, I really want to talk about—"

"I've never been able to get my family to just call me just Aaron. I even named my dog Phillip, so my family would get the message, but they never did." Then he continued rambling on about his dog, hardly taking a breath.

It was then that I realized that he was avoiding talking about what had just occurred with his family. However, I needed to get some garbage off my chest.

"Aaron!" I snapped, interrupting him mid-sentence.

He eyed me, disconcerted. "Yes?"

"We need to talk about what just happened back there."

"Do we have to?" he murmured unhappily.

"Yes!"

He sighed miserably. "I'm just so embarrassed. I'm so sorry. My family can be a bit clueless sometimes."

"As long as you recognize it," I muttered.

"Rosie," he murmured, taking my hands, "I'm sorry if those in my family made you feel uncomfortable. Let's just ignore what's outside of us. It's just you and me, okay?"

"Okay."

But that wasn't the last of the conversation I had about his family. I was sitting in the lounge in front of the bookstore getting my notes together when Arnet popped up.

"I'm glad I ran into you," he declared.

"What can I do for you?"

"Aaron scolded me for the other night at my parents' home. Sorry if I was rude."

He didn't look sorry. I shrugged.

"I just thought it was important for my family to really get to know you," he continued matter-of-factly. "Like for example that you live in Casa Sol."

"Why does it matter that I live in Casa Sol?" I burst.

Arnet sighed deeply. "Your community has a bad reputation and—"

"I'm not ashamed of where I live," I asserted, gritting my teeth. "Being working class isn't something to be ashamed of."

"Maybe not but—"

"Why should your family judge me because of where I live?" I shot back.

A flustered Arnet eyed me as if the answer was obvious. "Rosie, you have to admit you live in a rough place, right?"

"Are you saying that working class neighborhoods only breed hoodlums?!"

"Er, no . . . I—"

"Are you saying that only _certain_ kinds of people in _certain_ kinds of neighborhoods deserve respect?"

"Of course not!" Arnet snapped. "You're making me sound prejudice!"

"Well, if the shoe fits—"

"I'm _not_ a racist!"

"There's a lot of bigotry in your family, Arnet," I shot back. "Unfortunately, down to even the children because of what they're learning from the adults."

His face twisted in fury. "No, there's _not_! Neither my family nor I discriminate against anybody. We're good people. I can assure you of that!"

"But—"

"If we were bigots, we wouldn't have permitted you in the house as a guest."

"But—"

"Please understand that we haven't had much experience with your culture."

"How is that?" I questioned in disbelief. "You live in El Paso where we're the majority, right?"

"But—"

"But you stay in your tiny corner, right?"

He nodded vehemently. "Yeah, right. You can't blame us for that, can you? Don't take this wrong but there are certain elements in your culture that are scary."

"Like what?" I snapped. "Are you terrified of _really_ scary things like piñatas, enchiladas, or—"

"How about gangs?"

"So you think that all my culture is about is gangs?" I burst incredulously.

"No, of course not, but you do have gangs in your culture, don't you?"

"So do you!" I snapped. Was this what Vivi meant when she told me about _perceived truth_ and _truth in pieces_?

"But—"

"I suppose I should be terrified of _your_ culture since most serial killers are Anglo."

His eyes opened wide. "Hey, that's just a small percentage of us."

"Same with gangs and us," I snarled. "You can't paint a whole culture by what some in it are doing. You said it yourself about your own culture." This must have been what Vivi meant about _all-encompassing truth_. "If you want your culture to be treated fairly, you've got to do the same for others."

"This is the thanks I get for apologizing to you," he grumbled, "being called a bigot. You're a bit paranoid, you know."

"Paranoid?" I burst.

"You have to admit you were very defensive the other day at my house—my parents really noticed it."

I shook my head and sighed with exasperation. "People tend to get defensive when they're being looked down on."

"There you go again with your paranoia."

"I—"

"I just want you to be aware that my parents aren't too happy with your relationship with Aaron."

"Through their facade the other day, I'm very well aware that they don't care for someone like me," I shot back.

"And it doesn't have to do anything with bigotry—they just think you're wrong for him. You have to admit you were very defensive the other day."

"Of course I was defensive," I snapped. "Bigotry does that to me."

"How many times do I have to tell you that there's no bigotry in my family?" he snarled. "My parents just think you're all wrong for my brother."

"Nothing to do with bigotry, huh?" I blurted. "Yeah, right!"

### Chapter 23

_Bigotry_

I thought long and hard about my relationship with Aaron. Could it possibly work with the prejudice prevalent in his family? With him refusing to face it? I faced the ugly fact that when he'd be with his brother giving me a ride home, Arnet's blatant discomfort showed all over his face. It was more than obvious that Arnet detested my house, my community, and some of my ways for that matter, and he was a reflection of his whole family with the exception of Aaron.

When Arnet met Jorge, he warbled, "You're brother is quite a character."

"He's worked practically all his life and grew up without a father," I shot back.

Aaron shrugged. "Oh," he muttered dismissively.

When he met my Mama, he asserted, "You're very different from your mother."

I shrugged. "Maybe."

"Alvinia was just named chief financial officer in the corporation she works in," he boasted. "My sister is just like my mother—hard driven. Relentless. Successful. Neither of them brake for anything when it comes to achieving their goals...Uh, sorry."

"Sorry?—for what?"

"For what?" Aaron echoed my question.

"I'm going on and on about my mother and sister while..."

"While what?" I questioned, not knowing what he was getting at.

"Well, with you and your mother—"

"What about my mother and me?"

"Yeah, what about her mother and her?" snapped Aaron.

"The apple sure fell far from the tree," he announced.

"What?"

"You're nothing like your mother, the typical little Mexican _mamacita._ " Arnet muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"What are you saying?" burst Aaron.

"I'm just saying that Rosie is ambitious and smart."

No one but no one insulted my Mama! "Listen, Arnet," I snapped, "if I'm half as smart as my Mama, I deserve more than a Ph.D. And as for ambition, she didn't let the death of a husband destroy her. She bought a house and raised a family—all in a system that works against her."

"I was trying to pay you a compliment," Arnet snarled.

"Some compliment—insulting my family!"

"I wasn't insult—" Arnet started to say.

"What about this typical little Mexican _mamacita_ bullshit? My Mama may not be a businesswoman like yours, but she isn't a stereotype."

'Yeah, Arnet," snapped Aaron.

"You're making too much of what I said, Rosie," he muttered. "Stop being so sensitive."

I grimaced. "But—"

"I know you think my family is full of bigots," Arnet announced matter-of-factly. "But the Roths _aren't_ bigots! Stop accusing us of such despicable behavior!"

Aaron's eyes popped wide open. "Am I missing something? What's all this bigotry talk?"

"Rosie and I had a conversation the other day," explained Arnet. "She made it very clear what she thinks of our family."

Aaron quickly turned to face me, his expression in a tight upset. "You think we're bigots?"

"No, I—"

His face softened. "See, Arnet, you misunderstood."

"You didn't let me finish, Aaron," I declared. "I don't think _you're_ a bigot but the rest of your family—"

"You think the rest of my family is prejudice?" he questioned incredulously.

I looked at him straight in the eyes. "Yes, they are."

"You're wrong," he burst. "They're just a little rough around the edges."

Arnet eyed me with a smirk. "That's what I was trying to explain to her," he declared triumphantly.

"Are you kidding me, Aaron?" I shot at him, ignoring his brother. "You really think your family is just a little unpolished like a diamond in the rough?"

I never said that they couldn't be clueless at times," Aaron asserted. "But making the leap to bigotry is a bit much, don't you think?"

"We're _not_ clueless," snapped Arnet, insulted. Aaron glared at him and shushed him

I sighed heavily. "So far I've gotten from different members of your family—wetback, Meskin, the typical little Mexican _mamacita,_ and how about the ugly insinuations of where I live, the congratulations of not being barefoot and pregnant, and a lot of other disgusting stuff? But no, I shouldn't be offended," I burst sarcastically. "I'm being _way_ _tooo_ sensitive."

"Rosario," murmured Aaron, "I—"

"Arnet told me about your parents' opposition to our relationship," I declared. "Let's just end this and that'll be the end to that!"

"But—"

"Goodbye."

Breaking up with Aaron had been incredibly difficult and heartbreaking for me. That same evening, Vivi tried to comfort me by telling me I had done the right thing.

"If Aaron doesn't want to face the crap within his own family then you have no business being with him and having to put up with such poison," Vivi declared.

The next day my heart was still throbbing acutely. I was in a foul mood when I arrived at my Psychology class because I knew Arnet would be there—probably thrilled and smirking about the end of my relationship with his brother. The only good thing about the situation was that Arnet sat in the back while Vivi and I were in the front, and I didn't need to see his condescending face. With over two hundred students, I was at least glad I could ' _melt_ ' in the crowd and be left alone with my churning thoughts. The lecture was on family structure and its impact on civilization.

"So children coming from large families are less intelligent than _only_ children and those coming from small families," the instructor stated. "Therefore, the smaller the family unit, the more apt it is to contribute progress-wise to a civilization."

Vivi twitched furiously next to me, bringing me back from my somnambulism. The instructor's words twisted inside of me as they had obviously done to Vivi and I said, _hell no,_ to myself. It was the old superiority/inferiority seesaw disguised as education. I was sick of it and tired of those who refused to acknowledge it. My hand shot up.

"Yes?" the instructor addressed me.

"It seems to me Dr. Gerald, that you're making two plus two equal five. It's not five, it's four." Finally, in a thunderbolt realization I completely understood Vivi's ideas on truth. The two's were _pieces of truth_ and the five was _perceived truth._ The accurate four would've been _all-encompassing truth._

"What?" he asked, irritated.

"I don't see how equating smaller family units with so-called more _'progressive'_ civilizations can be accurate. There are too many holes."

"What holes?" he snapped. "It's a fairly easy concept."

"No, it's not. For one thing, how do you define progress? Do you mean technologically speaking? Or do you mean the supposed quality of the human beings within that civilization?"

"You're getting lost in rhetoric. You're complicating concepts that are not complicated."

"But those concepts have many more facets. Let's break it down. Take for example what you said about children in small families being smarter. It's really about the attention and not the amount of children, isn't it? For example, if parents who have a large family give a lot of attention to the kids, those children may be more _intelligent_ than a lone child who doesn't get any attention. Is that correct?"

"Ah . . . yes," he muttered uncomfortably.

"And we're talking about book smarts, aren't we?"

"Yes, what we can measure, of course."

"And we're talking about statistics that can be questionable since there are so many variables," I explained.

"Nothing is foolproof. Variables are always there."

"There are other variables to consider—expanding our idea of intelligence. Children from large families may be able to work with groups better. Teamwork. Isn't that what really builds civilizations. Besides, being able to work with other human beings is _definitely_ an enormous accomplishment."

Then the most incredible event happened. My peers applauded me with a few _yeahs_ scattered here and there. I had forgotten about the hundreds of students in that class when my focus had adhered itself to the professor. Had I really spoken to the instructor like that? Vivi smiled and patted me on my back.

"Rosi, I couldn't have said it any better," she murmured.

"Thanks."

"You did good, cousin. _Really_ good."

After class, I told Vivi, "I couldn't let it ride. I'm tired of those _indirectas_ where the insults are beneath the surface disguised as well-meaning criticism or supposed ' _facts_ '."

"I know."

It frustrated me that this was how bigotry began—with facts that were twisted and shaped into lies because the bigot needed the mega dose of superiority testosterone. Vivi was one hundred percent correct about the different dimensions to prejudice. What Dr. Gerald had implied—that big families equaled less contribution to society—could be eventually replaced by the bigot as Mexican-Americans contribute less to civilization because traditionally they are part of large families. The bigot skips the full dimensions of the facts, the _all-compassing truths_ , to settle with a half-baked idea bursting with holes that those not like him or her are inferior.

What had happened with Aaron, his family, and Dr. Gerald had greatly impacted me. Imploded from my deepness. It made me come face to face with the very ugly and devastating way human beings have of pushing one another as low as possible so the push-er is on top of the push-ee. Top of the superiority/inferiority seesaw. Now, it was perfectly clear to me that bigotry often didn't have a monstrous outer appearance letting it be decoded right away. The members of Aarons family didn't have huge flashing signs on their foreheads saying, 'Not tolerant of others different from me'. Many times bigotry disguised itself in sheep's clothing. Because intolerant people could make a show of tolerating certain things they found distasteful, they could hide their own hateful attitudes even from themselves, but these attitudes always came out anyway in sneaky ways. _Superiority thinking._

### Chapter 24

_I Understand_

Because Vivi had one more class and I was through for the day, I started walking towards the Union Building after my exchange in my Psychology class. After such intensity, I just wanted to chill out in the Conquistador Lounge. To my surprise Arnet caught up to me. It was obvious he had waited for Vivi to be out of the picture since he didn't like her.

"That was quite a performance in Psychology class," Arnet chortled.

I frowned. "I'm not an actress—that wasn't a performance."

"Yeah, whatever."

"I really don't have time for child's play," I shot back matter-of-factly as I turned to keep walking.

"Wait!" he yelped, rushing in front of me so I'd stop moving.

I sighed in exasperation. "What is it that you want? Your brother and I are already broken up—what could you possibly want?"

"I just wanted to tell you that even if Aaron's hurting, I think ending the relationship was best for the both of you."

"Yeah, whatever," I retorted, bouncing his same sarcastic words back at him.

"My parents told him that they had already made up their minds that if he kept seeing you, they'd be forced to cut off his funds. They were relieved that because of yesterday, they wouldn't have to take such drastic measures."

"What a nice resolution for your family, but I still don't understand why you felt the need to talk to me."

"I don't like the way you characterized me and my family to my brother."

"Well, I don't appreciate your put downs about _my_ family," I burst.

"What are you talking about? I—"

"What am I talking about?—are you kidding me?" I snapped.

"Listen here, I've got a genius IQ, and I don't need to be talked down to by you."

"Look who's calling the kettle black," I retorted.

"All I've done is tell truths about you and your family. I—"

"Stop! Stop with your twisting and turning. You have no respect whatsoever for my family _or_ me. Now, _you_ listen here, I have my experiences, thoughts and ideas, and I'm every bit as smart as you are—no, I'm smarter because _I understand_. I know what I'm looking at. When you see my brother, you see a hoodlum with no prospects, no purpose. When you see my mother, you see a passive Mexican _mamacita_. When you see my cousin, you see a combative person you can't even begin to understand."

"I—"

"My brother is one of the most hardworking and giving human beings on this planet. I'd like to see you give up your life to help your relatives pay bills. He was already helping support a family while you sat on your ass reading Plato. Maybe someday you'll be as remarkable as he is. Maybe someday you'll realize that your worth as a human being isn't in how much money you have in the bank or in how much people admire you for having _'the best'_ of everything."

"But—"

And as for my Mama," I said, taking a breath. "She not only gave me life, but she gave me who I am. I _am_ because of her. I got my strength, determination, self-reliance, pride, loyalty, and love of learning from her. She also taught me to respect my heritage, but lately I've failed her because I've allowed you to take my power—"

"What are you talking about? I—"

"No, you're not taking me on another tangent. This time you're coming with me instead of me going with you to your _superiority_ perch."

"You sound like your militant cousin," he snarled.

"I know how much you dislike my cousin. Yes, she's combative. But it's people like her who've fought for the rights of the disenfranchised because power isn't given up easily. She's my hero."

"Are you done yet?" he snapped furiously.

"You're bigotry doesn't allow you to understand."

"My _bigotry_?!" Arnet spat out with distaste.

"You're a bigot, Arnet," I proclaimed matter-of-factly. I realized that if only he'd see what was inside him, he'd be able to fix his prejudices, but how can a person fix what he or she doesn't recognize?

His face contorted with disbelief and fury. "I can't believe you just called me a bigot to my face."

"That's what you are, Arnet. You're a bigot just like your family. You—"

"I'm _not_ a bigot! How dare you call me one?!" His left eye was twitching in fiery flames. "And my family isn't prejudice either! I've already told you that!—if they were, they wouldn't have let you in the house! It's logical."

"Logical?" I snapped.

"Yes—logical," he retorted.

_Perceived truth,_ echoed in my mind. _Truth in pieces_ —his parents had let me in the house. _All-encompassing truth_ —the fact I was in their home didn't automatically make them tolerant. It only made them believe they were all the while hiding their superiority ideas deeper into themselves.

"Logic is relative," I shot back. "It's like beauty and in the eye of the beholder."

"What?"

Then I started to tell him about Vivi's ideas on truth to give him an opportunity to grow and understand. But his tight and dismissive expression only demonstrated that he had shut down. He wouldn't even allow himself to listen to and analyze what I was saying.

"Stop your bitching," he retorted.

"What?"

"I'm sick of this boohooing over nothing."

"Nothing?" I snapped.

"Stop living in the past," he growled. "I admit there was prejudice and discrimination in my country in the old days but now it's over. Slavery is done with. Segregation is gone. I can't do anything over what my ancestors did. Stop punishing me for it."

"I'm not punishing you for it," I shot back. "And for your information—the Civil Rights Movement wasn't in the old days, it was in _our_ lifetime!—and we've only in our early twenties! Yeah, it took that long to push equality through even when the Declaration of Independence says that 'all men are created equal'."

"Well, whatever. The important thing is that it came to fruition."

I sighed with infuriating frustration at his nonchalant attitude. To the bigot the act of unacknowledged bigotry was just a diverse way of looking at things, but to the person facing the prejudice of narrow mindedness, it affected every aspect of his or her life. "The Civil Rights Movement never ended—not with those of us still trying to assert our God-given rights!"

"I don't get it—what are you complaining about? You're not black," he spat out smugly.

"Typical ignorant answer," I growled. "I know that in your small locked mind you only see the Civil Rights Movement in terms of black and white but we brown people also fought our hearts out for justice and equality. Why, Mendez v. Westminister School District of Orange County paved the way for the landmark case of Brown v. Board of Education which ended nationwide legalized segregation in schools."

"Yeah, whatever—"

"No, not whatever!" I shot back. "It was a big deal! If you had been the one segregated and treated like trash then it would've been a huge deal to you. But what do you care?—the poison of discrimination wasn't happening to you."

"Hey, I have to deal with discrimination too."

"What?"

"We white men are under attack," he blurted.

I shook my head, not believing he was pulling the non-race card. "Well, poor you," I blurted sarcastically. "You make more money than minorities and women, you get the best jobs, and you're the ones who run the government and most business enterprises. Yeah, it's really hard being a white man—poor you!"

"I'm just so sick of all this bitching about race!"

Backlash. That's what this was. Sometimes people got tired of the same complaints over and over again. But what they didn't realize was that it wasn't merely tiresome to the victims of such ugliness—it was completely devastating to them as they went through the same horrible things over and over again.

I sighed. "I'm sick of bigotry because some people can't share the planet—can't deal with equality because their testosterone infused pride gets in the way, telling them they have to be the _superior_ ones."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"You need to realize who you are and where you are?" he snarled.

"What are you talking about?" I burst.

"You've done well by my country, haven't you?—it's time to stop your pissing and moaning."

Vivi had been so right about him. Now his true colors were popping out. I eyed him with disgust. " _Your_ country? The United States is _my_ country too. Just because you're white and I'm brown doesn't mean America is your country more than mine!" I snapped. I knew that in legal terms I was supposed to be white, but I considered myself brown. How could I not with such a divide between cultures?—between people like Arnet and myself.

"Well, it was directly _my_ forefathers who—"

"We've contributed in every aspect of America since its inception," I snapped.

He guffawed, snorting as he rolled his eyes "What are you talking about?"

"Typical!" I growled. "Typical of jerks like you never giving us credit for anything."

"Hey, I don't appreciate you calling me a jer—"

"Hey, I don't appreciate you being one. For your information—we were already here before your people arrived."

He groaned. "Well, yeah, but—"

"We helped birth the United States. Bernardo de Galvez who was the governor of the Louisiana Territory sent supplies to George Washington during the American Revolutionary War. Then more support of reinforcements was sent by Puerto Rico, Spain, and Mexico. Latinos have played an important role in _every_ United States' war—including the civil war."

"That can't be true," he burst.

"Hey, let's not let facts get in the way of bigotry," I guffawed sarcastically.

"I'm not a bigot! Stop saying that!"

"Bigots never believe they're bigots," I shot back.

"How can I be a bigot if I supported your relationship with my brother? Can you answer that?" Arnet burst with smugness in his voice.

"That's a lie and you know it," I snapped.

"I didn't tell my parents about your relationship, did I? I knew they'd disapprove, but I did my brother and you the favor of keeping my mouth shut until they could meet you for themselves and decide about you. Well, they did and guess what?—they didn't like you and it has nothing to do with prejudice!"

"Yeah, right!" I burst.

His face contorted in raw fury. "I'm so glad my brother dumped you!"

I chuckled loudly. "Revising history, aren't you?" I guffawed. "Your brother isn't the one who dumped me and you know it."

"Are you saying that _you_ dumped him?" Arnet snapped.

"If you want to look at it that way then it's your business. I'm just telling you that Aaron and I couldn't be together anymore. I didn't get dumped. I'm the one who ended it and you know it. You were there."

He stomped the ground like a little kid. "How dare you dump my brother! Look at my family—prestigious. Pillars of the community! Then look at yours—"

With fury, I stepped in close to him, my index finger pointed at his face. "Insult my family and you won't hear the end of it, jerk! Just because your family is upper crust doesn't mean jack shit!"

"Yeah, stay in your little fantasy that class and prestige don't mean anything," he sneered. "They mean _everything_!"

His idiotic words struck me as funny. I had been dealing with the superiority/inferiority seesaw for so long that at this point in my life, after getting my mind blown away by my Chicano Literature class, I refused to ever allow that game to manipulate me again. I chuckled loudly, guffawing.

"Are you laughing at me?!" he roared, very upset.

"I'm laughing at the silliness of thinking that money, class, and social standing makes a person superior. Give me a break!"

"Just wait till you graduate and go into the real world," he smirked.

"I may be an idealistic journalist, but I'm going to try my best to make this world a better place—not contribute to its mess."

"Well, whatever." He swung around and started stomping away.

I called after him, "Goodbye, _Whatever_."

As he swaggered away, the clueless brother of my former boyfriend, it occurred to me that I had stopped believing in the fairytale of the young woman waiting for her Prince Charming, waiting for her perfect kingdom. _Rescue_ came from within myself—my own power and not in a fabled character or land. It became very obvious to me that the whole knight in shining armor myth contributed to the blindness in love. A blindness that didn't put an all-encompassing truth in perspective. Crystal clear sight was everything in a partnership and that was what all relationships should be—partnerships where both parties were committed to trying to understand one another.

Nursing my broken heart over Aaron, I wondered if I was born _unlucky_ in love. _Very unlucky_ **,** I told myself. Vivi, however, quickly straightened me out by asserting that life held many tearful hearts for all people.

"It's part of being human," she assured. "You live and learn."

Only a few days later, to my immense surprise, Aaron called me and implored that we meet. I gave in, feeling a biting curiosity as to what he wanted to say to me. We met at a quiet park where we could have a private talk.

During the first few moments we silently sat on a bench and watched the children and their caretakers enjoy the playground. Aaron seemed to be having a difficult time starting the conversation. I decided to be patient and wait for him to find the right words. They suddenly sneaked out of his mouth.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"For the breakup?" I questioned.

He sighed deeply. "For everything."

"Everything?"

"Let me first explain that Arnet finally told me about the discussion after Psychology class."

I eyed him with bewilderment. "What of it?"

"It made me see what I was refusing to acknowledge."

"What would that be?" I shot back, greatly hoping he was seeing certain issues from my point of view.

"Rosario, I haven't wanted to face the prejudice in my family until my brother gave me a blow by blow account of your argument with him," Aaron burst. "He was indignant about the whole conversation, upset that according to him you were sooo wrong in your way of thinking and that he was sooo airtight right." He loudly gulped. "The rest of my family feels like he does even if they'd never admit to it—who wants to admit to bigotry, right? I sure didn't want to face their intolerance. I kept telling myself that they were just a little rough around the edges, but nothing too bad."

"You mean not Ku Klux Klan? No burning of crosses in yards, no _outright_ racial hatred?"

"Right," he said, stumbling over the word.

"You know, Aaron, bigotry doesn't have to be colored in neon red in order for it to be real."

"Rosario, I realize that now," Aaron declared, gulping, "and I am so sorry for not having come to terms with it sooner... I think that deep inside I always knew the truth which is why I'm majoring in engineering to help needy people around the world—so that I wash away some of the stigma of my racist family."

I nodded. "Yeah, Aaron, you're too smart not to know what was really happening around you."

Eyeing the children in the playground he questioned, "What kind of a world are we creating or them?"

My sight fell on the kids making happy sounds in their play. I sighed. "Unfortunately, they'll probably inherit their family's and society's insecurities, twisted ideas, and prejudices."

"I've learned to do better," he burst. "So can they."

I smile and nodded. "Yeah, we can do much better as a humanity."

"Much, much better."

We started having a very deep discussion about our world full of people frightened of one another—so stuck in the _oppressive_ _sameness_ that they couldn't open their eyes to see the beauty of colorful differences. The refusal to step out of their stagnant poisonous pond of _superiority thinking_ into the flowing river of clean water that promoted growth and wisdom.

'Absolute power corrupts absolutely.'

Aaron and I decided that _superiority thinking_ was absolute power at its worse. POWER—that's what people feared to give up—scared for their self-esteems taking a hit. But in _all_ - _encompassing_ truth a sense of self was much more _powerful_ in the true power of being part of the multi-diverse and multi-colored fabric of human essence. Stronger. Healthier. Peaceful.

Aaron and I cringed when speaking about apartheid in South Africa—an example of the horror and despicableness of racial segregation still occurring in the world. Unfortunately, the end of apartheid wouldn't happen until many years later—many insufferable seconds, minutes, hours later in 1994 with multi-racial democratic general elections after years of protests and uprisings.

FINALLY.

One thing I've learned with perfect clarity, after reporting about so many abuses in the world is that human beings aren't meant to live squashed. We are just not built that way. Since our God spark shines in all of us, nipping at our complacency in order for us to reach our true greatness no matter the blind obsession of the people trying to take it away from us.

But this freedom and justice in South Africa wouldn't happen for many years yet. In the meantime, Aaron and I were having a horrible time coming to terms with apartheid being part of our modern world. Incredible! Unbelievable! Disgusting!

'Absolute power corrupts absolutely.'

Again I repeat, power isn't given up easily even when it's the fake kind. Fake, a lie, because it's not connected to the energy force of the creation of humanity.

Aaron and I discussed the word tolerance. We both agreed that it was much better to have a deep understanding that becomes a _want_ and _hunger_ to learn from and connect to differences that can teach us to grow rather than to feel that all we have to do is put up with others. And I as a woman felt I needed to also support my gender on earth and not just my ethnic group. Aaron agreed that oppressiveness in any form should not be tolerated.

Needless to say, Aaron and I got together after our enlightening discussion in the park. Unfortunately, his parents carried out their threat of refusing him financial assistance if he kept seeing me. Aaron, however, felt he needed to take a stand against their bigotry. By getting a job, he paid his own way. His parents tried to entice him to their way of thinking by telling him he could get out of the dorms and into Arnet's luxurious apartment that they were now providing if he would reconsider his position on dating me. He told them that their prejudice against me disgusted him. They, of course, denied being bigots—in fact, they were insulted by the term.

"Your father and I are only watching out for your well-being," his mother had snapped. "We have never discriminated against anybody."

"Of course not!" his father had snarled. "We're not racist in any way. We just realize when you can't seem to—that Rosie isn't right for you. She's from a completely different life than yours. She belongs in hers and you in yours. It's not a racist comment to admit to unsurmountable differences. It's just fact."

"Mom and dad," Aaron muttered, "you just don't get it."

"That girl just isn't at your level," Mr. Roth retorted.

"What's wrong with having standards?" Mrs. Roth declared. "What would the world be like without them?"

"It would be an uncivilized planet—that's what it would be without societal rules and proprieties," Mr. Roth asserted. "It would be chaos!"

"You _really_ don't get it," Aaron grumbled miserably.

After graduating in December, Aaron immediately left the United States to help build a dam in South America. His parents tried to convince him to stay to work for them as Arnet would be doing, but Aaron would have none of that. Even though I would miss him horribly, I was proud of his ambition to make the world a better place.

We kept in touch for a while, but as life happens and human beings evolve, we lost track of one another. It's inevitable that people go their own ways—take their own roads.

Still, I'll always be proud to have known him—even for the short time I did.

### Chapter 25

_My Mama's Tamales_

A few days before my graduation and after the last final, Dr. Jordan called me into his office. I tapped my right foot in short fast movements as I sat outside his office waiting for him to get through with another student. His administrative assistant glanced at my nervous leg and smiled. I abruptly stopped.

"Sorry," I said.

"That's okay, Rosario."

I couldn't help wondering if I was in some kind of trouble. Why did Dr. Jordan want to see me?

Dr. Jordan's office door swung open and out came a student who furiously shook his head as he stepped outside. "Your advising sucks," the student blurted.

Dr. Jordan sighed heavily. "It's your attitude that sucks, Skip. Get yourself together."

"Whatever," he shot back, striding out the door.

A solemn Dr. Jordan motioned me to enter his office. As I stepped in, I scanned the place trying to find where to sit since books were scattered everywhere, including on top of the two chairs in front of his desk. That student must've stood up the entire time he was there. Dr. Jordan moved the pile of books from one chair to another.

"Sit down, Rosario," he said, smiling.

"Is everything okay, Dr. Jordan?"

"Relax, everything is fine."

I plopped down. "Okay."

"The reason I asked you here is to tell you how proud I am of you."

"Really?" I blurted, surprised.

"I know all that you did, Rosario to get to this day."

"What?"

"I know what it took for you to get here. I know how hard it's been. I know about the setbacks, the struggles, the feeling of isolation, and the persistence. I'm proud to know you."

"Thank you." I could barely get those words out, my throat tightly squeezing itself.

"I know that only a few people understand what it took to circumvent so many obstacles from so many sides on a field that's by far not an even playing field. I want you to know I _see_ you which is why I appreciate you so much. As your advisor I never had to deal with you walking into my office unprepared. You had your classes picked straight from your degree plan. Now you're graduating with almost the exact number of credits you need. As the chairman of the Journalism Department, all I've heard from your instructors are accolades. You are why teachers become educators in the first place."

"Thanks." I dabbed my eyes with a tissue I took out from my purse.

"The sky is the limit for you. I know your future is bright."

"I'll try my best."

"You always do. If you ever need anything, I'm only a phone call away. You can always count on me."

"Thanks."

I think back on that conversation when I feel insignificant, incapable, and alone. I never told anyone about that meeting. I folded it up and tucked it inside my _corazon_ , with the rest of the miracles in my life, where it gives a loud beat when I'm feeling my most insecure.

I don't know why I don't remember that much about graduations when I worked so hard to reach them. Maybe it was the act of arriving versus the act of being there that actually stayed in my mind.

I only remember generalities like my black gown and filing into the Special Events Center with the graduation march. I can't remember the speakers, only the obligatory speeches in general about our destinies being in our hands and how we were the future.

I remember stepping up to the podium to get the black booklet which eventually would display my degree. The fallacy was that a graduating student gets a diploma but as the semester's grades weren't posted yet, the university had to wait before actually handing them out. The only specific event I remember clearly was climbing inside myself and telling my Papa I forgave him for not being there. I forgave him for dying.

After the ceremony, my Mama said she had seen many of _us_ Latinos graduating. There were numerous Spanish surnames called out that day. Nationwide our percentages were low but my Mama was looking in terms of sheer numbers that evening.

I told Vivi that she could decide where we would eat that night, especially since she hadn't wanted to attend graduation, and I had forced her.

"You're parents are going to be here. You need to go through the ceremony," I had told her.

"It's boring. All you do is sit and hear the same old boring speeches."

"Vivi, we've earned it."

She decided that the only place to celebrate such an event would be Chicos Tacos. My _Tia Vera_ and _Tio Hugo_ were taken aback, and were vehemently opposed to the idea. They wanted to take the family to the fanciest restaurant they could find. My Mama stepped in and said it was our graduation, and we should choose. We ate at Chicos Tacos that night.

The next morning I woke up to the most delicious aroma. I could hear my Mama's light feet on the beige tile floor. I could see her small person overpowering the yellow kitchen. Vivi slept soundly, but I didn't want to sleep through this creation of a memory. At this moment, life was good. I was home in more ways than one.

When my Mama had asked me what I wanted for graduation, I told her tamales. She asked me if I was sure I didn't want turkey. I told her I was positive I wanted tamales. She said she would hold a fiesta celebrating Vivi and me.

It didn't bother me that even Clarissa would be at my party. It turned out that her husband did drink and do drugs aplenty, and he would beat her, so she had left him. Now she was a little more humble and her high airs were somewhat on the ground.

Atocha and my high school friend, Gerarda, were coming. Gerarda had realized that she had married too soon and was divorcing. She decided school was the way to go and was attending El Paso Community College.

I stretched in my bed and finally tumbled out to help my Mama at the point she'd allow the participation—at the slathering of the corn gruel onto the corn leaves. Vivi woke up too and headed straight to the kitchen. _My Tia Vera_ and _Tio Hugo_ were already there helping out. They told Vivi they wanted to buy her a new car, but she wanted to keep her old Rambler. Jorge caught my eye as he stepped into the kitchen and shook his head. I smiled, wishing they would make me that offer. As I was spreading the _masa_ on the corn shucks, I gazed at my Mama and thought about all the history contained in one human vessel. Where did one life stop and another began? When did we actually reach adulthood? What made us _'important'_? What made us deserving of love? Life's questions could go on and on. I realized the biggest answers would be in our multi-faceted lives. Layer upon layer of experiences creating thoughts and ideas. It was a matter of looking back, putting the puzzle together, and learning that _all_ the pieces made the _entire_ picture.

I remember that when I was a little girl...

### Epilogue

_Life_

My daughter has listened very attentively to my story squeezing the last drop of Papaya juice from my words. She understands that it's her story as well as mine. I take a breath before continuing and weaving my life together in a colorful folk basket for the sake of her navigation through this _loco_ world.

Now that so much time has passed and I've lived at least half of my existence, I see so much clearer. I _see_ people so much more vividly. I _see_ individuals through much stronger glasses, and I have a full understanding of how the past not only shapes the present and the future but defines them as well.

I try to focus more on the good things that have happened in my life, but I refuse to waste the bad incidents. They've also taught me about being a human being. Taught—that's what I'm convinced life is, going from one lesson to another.

I spent my childhood in the upheaval of the sixties and seventies when so many were standing up against the status quo, demanding equality for the disenfranchised, and protesting a senseless war. As a female and person of color, those times were critical.

Meanwhile, I was living my own battles with bigotry—many times within my own polluted self. How else can I define my mental state of being when I was a kid and wanted only blonde Barbie dolls and thought Mexican candy or anything Mexican was inferior? What about when I had told my Mama to make turkey instead of tamales because of what I had seen on TV?—because of what was forming in my head, brainwashing it, about the supposed inferiority of my roots, of _myself._ I was riding on the superiority/inferiority seesaw. So much contributed to the garbage in my mind.

So much:

The death of my father from cancer because we were too poor for health insurance, too _substandard_ to matter. Nurse Jenkins telling my Mama that Mexican women were passive. Stereotyping us to aggrandize herself and make us small.

The fields—killing ourselves for so little money. The smell of onions penetrated into our noses and clothes. People offended by our scent of hard, thankless work—the same people who purchased our blood nutrition at the supermarket and never bothered to think about where it came from.

Maybe it got to the stores by magic.

Yeah, right!!!

_Maybe food fieldworkers are so low on the_ _perceived trut_ _h success ladder that they and their hard work don't matter._

Yeah, right!!!

I declare that the person who helps feed me does matter—matters a lot. If I don't see this _all-encompassing truth_ then I need to examine what's in my head and who put it there.

How about Mrs. Davidson never bothering to wonder or care why I needed to ask those around me what she was saying? Her paddle and her eyes told me that she thought very little of me. My education was of no importance to her—I was of no value to her.

No value. Valueless. That's the problem with bigotry—putting sole value only on its own _sameness._ _Condescending superiority_ _thinking_. Different—bad, same—good. Like me—superior. Not like me—inferior. _The_ _oppressive_ _sameness_.

Not like me—savage, uncivilized, and unworthy. _Lucky to get the scraps off my table that I deem to give you, and that I lower myself to toss at you because of my superior kindness._ Just like the lady during that particularly horrible Halloween—the bigot with the porcelain Jesus in her yard who shoved the one lollipop _crumb_ into Clarissa's bag. No wonder my cousin grew to be ashamed of her own culture!

No wonder I felt a horrible discomfort when I went to Juarez and witnessed the overwhelming poverty of the beggars and those who lived in cardboard houses like the _ancianos_ in my Mama's goddaughter's neighborhood. My brainwashing was already telling me that I should be ashamed to be part of a culture that had poor people.

Poverty supposedly equaled shame.

Like I told Arnet Roth many years ago, it's ridiculous to think that expensive trinkets, overpriced clothing, and costly belongings make a person into a superior being. I've come across some of the worst kinds of people who use wealth as a huge shoe to trample on people.

_Unbelievable_ how there were times I felt ashamed of my clothes, my language, my food, the color of my skin. My nationality. _Unbelievable_ how brainwashing had been working in my head. _Unbelievable_ how much bigotry was in the air and accepted as if it was okay. It still poisons the atmosphere today, but now it's hidden better under the label of truth as if saying something's the truth automatically makes it so. Vivi's ideas on truth— _perceived truth,_ _truth in pieces_ **,** and _all-encompassing truth_ have lit up my whole existence with wisdom.

During so many tragic events I've reported on, I've always wondered about the reason the human race is so frustratingly problematic in its views. As a journalist, I've recounted many human ups and downs. The horrors I've written about stick in my head like leeches that refuse to let go. Genocide, wars, greed, racism, sexism, discrimination, the ill planet and more. What is it about us human beings that make us refuse to give up our flawed sense of power?—the inability to let it go even for the _true_ power of honesty and peace? Why do we obsess with illusions of superiority? I call them illusions because no one is so high that he or she can't come tumbling down. No one. Believe me, I've seen it happen many times with many _powerful_ people. They fall under their own weight of greed and self-aggrandizement.

Back in the late seventies and early eighties when I saw the first buds of womanhood, I struggled with my place in this chaotic world. I battled to understand the people around me, and their own space in my biosphere. Inside of myself I asked if I dared to dream. Dream big?—especially with the impossible climb out of the excessively deep canyon of intolerance and poverty that my friends found impossible to circumvent.

Witchy-Woman has stayed in my thoughts all these years because I've wondered why her family, who was in these parts since before it had become the United States, didn't do better emotionally and materially. They hadn't had to immigrate here like my parents had had to. In fact it was the immigrants from across a whole ocean who had taken over her family's lands. But here's the thing I realize—new immigrants hadn't been so stomped on that they found it nearly impossible to rise from the ground to their greatness. Prisons are not only made of mortar and physical materials. They are also made of emotions that trap people into a pool of condemnation that they're innocent of but make someone else feel superior in the obsession for arrogant pride and self-preservation.

Self-preservation—the human condition. The reason why a sense of superiority is so important to some people. The reason to step on someone else so that the insecure person makes certain to be above the supposedly inferior mark. That must've been the reason Witchy-Woman had tried to look down on my family for our closer ties to Mexico than hers. In being squashed under the giant shoe of bigotry, her shaky self-esteem made her obsess with having someone below her instead of getting out from under the superiority game—the superiority/inferiority seesaw.

_I get it_ that I've been given a bill of goods of who I am. Some of the ancient Greeks, the fathers of our democracy, slept with boys, but that isn't what they're remembered for, while the blood sacrifices are the focus of what's _up-played_ about the Aztecs when almost every culture has practiced some sort of bloody practice such as the crusades and even the same human sacrifices. It's a rarity to hear about the genius of the Aztecs and the rest of the Mesoamerican cultures because the idea of savagery doesn't mix with brilliance. Their smartness is downplayed.

_I get it_ that whatever is around us shapes our thoughts. _I get it_ that most of us think the way we do because of our situations. That's why when you're on top, you rarely look down, thinking you'll fall but when you're at the bottom, you almost have no choice but to look up. _I get it_ that I can shove the bill of goods back to those who gave it to me. I can refuse the _superiority thinking_ game. I've figured it out.

" _Wow,_ Mama!" Martina bursts. "I think _I get it_ too."

Tears form in my eyes. "I just want you to be prepared for what's out there. It can get pretty ugly with human beings tearing each other apart."

Martina sighs disconcertedly. "So what do we do with such a messed up world?" she questions, deep in thought.

I smile as I tell her my all-time favorite quote. Some of the wisest words I've ever heard. "Benito Juarez said," I announce, '"Entre los individuos, como entre naciones, el respeto al derecho ajeno es la paz'."

She smiles, nods her head, and repeats the quote in English, "Among individuals, as among nations, respect for the rights of others is peace."

My own family is proof: Jorge learned the awful power of disrespect lesson with Witchy-Woman and went on to marry a lovely person named Araceli. She is the opposite of Witchy-Woman with a mouth that overflows with flowers instead of acid. Araceli and my brother have two talented daughters who both graduated from college.

Vivi went on to law school after we finished our studies at U.T. El Paso. Today, she fights for the respect of our people by protecting our rights as an attorney for the Mexican American Legal Defense Fund (MALDEF). She's had several passionate involvements with the opposite sex, but she tells me what I already knew—romantic relationships don't excite her like causes do. Needless to say, she's never been married nor had children. Instead, she births fairness. I'm very proud of her.

And then there's my Mama—my irrefutable hero, my unwavering role model, and my best teacher. She taught me the very meaning of respect—that it's a word needing to stand on its own rather than balance itself or even lean on a pile of money. People have always deeply respected her integrity, wisdom, and compassion.

My wonderful Mama retired to Mexico. She lives with my _Tia Chata_ and _Tio Rigoberto_ who are thrilled to have her. Martina and I miss her enormously, but we understand her love for her Mexico and respect her wishes. After all, my Mama resides in us just as my daughter and I reside in her. And that's the powerful stuff that can be used to scrub away the poisonous grime of brainwashing clean from our minds. It's the overwhelming love of who we are that can shatter concrete and prisons.

Yes, a powerful _amor._

A penetrating love that grows bigger and bigger with respect for humanity. Still, there are limits to acceptance. As Bill Maher says, "Don't tolerate intolerance." I'm not going to be so tolerant that I end up accepting the dehumanization of certain human beings in the superiority/inferiority see-saw in order to insist on total open mindedness. As in everything, there needs to be some limits—balanced limits. But I'm going to celebrate someone's choice of eating with bread instead of with a tortilla. We've all contributed so much to one another. A person just needs to see what the world has done with my culture's indigenous discoveries of chocolate, chili peppers, corn, beans, squash, and other amazing finds, and what we've done with their innovations also to have a full heart. I'm reminded of the food preparation TV channels where there's hardly a host who doesn't prepare some kind of a Mexican dish—and how about the many cooks who combine their native food with Mexican staples? Can you say Korean, Italian, or other types of cultural tacos? How about the many forms of salsas in all kinds of worldly meals? Yeah, we share so much with one another. Martina smiles as I say that. Then she repeats a shortened version of Benito Juarez's famous quote.

" _The respect of the rights of others is peace."_

