After my mother’s death, we had a new revolution occur in our home. We were both sad to be orphans but, in many ways, we were relieved to not have to worry any longer. We were free to go on living and mourn our parents in our own ways. My sister took her mourning self to a different degree and started to go out every single weekend. She had a brand new 86 Dogde Daytona that my mother had helped her purchase on her graduation day in early June 1986.
Every week she would go clubbing with her best friends Raquel and Corina. Every week she would have a fight with my aunt that would range from what she was wearing to what time she would be coming home that evening. My aunt would get really crazy sometimes and chase my sister with a big machete. My sister would send her friends out first to start the car and then she would run to jump in before my aunt would catch her. Would she stab her? Would she cut her throat like in the movies? Definitely not. This spectacle would occur every week and the neighborhood already knew to expect it. After a while you would see people just sort of linger around waiting until it happened again.
I would usually watch the pre-show with my sister as the star in her room preparing to go out. My sister was really cool back then. She was a Cha Cha. To be a Cha Cha meant nice clothes and cool grooves. Cha Cha’s got to go to clubs on their own because they didn’t need a man to take them. They wore trendy granny boots, black mini dresses, and trendy hats. If they didn’t wear a hat then their hair would be held up high by the full can of Aqua Net (aka Cha Cha Net) hairspray they would put in it.
Raquel and Corina would come over about an hour before leaving to get ready with my sister. Actually, they would arrive already dressed to go out but the “real” outfits usually were hidden in the trunks of their cars because they knew that their mothers would kill them if they left the house dressed like putas as my aunt used to say.
Our house was a safe haven to them because it had no figures of authority—at least that’s what they thought. They would blast the radios loud to the music of Stevie B. or Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam. SaFire too. They would gush and complement each other on their outfits— “Ooh girl… looking good,” they would say. I would lie down on the bed and watch them through the mirror as they transformed themselves with their make up, hair and outfits. I would fantasize about when I would get to be a Cha Cha too.
My sister’s room now was the room downstairs that had belonged to my mother. My brother Enrique took our room upstairs and I was moved to the front house with my aunt and uncle because my aunt felt that I needed to be looked after more closely and because she secretly hoped that I wouldn’t be negatively impacted by my sister’s locuras and nightly outings.
My aunt would call my sister every bad word in the book. Not only was she a puta for going out dressed the way she did; she was also a callejera—a girl from the streets. When she was really mad she would call her a lechuza, which meant a female owl in Spanish, but was really a way to call my sister a whore that traveled through the night, without having to say it.
The adventure would continue when my sister would return from the club. Usually, she would come in at about 3 or 4 am with her shoes in her hand so that she wouldn’t make any noise. She would try to run past the house and lock herself in her room so that she would not have to deal with my aunt. My uncle never said a word because he felt that we were not his familia. We were just her pinche familia. My aunt was my mothers’ sister so it was her responsibility to make sure we ended up on the right path of life. I know that she was only truly worried about el que dirán and not about us. She only cared about what people would say.
She would usually try to convince me that my sister was bad to want to go out and that I should tell her what I thought. She would say that she didn’t really love my mother because if she did she would not be going out the way she did. For some time, I really did find myself resenting my sister thinking that it was true. Later, I learned that she was just trying to find herself a new identity. One that did not involve having to care for a sick bed ridden mother and younger siblings. Most importantly, she didn’t want to have to take care of me. She was through being my second mother and so she left me to do that for myself.
I really feel that my sister’s Cha Cha years were what finally gave her a sense of being free. She moved out shortly after this time and made her own life away from us and all the drama that was my Tía. It was truly revolutionary in many ways and I feel that she paved the way for the rest of us. Her revolution was only the beginning.
Written 2/2003
Apr 16, 2007
Brujerias
They showed up one day not long after my father passed away. I was four years old and my mother was having another episode. Her disease was getting the best of her and all I remember is thinking that she was in a deep sleep every time it happened.
The last time it happened I was home alone with her because my brothers and sister were escaping their reality of becoming orphans. The only thing that prevented them from adopting this label was mom’s still live body whose presence only provided a false sense of security. All they wanted to do that day was go outside with their friends. Being 10, 11, and 12 years old gave them more opportunities than me to get away. I remember watching them through the living room window thinking how much fun it would be to go outside and play—to just be a kid for a day.
Since I was the youngest, I had to stay with mom and make sure to bring her water when she asked me to. I had to promise to be good and stay inside. “Don’t make too much noise,” my sister would warn. My brothers didn’t say very much those days. Bert would go with his friend Mike and Enrique with Paul down the street. They would ride their bikes around the block while my sister would practice roller skating circles with Adriana and Raquel across the street. They were practicing their routines before going to the roller skating rink on the weekend. A weekly outing that would give my sister the opportunity to enjoy her youth if only for that fragment of time.
When my mother had her episode the last time my brothers and sister went outside, I remember getting on a chair in the kitchen looking through the cupboards trying to find something to give her. I picked up the phone and desperately pressed buttons trying to find someone, anyone—a voice.
I am not sure how it happened. Looking back, I guess I must have hit the redial button, but I finally heard a voice. A familiar voice nonetheless. At the sound of my cousin’s voice, I just started crying because I was so afraid. I didn’t understand what was wrong with my mother. I didn’t understand that her sugar level had dropped so low that she went into a pseudo-hibernation coma. My mother was diabetic and had been since before I was born but I never fully understood how ill she truly was.
They called the paramedics who showed up before they did. All of a sudden, everyone was home. I felt so bad that they yelled at my sister for leaving me alone. Being the oldest, it was her responsibility to stay home with me. She was sort of like a surrogate mother to me at the time, which was truly ridiculous when you think about it. She was only twelve.
The ambulance took my mother and my aunt and cousin took me with them as they had done many times before. My brothers and sister had to stay home to take care of each other and the house. They already went to school.
My mother came home again a few days later and I got to come home too. This was the day that the group of ladies came to do a limpia on the house—a spiritual cleaning. They said that it was my father who was making my mother so sick. He wanted her with him. I didn’t know what they meant, but I knew that it could not be good since my father had died a few months ago.
The main lady, named Velia, was the leader of the group. She had hair the color of fire and a very scratchy voice. She was considered gifted en el arte de la brujería. She was our neighbors mother who had traveled all the way from Texas just to get here in time to fix my mother.
The group of ladies led by Velia consisted of my aunts Chayo, Concha, and Aurelia who was one of our neighbors. They too believed that it had to be my father that was making my mother so sick. How could this widow so young and full of life at the tender age of 38 be so plagued? Thinking back, I can understand that they truly wanted an answer to this question and Velia was the answer at the time. The ritual began at exactly 3 o’clock in the afternoon on a Friday. Friday was the best day for this spiritual cleaning Velia had said.
They proceeded to rape my home of every single image of my father. They sat, scissors in their hands, frantically cutting him out of every family picture including a portrait painted of them on their wedding day. They then went outside in the yard and dug a hole in the ground by the avocado tree that was furthest from the entrance of the house. They poured several ingredients—almost like a recipe, and his pictures in this hole. They took a match to them and watched them burn while chanting something I can’t remember. They poured holy water on them and buried them as if this would completely erase him from our minds. “He was my father not just a picture on our wall!” I wanted to scream. “I don’t care what you do I am not going to forget him!”
My mother was then taken to the kitchen and asked to stand in the middle of the room. A circle surrounded her. It would become a circle of flames. My sister told me that the flames were so high that the women could not put the fire out. The only residue of the ritual was the circle that left its mark on our kitchen floor. Every day we would be reminded of that frightful day. That, and all the pieces of pictures that they left behind. It’s kind of ridiculous if you think about it. They cut him out of every picture and yet left the rest of each of them behind? As if the remaining fragments of pictures would justify their act.
My sister was ordered to wear a tiny white horn around her neck every day to save her from the evil that had set over my mother. Apparently, there was no hope for her but her children could still be saved. My mother did manage to last six years after my father’s death, which was much more than any doctor or bruja could have predicted.
La bruja never came back to the house to cure us or clean the house of all its spirits. I sometimes feel that my mother actually put a spell on them. A spell that would prevent them from coming ever again. A spell that would protect us from all the evils that were fast approaching.
Even after all this time, I still can’t make myself completely forgive them. To forgive them would mean that I understand what they did and why. I truly don’t. I can’t comprehend why the erasing of our family’s memories would be a good thing. I don’t think they understood that those photographs were the only connection that I had with my father. I was only four when he died. Those images of him standing next to my mother were to be our family’s legacy. After all is said and done, this was what we were going to be able to take with us to show our children when we would recount the story of their grandparents. All that is left now in my mind are flashes of that day and all the tears that have come after.
In so many ways, I feel that there is this desire in me to rebuild the past in order to understand everything that we went through. The photos, as unimportant as they may be in the entire scheme of things, were the one thing that we could use as proof of our existence. To say, “see I had a Dad and this is what he looked like.” Or “here, this is when we took our last family trip. We were really happy back then. We had a nice home and this was our back yard. We had a secure family unit that could not be broken.” Until death do us part and so it was that we all were broken apart.
Written 2/2003
Reflections of My Youth
I remember going to class the day it happened. In the morning I woke up, went through the motions of ironing the black plaid jumper, putting on an almost see through, too worn white blouse, dark blue socks, and black closed toe shoes. A ritual I had come to know for the past five years. The truth is, I hated having to put on the outfit and then take two buses to get there. One day, I will be able to wear normal clothes like all the girls going to the intermediate school.
I go to the kitchen and see that again there is nothing for me to take for lunch. “Ni modo, I’ll have to take from the donation box again.” It’s 6:15 am and I’m already late. My first bus passes at exactly 6:15 am, which means that my second bus would not be there to pick me up at the terminal upon its arrival. Even if I ran, I would not make it on time.
I rush out the door. Mi Tía me hecha la bendición. “Que diosito me la cuide. Al rato te recogemos. A las tres de la tarde en el mismo lugar.”
6:30 am. I’ve just arrived at the bus stop but lucky for me the next bus is ahead of schedule. If he doesn’t stop too many times maybe I’ll catch the other at the terminal.
6:50 am. Darn! The other bus just left. What am I going to do? I guess I could start walking but it’s over 4 miles and I am not sure if I will make it with this heavy backpack. I can hear my Tía’s voice in my head, “Pronto vas a necesitar un cargador para esa mochila. No sé porque les dan tantos libros. Los van a volver locos.” I look over the bus schedule and notice that there’s another bus scheduled to come at 7:10 am. “Hopefully. I’ll keep my fingers crossed because my mom always says that this is how you make things come true.”
7:15 am. I guess mom was wrong this time. The bus is late but I do see it making its way in the distance. “Please, please, let me be on time. If not, Sister Diane is going to write me up. I’ll already be in trouble for not finishing my English homework and for my skirt being shorter than two inches above my knees. I really don’t need anymore trouble today. They don’t understand that once I go home from school, it’s not like I get to physically go home and do my homework. No. Not me.”
“This is what I get to do. First, we drive home in my Uncle’s 82 Gold Ford Station Wagon with the personalized license plate reading “ZAKODA”. Nobody understands that that is actually his last name and that he is a half Mexican half Japanese ex-professional soccer player. All of his friends call him Zakoda. He is a little rough around the edges but he does sometimes have an endearing heart.
Anyway, we go home first to pick up el caldo de pollo that my Tía prepared for my mom to eat—no salt and no potatoes. Then we drive back to Pico Rivera to Rivera’s Convalescent Home. We walk very solemnly through the stark white halls and pass one, two, three, four rooms of old crazy sick people very quietly so as not to disturb them in their drugged up slumber. I still don’t understand what my mother is doing here. She is half the age of everyone else here and she’s not crazy. Just sick but definitely not crazy. The last two weeks have been super busy because Mom has been getting worse and worse. She’s only 44 and yet I feel that her mind is lost in the caves of an 80-year old woman.
The last time I was here, I found her crying in her wheelchair because she had forgotten how to knit. She used to be so fast and had all the patterns memorized in her head but now she doesn’t even remember how to hold the gancho in her hand. “Mom, I swear I don’t need that blanket that you wanted to make. It’s okay. You can make it for me when you get better.”
We stay until visiting hours are over and then I finally get home at 9 pm to finish a bit of homework, eat, shower and go to sleep by 10:30 pm just to start over again the next day.
“So you see Sister Diane, it’s not that I am forgetting to do my homework; it’s just that I don’t have time to do it. And the reason that my skirt is so short is not on purpose but because this is actually part of my uniform from last year. My aunt just removed the criss cross top part of the jumper so that it would fit. We really don’t have time to buy another let alone have the money to afford it. And yes, I did forget my lunch again… in the supermarket where we were supposed to go and buy it, but since mom has been so sick, I can’t even remember to remind my aunt to go and buy me something.”
7:48 am. The bus just dropped me off. I now have about 5 minutes to get to class. Who in their right mind would start school at 7:53 in the morning? Who would make everyone go to class and check in only to have to walk back to the church for mass in the morning? Every single morning. I swear if I am not a nun by now I don’t know what else it will take. I get to class and the bell has rung. Sister Diane is out today so she is not checking us in at the school’s entrance. Good. Mr. Lawson is much nicer. He seems to understand me a bit. I feel bad that all the other kids make fun of him. I guess he’s sort of like a nerd but he’s nice nonetheless.
8:00 am. We walk in a line to church. Because I am a 5th grader we get to go to church first with the 6th, 7th, and 8th graders. The 1st through 4th graders get to go at 10:00 am when we are in English class with Mrs. Tyler. I sit in church and pretend to pray. In my head I am usually just thinking about all the things that we used to have when we lived three blocks from my school. I wonder what happened to all of the toys that I had and all the beautiful plastic covered living room furniture that was reserved “para las visitas”. It looked like something that the Queen of England would have. Lots of gold embroidery, lots of shimmering cloths. I do say a small prayer for my mom. “God, please let my mom get out of the old people’s home and come to live with us again. I promise that I will be the best girl ever. I won’t make any noise. I won’t cry when my brother Enrique takes my Barbie Dolls and hangs them from their necks. Why does he do that? I won’t even cry when my brother Bert picks me up above his head and plays me like an electric guitar. He thinks he’s a rock star but I know better. Well God, I hope you aren’t too busy to listen to me today. If you are, can you please pass the message on to my Dad? Thanks. Amen.” I bless myself and by now mass has ended so we walk single file back to class for Math.
9:45 am. Math is over. We get recess for fifteen minutes. I am going to get in trouble because I got some ink on my blouse. I should have been more careful. I try to get it off but Sister Francis Rose says that I should put spot remover on it when I get home. I don’t think we have any of that I tell her but she says to just tell my mom. But my mom… I don’t even bother trying to explain.
10:00 am. English with Mrs. Tyler. I was kind of hoping this class was cancelled today. I know that prepositions are important and that I will use them the rest of my life but can I please have another day to learn them. I can add them on to the list of all the other things I am supposed to learn that other day. She starts to collect the homework row by row. Reading off the names of the student papers she received and questioning the kids that didn’t turn theirs in. My hands are getting sweaty and my face is turning red. What will I tell her? I can’t tell her the truth because she won’t believe me. She thinks that all 5th graders are liars. She said it the other day. Maybe I can fake being sick again. Maybe I should faint. People that faint always get treated special.
Just as she is going to call my name the telephone rings. She excuses herself and goes to answer the phone. It’s 10:30 am. If she takes a little longer maybe she’ll forget that I owe her the homework and I will turn it in tomorrow saying that I did have it done but she didn’t collect it from me.
As she is speaking into the telephone I can feel the weight of her stare on me. I immediately gather my belongings and head towards the back of the class. She doesn’t even have to tell me. I already know that I have to go. There is a family emergency she says. I already know this because I felt it a few minutes ago. It’s strange how at ten I already feel like I have this psychic power to understand and read minds. The empathy of my soul is strong I guess.
The walk is just across the courtyard but it feels like I am walking for miles and miles. Tears are streaming down my face. I wish I could put myself in another world—another family. A family that has two children, a cat, a dog, a white picket fence and 100 years of health. That is the perfect family. The dad comes home from work. He plays with his kids and kisses his wife goodnight before going to bed. But I am not so lucky. No. Not me. My perfect family has hospital beds, funerals, and tears of pain and sorrow. It goes weeks without a parent and days without food. My reality is my sorrow and enduring pain of circumstance.
By the time I see my sister, my face is red and I am crying uncontrollably. She doesn’t understand how I already know that my mother’s life has been taken by a God I refuse to believe in. How can this God, so powerful and righteous be so cruel? He already has my father, why her too? This pain sends my mind spinning.
We leave my school and head to the hospital to finalize the paperwork that makes my mother an official dead person. I arrive in tears. Mad at the world. Even more upset when I hear that my mother called my name in her last breath. How can that be comforting to me right now? The doctor didn’t let me see her yesterday or the day before. What does it matter now that I can touch her cold stiff hand and say a prayer? Prayers never helped me before.
Written 2/2003
I go to the kitchen and see that again there is nothing for me to take for lunch. “Ni modo, I’ll have to take from the donation box again.” It’s 6:15 am and I’m already late. My first bus passes at exactly 6:15 am, which means that my second bus would not be there to pick me up at the terminal upon its arrival. Even if I ran, I would not make it on time.
I rush out the door. Mi Tía me hecha la bendición. “Que diosito me la cuide. Al rato te recogemos. A las tres de la tarde en el mismo lugar.”
6:30 am. I’ve just arrived at the bus stop but lucky for me the next bus is ahead of schedule. If he doesn’t stop too many times maybe I’ll catch the other at the terminal.
6:50 am. Darn! The other bus just left. What am I going to do? I guess I could start walking but it’s over 4 miles and I am not sure if I will make it with this heavy backpack. I can hear my Tía’s voice in my head, “Pronto vas a necesitar un cargador para esa mochila. No sé porque les dan tantos libros. Los van a volver locos.” I look over the bus schedule and notice that there’s another bus scheduled to come at 7:10 am. “Hopefully. I’ll keep my fingers crossed because my mom always says that this is how you make things come true.”
7:15 am. I guess mom was wrong this time. The bus is late but I do see it making its way in the distance. “Please, please, let me be on time. If not, Sister Diane is going to write me up. I’ll already be in trouble for not finishing my English homework and for my skirt being shorter than two inches above my knees. I really don’t need anymore trouble today. They don’t understand that once I go home from school, it’s not like I get to physically go home and do my homework. No. Not me.”
“This is what I get to do. First, we drive home in my Uncle’s 82 Gold Ford Station Wagon with the personalized license plate reading “ZAKODA”. Nobody understands that that is actually his last name and that he is a half Mexican half Japanese ex-professional soccer player. All of his friends call him Zakoda. He is a little rough around the edges but he does sometimes have an endearing heart.
Anyway, we go home first to pick up el caldo de pollo that my Tía prepared for my mom to eat—no salt and no potatoes. Then we drive back to Pico Rivera to Rivera’s Convalescent Home. We walk very solemnly through the stark white halls and pass one, two, three, four rooms of old crazy sick people very quietly so as not to disturb them in their drugged up slumber. I still don’t understand what my mother is doing here. She is half the age of everyone else here and she’s not crazy. Just sick but definitely not crazy. The last two weeks have been super busy because Mom has been getting worse and worse. She’s only 44 and yet I feel that her mind is lost in the caves of an 80-year old woman.
The last time I was here, I found her crying in her wheelchair because she had forgotten how to knit. She used to be so fast and had all the patterns memorized in her head but now she doesn’t even remember how to hold the gancho in her hand. “Mom, I swear I don’t need that blanket that you wanted to make. It’s okay. You can make it for me when you get better.”
We stay until visiting hours are over and then I finally get home at 9 pm to finish a bit of homework, eat, shower and go to sleep by 10:30 pm just to start over again the next day.
“So you see Sister Diane, it’s not that I am forgetting to do my homework; it’s just that I don’t have time to do it. And the reason that my skirt is so short is not on purpose but because this is actually part of my uniform from last year. My aunt just removed the criss cross top part of the jumper so that it would fit. We really don’t have time to buy another let alone have the money to afford it. And yes, I did forget my lunch again… in the supermarket where we were supposed to go and buy it, but since mom has been so sick, I can’t even remember to remind my aunt to go and buy me something.”
7:48 am. The bus just dropped me off. I now have about 5 minutes to get to class. Who in their right mind would start school at 7:53 in the morning? Who would make everyone go to class and check in only to have to walk back to the church for mass in the morning? Every single morning. I swear if I am not a nun by now I don’t know what else it will take. I get to class and the bell has rung. Sister Diane is out today so she is not checking us in at the school’s entrance. Good. Mr. Lawson is much nicer. He seems to understand me a bit. I feel bad that all the other kids make fun of him. I guess he’s sort of like a nerd but he’s nice nonetheless.
8:00 am. We walk in a line to church. Because I am a 5th grader we get to go to church first with the 6th, 7th, and 8th graders. The 1st through 4th graders get to go at 10:00 am when we are in English class with Mrs. Tyler. I sit in church and pretend to pray. In my head I am usually just thinking about all the things that we used to have when we lived three blocks from my school. I wonder what happened to all of the toys that I had and all the beautiful plastic covered living room furniture that was reserved “para las visitas”. It looked like something that the Queen of England would have. Lots of gold embroidery, lots of shimmering cloths. I do say a small prayer for my mom. “God, please let my mom get out of the old people’s home and come to live with us again. I promise that I will be the best girl ever. I won’t make any noise. I won’t cry when my brother Enrique takes my Barbie Dolls and hangs them from their necks. Why does he do that? I won’t even cry when my brother Bert picks me up above his head and plays me like an electric guitar. He thinks he’s a rock star but I know better. Well God, I hope you aren’t too busy to listen to me today. If you are, can you please pass the message on to my Dad? Thanks. Amen.” I bless myself and by now mass has ended so we walk single file back to class for Math.
9:45 am. Math is over. We get recess for fifteen minutes. I am going to get in trouble because I got some ink on my blouse. I should have been more careful. I try to get it off but Sister Francis Rose says that I should put spot remover on it when I get home. I don’t think we have any of that I tell her but she says to just tell my mom. But my mom… I don’t even bother trying to explain.
10:00 am. English with Mrs. Tyler. I was kind of hoping this class was cancelled today. I know that prepositions are important and that I will use them the rest of my life but can I please have another day to learn them. I can add them on to the list of all the other things I am supposed to learn that other day. She starts to collect the homework row by row. Reading off the names of the student papers she received and questioning the kids that didn’t turn theirs in. My hands are getting sweaty and my face is turning red. What will I tell her? I can’t tell her the truth because she won’t believe me. She thinks that all 5th graders are liars. She said it the other day. Maybe I can fake being sick again. Maybe I should faint. People that faint always get treated special.
Just as she is going to call my name the telephone rings. She excuses herself and goes to answer the phone. It’s 10:30 am. If she takes a little longer maybe she’ll forget that I owe her the homework and I will turn it in tomorrow saying that I did have it done but she didn’t collect it from me.
As she is speaking into the telephone I can feel the weight of her stare on me. I immediately gather my belongings and head towards the back of the class. She doesn’t even have to tell me. I already know that I have to go. There is a family emergency she says. I already know this because I felt it a few minutes ago. It’s strange how at ten I already feel like I have this psychic power to understand and read minds. The empathy of my soul is strong I guess.
The walk is just across the courtyard but it feels like I am walking for miles and miles. Tears are streaming down my face. I wish I could put myself in another world—another family. A family that has two children, a cat, a dog, a white picket fence and 100 years of health. That is the perfect family. The dad comes home from work. He plays with his kids and kisses his wife goodnight before going to bed. But I am not so lucky. No. Not me. My perfect family has hospital beds, funerals, and tears of pain and sorrow. It goes weeks without a parent and days without food. My reality is my sorrow and enduring pain of circumstance.
By the time I see my sister, my face is red and I am crying uncontrollably. She doesn’t understand how I already know that my mother’s life has been taken by a God I refuse to believe in. How can this God, so powerful and righteous be so cruel? He already has my father, why her too? This pain sends my mind spinning.
We leave my school and head to the hospital to finalize the paperwork that makes my mother an official dead person. I arrive in tears. Mad at the world. Even more upset when I hear that my mother called my name in her last breath. How can that be comforting to me right now? The doctor didn’t let me see her yesterday or the day before. What does it matter now that I can touch her cold stiff hand and say a prayer? Prayers never helped me before.
Written 2/2003
A Child
I am a motherless child
I am a fatherless child
I am a disobedient child
I am an anonymous child
A non-existent system child
A child lost in time
A forgotten child
A grown-up child
Written 2/2003
I am a fatherless child
I am a disobedient child
I am an anonymous child
A non-existent system child
A child lost in time
A forgotten child
A grown-up child
Written 2/2003
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