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