Almost a Woman : A Memoir (9780306821110) by Esmeralda Santiago Page B

worker insisted, ignoring the documents.

    â€œWhat does that have to do with it?” Mami asked in Spanish, and I translated, burning with shame because her voice rose and I could tell she was about to make a scene.
    The social worker didn’t respond, kept on writing on her clipboard. “That’s all,” she finally said. “We’ll let you know.”
    When we came home, I looked it up. Illegitimate meant born of parents who were not married. But the way the social worker’s lips puckered, illegitimate sounded much worse. It had a synonym, bastard , which I’d heard used as an insult. Without my knowing it, the social worker had offended me and Mami. I wished I’d noticed, so that I could have said something. But what was there to say? She was right. We were illegitimate. I worried then that Mami wouldn’t get the help we needed from welfare because she and Papi were never married, but a few days later, the help came through.
    The word, however, stayed in my conscience a long time.

    A couple of months after his son was born, Francisco died. Mami’s usually lively and curious eyes dulled, looked inward, where we couldn’t reach her with hugs and kisses. On her dresser, she lit candles that burned day and night, their heat like Francisco’s spirit hovering in watchful anticipation of whether, and how, and for how long we would mourn him.
    I couldn’t cry my disappointment that our family had fallen apart again. Papi had refused to follow Mami to New York, unwilling to help us cope with a cold, inhospitable city. Francisco had left us as quickly as he had come, taking with him the commitment he had made to love Mami forever, to be the man in our house, to make us a complete family with a mother, a father, and children. Every time I passed the altar, I stopped to look at the orange flames floating over melted wax. I placed my hand over them and felt the heat, the solid warmth like an embrace, a promise.
    I tried to imagine Papi’s life. He’d moved, and I wondered
what his new house was like. Was it in the country or in a town? Was his wife prettier than Mami? Was she as good a cook? Did her daughters sit near him as he read a poem he’d written, as I used to do? I wrote him subdued letters and didn’t dare ask about his life, afraid he’d write about how happy he was.
    If Papi had come with us, Mami would never have fallen in love with Francisco, he wouldn’t have died, and we wouldn’t be on welfare again. Yes, Mami and Papi fought, but they always made up. Just like me when I fought with my sisters and brothers; eventually, we made up and went on as before. If we could do it, why couldn’t they?
    I resented the men who stood on street corners, or who sat on stoops with their elbows on their knees, their hands around a can of beer or curled around a cigarette smoldering between their legs. They might be somebody’s father, but they had nothing better to do than to stare at young girls and women passing by and mumble promises under their breath.

    One morning, Mr. Barone bounded over as I entered the school. “Isn’t it wonderful? Congratulations!”
    My expression must have told him I had no idea what he was saying, so he stopped, caught his breath, and spoke slowly. “A letter came. You were accepted to Performing Arts.”
    â€œOh my God!” I felt light enough to fly. Mr. Barone led me into the office, where the secretary, the other guidance counselors, and the principal shook my hand. “I can’t believe it,” I repeated over and over, “It can’t be true.”
    â€œYou worked hard,” Mr. Barone said. “You deserve it.”
    On my way to homeroom, I ran into Natalia. “Guess what? I was accepted!”
    She screeched, dropped her books, hugged me. “Oh, my God! I’m so proud of you!” She pulled away quickly, embarrassed at her enthusiasm. I bent down to help her