worker insisted, ignoring the documents.
âWhat does that have to do with it?â 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 didnât respond, kept on writing on her clipboard. âThatâs all,â she finally said. âWeâll let you know.â
When we came home, I looked it up. Illegitimate meant born of parents who were not married. But the way the social workerâs lips puckered, illegitimate sounded much worse. It had a synonym, bastard , which Iâd heard used as an insult. Without my knowing it, the social worker had offended me and Mami. I wished Iâd 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 wouldnât 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. Mamiâs usually lively and curious eyes dulled, looked inward, where we couldnât reach her with hugs and kisses. On her dresser, she lit candles that burned day and night, their heat like Franciscoâs spirit hovering in watchful anticipation of whether, and how, and for how long we would mourn him.
I couldnât 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 Papiâs life. Heâd 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 heâd written, as I used to do? I wrote him subdued letters and didnât dare ask about his life, afraid heâd write about how happy he was.
If Papi had come with us, Mami would never have fallen in love with Francisco, he wouldnât have died, and we wouldnât 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 couldnât 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 somebodyâs 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. âIsnât it wonderful? Congratulations!â
My expression must have told him I had no idea what he was saying, so he stopped, caught his breath, and spoke slowly. âA letter came. You were accepted to Performing Arts.â
âOh my God!â 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. âI canât believe it,â I repeated over and over, âIt canât be true.â
âYou worked hard,â Mr. Barone said. âYou deserve it.â
On my way to homeroom, I ran into Natalia. âGuess what? I was accepted!â
She screeched, dropped her books, hugged me. âOh, my God! Iâm so proud of you!â She pulled away quickly, embarrassed at her enthusiasm. I bent down to help her
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