in the direction I’m looking.
I don’t know how Chucha can guess what Sammy has asked, since she doesn’t know a word of English, but she replies, “Tell the
americanito
that it’s someone he did not see.”
Even though I know English, I don’t know how to translate something that makes no sense at all, even to me.
Tell him it’s someone he did not see,
I’m writing in my diary when there’s a knock on the door.
“Un momentito, por favor,”
I call out, and quickly erase the page I’ve been writing before shoving the diary back under my pillow.
It’s Mami at the door. “Everything all right?” she asks, looking around the room, probably wondering what I’m hiding that I need the delay of
“un momentito”
before I say, “Come in.”
“I want to show you something,” Mami says, motioning mysteriously for me to follow her outside.
She leads the way out past the patio and around the front of Mamita and Papito’s house to the pond that used to be filled with Tía Mimí’s water lilies. Now it’s covered by a layer of green scum and overrun by bullfrogs. We sit on the stone bench, and Mami takes my hands in hers.
“I know many unusual things have been happening, Anita,” she begins. “And I know there are many questions and worries in your head.” She touches my face ever so gently, as if she wants to banish all the worries that have been piling up in the last month. “Suddenly, you have to be a big girl—”
“I
am
twelve, Mami!” I sigh and roll my eyes. Recently, if anyone talks to me as if I’m a little kid, I get mad. But I also feel sad that I’m not a little kid anymore and that I know as much as I do. I’ve written about these confused feelings in my diary, too, but this is one confusion that doesn’t get any clearer by writing about it.
“You
are
a young lady,” Mami agrees. “And I’m going to confide in you the way I do in Lucinda and your brother. Okay?” she adds uncertainly, as if she isn’t sure whether to take the next step.
I roll my eyes. “Mami, I know a lot more stuff than you think I do!”
“Oh?”
I wonder if now is the time to tell her about all the scary things Oscar has told me or about seeing Tío Toni at the window of his
casita.
But I’m afraid if I say a word, Mami might never get to her story. “Just stuff about becoming a
señorita.
”
Mami hesitates. “Have you gotten . . . your period?”
I shake my head. I used to think when I started bleeding between my legs, Mami would be the first to know. Now I’m not so sure that I want to tell Mami something that personal.
“What happened was your uncles and their friends were unhappy with the government and they had a plan that the SIM found out about.” Mami’s story follows the same lines as what Lucinda has told me. “Many of those friends were arrested. Some, like Tío Carlos, left the country. Some were killed.”
Mami stops a moment and wipes her eyes. Then her hands curl up into fists on her lap.
“At first, your father didn’t want to endanger his family. But sometimes life without freedom is no life at all.”
It sounds scary. Like something someone facing a firing squad might say before they’re shot. “Then why not go be free with the rest of the family in
Nueva York
?” I ask, hoping that she’ll reassure me that we’re not trapped, that we can leave if we want to.
“No!” Mami says, her hands formed into fists. “What would have happened to the United States if George Washington had left his country? Or if Abraham Lincoln had said, ‘I’ve had enough’? The Negro people would still be slaves.”
I feel ashamed of myself for being a scaredy-cat. I think about what Papi has said about having a country where everyone, including Monsito, can have a chance.
“And someday,” Mami continues, “we will be free, and all your cousins and aunts and uncles will come back and thank us.” She looks around at the scraggly grounds, the overgrown bushes, the abandoned
I don’t know how Chucha can guess what Sammy has asked, since she doesn’t know a word of English, but she replies, “Tell the
americanito
that it’s someone he did not see.”
Even though I know English, I don’t know how to translate something that makes no sense at all, even to me.
Tell him it’s someone he did not see,
I’m writing in my diary when there’s a knock on the door.
“Un momentito, por favor,”
I call out, and quickly erase the page I’ve been writing before shoving the diary back under my pillow.
It’s Mami at the door. “Everything all right?” she asks, looking around the room, probably wondering what I’m hiding that I need the delay of
“un momentito”
before I say, “Come in.”
“I want to show you something,” Mami says, motioning mysteriously for me to follow her outside.
She leads the way out past the patio and around the front of Mamita and Papito’s house to the pond that used to be filled with Tía Mimí’s water lilies. Now it’s covered by a layer of green scum and overrun by bullfrogs. We sit on the stone bench, and Mami takes my hands in hers.
“I know many unusual things have been happening, Anita,” she begins. “And I know there are many questions and worries in your head.” She touches my face ever so gently, as if she wants to banish all the worries that have been piling up in the last month. “Suddenly, you have to be a big girl—”
“I
am
twelve, Mami!” I sigh and roll my eyes. Recently, if anyone talks to me as if I’m a little kid, I get mad. But I also feel sad that I’m not a little kid anymore and that I know as much as I do. I’ve written about these confused feelings in my diary, too, but this is one confusion that doesn’t get any clearer by writing about it.
“You
are
a young lady,” Mami agrees. “And I’m going to confide in you the way I do in Lucinda and your brother. Okay?” she adds uncertainly, as if she isn’t sure whether to take the next step.
I roll my eyes. “Mami, I know a lot more stuff than you think I do!”
“Oh?”
I wonder if now is the time to tell her about all the scary things Oscar has told me or about seeing Tío Toni at the window of his
casita.
But I’m afraid if I say a word, Mami might never get to her story. “Just stuff about becoming a
señorita.
”
Mami hesitates. “Have you gotten . . . your period?”
I shake my head. I used to think when I started bleeding between my legs, Mami would be the first to know. Now I’m not so sure that I want to tell Mami something that personal.
“What happened was your uncles and their friends were unhappy with the government and they had a plan that the SIM found out about.” Mami’s story follows the same lines as what Lucinda has told me. “Many of those friends were arrested. Some, like Tío Carlos, left the country. Some were killed.”
Mami stops a moment and wipes her eyes. Then her hands curl up into fists on her lap.
“At first, your father didn’t want to endanger his family. But sometimes life without freedom is no life at all.”
It sounds scary. Like something someone facing a firing squad might say before they’re shot. “Then why not go be free with the rest of the family in
Nueva York
?” I ask, hoping that she’ll reassure me that we’re not trapped, that we can leave if we want to.
“No!” Mami says, her hands formed into fists. “What would have happened to the United States if George Washington had left his country? Or if Abraham Lincoln had said, ‘I’ve had enough’? The Negro people would still be slaves.”
I feel ashamed of myself for being a scaredy-cat. I think about what Papi has said about having a country where everyone, including Monsito, can have a chance.
“And someday,” Mami continues, “we will be free, and all your cousins and aunts and uncles will come back and thank us.” She looks around at the scraggly grounds, the overgrown bushes, the abandoned
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