Cuento de Mi Id
“The Curse”
"Damn Mexican!" he said as the dark-skinned lady ahead of him pulled out yet another roll of coupons.
"Damn Mexican!" he said as yet another dark-skinned lady almost ran into him with her shopping cart.
"Damn Mexican!" he said as a dark-skinned guy in a pickup truck almost ran him over in the parking lot.
"Damn Mexican!" he thought as he glared at the face that looked back at him from the depths of his rear-view mirror.
Showing posts with label Cuentos de Identidad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cuentos de Identidad. Show all posts
Thursday, January 16, 2020
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Cuento de Mi Id
“The Eyes of a Revolutionary”
Never trust a revolutionary, my father used to say. You have only to look into their eyes to see what they really are. For their eyes aren't normal eyes. And they look right through you as if you weren't really human. Which readily explains the things they say. And the things they do.
I never laughed at my father when he said this. I could tell by the expression in his own eyes that he was serious about this. He would joke about a lot of things but never this subject. He never told me how he knew all this. Did he read from a book somewhere or did he learn it from someone who had lived through the last revolution in his homeland? He never said. But each time he told it to me, he had the air of someone revealing a great truth.
And, of course, he never told me in front of anyone else. Not even my mother.
*************************************************************************************************************
Five years into the War and my mother and I were staying at her mother's house. The news was always on and my mother was tired of always having to work two jobs. We had not seen my father in ages but my mother still jumped when the phone rang. Her mother always scolded us whenever we got home late but my mother ignored her. And tried to ignore the black sedan parked outside across the street...
*************************************************************************************************************
My father used to tell me about the old woman he knew back in his hometown. How contemptuous she had been of the last batch of revolutionaries to ride through that town and how much she liked to compare them to the men in uniform that she had known in her youth.
“The French, you see, now they knew something about uniforms. But today's bunch... They're little more than barbarians. How awful!”
My father was home early because the boss had decided to let him go. He had been working at the office six months -- longer than some of his Anglo co-workers -- but in the end, they let him go.
My mother asked him in whispers what he will do next.
“Don't worry, mi amor,” he said. "I'll find something.”
“But if you don't...”
“If I don't, we'll move.”
“And if you still don't find something...”
“Then we'll move again.”
Five years later, my father took us both aside and said that the two of us were going back to Detroit to live with my mother's mother. My father would follow but not for a long time. In the meantime we were not to mention his name or speculate where he might be. He made us both swear that we would never tell anyone about him.
“If anyone asks about me,” he said, “You don't know. If anyone claims to know something about me, you don't know. As far as you know, I went away one day and did not come back. Believe me, mijo, as much as I would like to pretend otherwise, it's better this way.”
He hugged both of us quite strongly and then left. I have not seen him in the flesh since then.
*************************************************************************************************************
My grandmother was talking about the news again but my mother would not listen. “Shut it off, mother,” she said. “It's almost time to eat.”
“Why do they do it?" my grandmother asked. “Why do they act like such ingrates? Don't those people understand the concept of loyalty?”
My mother seemed on the verge of saying something but instead she cleared her throat and said, “Loyalty is a two-way street, mother.” Then she fell silent as if she had accidentally confessed something.
Outside across the street, a black sedan was still waiting. Every so often, it drove off, only to be replaced almost immediately by a vehicle of a similar color. What the men in the car were waiting for, my mother would not say. As far as she was concerned, the sedan did not even exist.
*************************************************************************************************************
When my father was still living with us, he used to teach me English using flash cards. He would write down English words and sentences and then teach me to say them over and over again until l could say them in my sleep. He was never prouder till the day came when I no longer spoke with an accent.
He used to go to old book stores throughout the city and buy books about the last revolution in his homeland. He often said that he preferred the books that were written by Americans because the books written by people of his homeland tended to be more personality-oriented. Americans were not always as objective about the revolution as my father would like, but at least they tended to focus more on what actually happened as opposed to what so-and-so did or said. “Of course, the way things are going in this country,” he would sometimes joke, “American history books will someday be the same way. But hopefully neither you nor I will be around when that happens.”
*************************************************************************************************************
Last night there was a knock on the door.
A man in a black raincoat said we would have to leave. There had been an incident at the local nuclear plant and the entire neighborhood was being evacuated.
“I just knew they should have dealt with those people while they had the chance,” said my grandmother.
My mother just held her breath and fingered her rosary.
As we packed up to leave, I noticed that the black sedan was no longer across the street. Nor was there any car in its place. I finished packing my suitcase and took it out to my grandparents' car.
My grandmother was looking worriedly toward the north -- in the direction of the fallen power plant.
My mother as always looked in all directions.
Then she got into the back seat beside me and hugged me.
She said something in Spanish but her voice was so low that I could not hear her.
The next day, after we entered the relocation camp, my grandparents bought a newspaper. On the cover was a sketch of a man who looked like my father. But it could not have been my father for my father's eyes were brown and the man in the sketch had black irises. More to the point, the eyes in the newspaper sketch seemed to look right through me. Just like the eyes that my father had once described. The eyes of a revolutionary.
“The Eyes of a Revolutionary”
Never trust a revolutionary, my father used to say. You have only to look into their eyes to see what they really are. For their eyes aren't normal eyes. And they look right through you as if you weren't really human. Which readily explains the things they say. And the things they do.
I never laughed at my father when he said this. I could tell by the expression in his own eyes that he was serious about this. He would joke about a lot of things but never this subject. He never told me how he knew all this. Did he read from a book somewhere or did he learn it from someone who had lived through the last revolution in his homeland? He never said. But each time he told it to me, he had the air of someone revealing a great truth.
And, of course, he never told me in front of anyone else. Not even my mother.
*************************************************************************************************************
Five years into the War and my mother and I were staying at her mother's house. The news was always on and my mother was tired of always having to work two jobs. We had not seen my father in ages but my mother still jumped when the phone rang. Her mother always scolded us whenever we got home late but my mother ignored her. And tried to ignore the black sedan parked outside across the street...
*************************************************************************************************************
My father used to tell me about the old woman he knew back in his hometown. How contemptuous she had been of the last batch of revolutionaries to ride through that town and how much she liked to compare them to the men in uniform that she had known in her youth.
“The French, you see, now they knew something about uniforms. But today's bunch... They're little more than barbarians. How awful!”
My father was home early because the boss had decided to let him go. He had been working at the office six months -- longer than some of his Anglo co-workers -- but in the end, they let him go.
My mother asked him in whispers what he will do next.
“Don't worry, mi amor,” he said. "I'll find something.”
“But if you don't...”
“If I don't, we'll move.”
“And if you still don't find something...”
“Then we'll move again.”
Five years later, my father took us both aside and said that the two of us were going back to Detroit to live with my mother's mother. My father would follow but not for a long time. In the meantime we were not to mention his name or speculate where he might be. He made us both swear that we would never tell anyone about him.
“If anyone asks about me,” he said, “You don't know. If anyone claims to know something about me, you don't know. As far as you know, I went away one day and did not come back. Believe me, mijo, as much as I would like to pretend otherwise, it's better this way.”
He hugged both of us quite strongly and then left. I have not seen him in the flesh since then.
*************************************************************************************************************
My grandmother was talking about the news again but my mother would not listen. “Shut it off, mother,” she said. “It's almost time to eat.”
“Why do they do it?" my grandmother asked. “Why do they act like such ingrates? Don't those people understand the concept of loyalty?”
My mother seemed on the verge of saying something but instead she cleared her throat and said, “Loyalty is a two-way street, mother.” Then she fell silent as if she had accidentally confessed something.
Outside across the street, a black sedan was still waiting. Every so often, it drove off, only to be replaced almost immediately by a vehicle of a similar color. What the men in the car were waiting for, my mother would not say. As far as she was concerned, the sedan did not even exist.
*************************************************************************************************************
When my father was still living with us, he used to teach me English using flash cards. He would write down English words and sentences and then teach me to say them over and over again until l could say them in my sleep. He was never prouder till the day came when I no longer spoke with an accent.
He used to go to old book stores throughout the city and buy books about the last revolution in his homeland. He often said that he preferred the books that were written by Americans because the books written by people of his homeland tended to be more personality-oriented. Americans were not always as objective about the revolution as my father would like, but at least they tended to focus more on what actually happened as opposed to what so-and-so did or said. “Of course, the way things are going in this country,” he would sometimes joke, “American history books will someday be the same way. But hopefully neither you nor I will be around when that happens.”
*************************************************************************************************************
Last night there was a knock on the door.
A man in a black raincoat said we would have to leave. There had been an incident at the local nuclear plant and the entire neighborhood was being evacuated.
“I just knew they should have dealt with those people while they had the chance,” said my grandmother.
My mother just held her breath and fingered her rosary.
As we packed up to leave, I noticed that the black sedan was no longer across the street. Nor was there any car in its place. I finished packing my suitcase and took it out to my grandparents' car.
My grandmother was looking worriedly toward the north -- in the direction of the fallen power plant.
My mother as always looked in all directions.
Then she got into the back seat beside me and hugged me.
She said something in Spanish but her voice was so low that I could not hear her.
The next day, after we entered the relocation camp, my grandparents bought a newspaper. On the cover was a sketch of a man who looked like my father. But it could not have been my father for my father's eyes were brown and the man in the sketch had black irises. More to the point, the eyes in the newspaper sketch seemed to look right through me. Just like the eyes that my father had once described. The eyes of a revolutionary.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Cuento de Mi Id
“The Living”
They were talking again. Talking about the damned story. Morales knew he should say something, but he was tired. He had been working extra shifts at Great Lake Steel again and he really did not have the patience to sit here and listen to silly chatter while his whole body cried out for sleep. It was a quarter to nine and already he was hoping that the class would end early so that he could go home and catch a few moments of slumber before he had to start the graveyard shift. His mother would probably still be up when he got home; she usually was, no matter how late he came home. But with luck, he would be able to catch a quick nap, regardless.
And yet the voices kept yammering.
Morales felt the need to scream but he knew that if he gave in, he would never hear the end of it from his guidance counselor. Besides, if he said something, he might get into trouble, and he already had enough problems at home without seeking them here at school as well.
So instead he forced himself to listen.
“The ending,” said the blonde girl ahead of him. “It was so sad.”
“Yeah,” said a red-headed guy across from her. “Just think about it. That poor boy just singing in the snow. Just dying for want of love.”
You think that's sad, Morales thought, try listening to some of the real-life stories I could tell you. The father who died of a heart attack when his youngest son turned thirteen. The older brother who died of appendicitis because there was no money to take him to a doctor until it was too late. The other older brother whose first wife and son died of tuberculosis while he was at work.
But the people in the classroom didn't want to hear stories like that. They wanted to hear happy stories about people just like them. People who had no real problems save philosophical ones. Sad, rich people who had a hundred servants to do their bidding and yet wept quite frequently because they lived in such a sad, sad world.
He knew he was being unfair now. He knew that some of his fellow students were on scholarships too, and probably came from families just as poor as his.
But he was too tired to be fair. He just wanted to go home so that he could grab a few hours of sleep.
The teacher was talking now. Talking about the difference between dying young and not dying young. As if that issue really required a lot of thought.
To deliberately die young like the boy did in the story was stupid. A smart person avoids it if he can and he is certainly not dumb enough to go out and seek it on purpose.
Only the well-off glamorize death, he thought. Only the rich could afford to cry crocodile tears over cute young Irish lads who die way before their time because they're too stupid to come in out of the snow. Only the rich could afford to spit on those who are not dumb enough to die young and who prefer to show their love by staying healthy and sharing their good fortune with their beloved for many years instead of offering one brief and stupid romantic gesture for the sum of one night.
Such folk were never appreciated by the rich because the rich do not want to appreciate such folk. They hate being reminded of what it's like to be poor -- actually poor -- and while they will weep forever over some imaginary person's troubles, they generally could be counted on to do damned little to help out a real person.
But then they have no real idea what it is like to be not rich. To not have money. To have to work so hard and to earn so little and to never have enough of anything.
He thought of his widowed mother who was waiting at home this very moment and the many times she had reminded him and his siblings about the life she had known before she had been dispossessed by the Revolution. Whenever one of them would bring home a bottle of wine to celebrate a birthday, their mother would say, “When I was a little girl, we used to celebrate with champagne, not wine.” And then she would say nothing else.
Somehow he got the feeling that she would have liked the story the class was talking about.
But he never would.
The yammering was continuing and he tried to ignore it by telling himself that it was just a story. No more important than the stories his co-workers would tell on lunch break or even the stories his mother would tell of her own girlhood. He did not have to agree with the others about it. In fact, he was better off ignoring it.
Then he noticed the silence.
“Anything to add, Mr. Morales?” the teacher asked.
Morales blinked. The class was looking at him and the teacher kept staring at him as if expecting something. Morales knew he should say something neutral but instead he said, “This story is stupid.”
He relished the shocked look on his classmates' faces as they cried “What?” in unison and then he continued.
“The woman in the story -- she spent all those years in love with this dead guy she didn't even like at first and yet she had no love for the spouse who had worked for years to put food on her table and a roof over her head. In my mind, that's a stupid story.”
The teacher just smiled. “I'm sorry you have so little appreciation for great literature, Mr. Morales. Perhaps when you're older and you know more about life, you will appreciate it more.”
There was so much more Morales could have said at that moment yet he stayed silent. Somehow he didn't see himself having the words to make either the teacher or the class understand. Perhaps no one had such words. But especially not him.
Instead he just waited silently for the dismissal bell to ring. When it did, he quietly gathered up his books and walked out into the winter cold.
“The Living”
They were talking again. Talking about the damned story. Morales knew he should say something, but he was tired. He had been working extra shifts at Great Lake Steel again and he really did not have the patience to sit here and listen to silly chatter while his whole body cried out for sleep. It was a quarter to nine and already he was hoping that the class would end early so that he could go home and catch a few moments of slumber before he had to start the graveyard shift. His mother would probably still be up when he got home; she usually was, no matter how late he came home. But with luck, he would be able to catch a quick nap, regardless.
And yet the voices kept yammering.
Morales felt the need to scream but he knew that if he gave in, he would never hear the end of it from his guidance counselor. Besides, if he said something, he might get into trouble, and he already had enough problems at home without seeking them here at school as well.
So instead he forced himself to listen.
“The ending,” said the blonde girl ahead of him. “It was so sad.”
“Yeah,” said a red-headed guy across from her. “Just think about it. That poor boy just singing in the snow. Just dying for want of love.”
You think that's sad, Morales thought, try listening to some of the real-life stories I could tell you. The father who died of a heart attack when his youngest son turned thirteen. The older brother who died of appendicitis because there was no money to take him to a doctor until it was too late. The other older brother whose first wife and son died of tuberculosis while he was at work.
But the people in the classroom didn't want to hear stories like that. They wanted to hear happy stories about people just like them. People who had no real problems save philosophical ones. Sad, rich people who had a hundred servants to do their bidding and yet wept quite frequently because they lived in such a sad, sad world.
He knew he was being unfair now. He knew that some of his fellow students were on scholarships too, and probably came from families just as poor as his.
But he was too tired to be fair. He just wanted to go home so that he could grab a few hours of sleep.
The teacher was talking now. Talking about the difference between dying young and not dying young. As if that issue really required a lot of thought.
To deliberately die young like the boy did in the story was stupid. A smart person avoids it if he can and he is certainly not dumb enough to go out and seek it on purpose.
Only the well-off glamorize death, he thought. Only the rich could afford to cry crocodile tears over cute young Irish lads who die way before their time because they're too stupid to come in out of the snow. Only the rich could afford to spit on those who are not dumb enough to die young and who prefer to show their love by staying healthy and sharing their good fortune with their beloved for many years instead of offering one brief and stupid romantic gesture for the sum of one night.
Such folk were never appreciated by the rich because the rich do not want to appreciate such folk. They hate being reminded of what it's like to be poor -- actually poor -- and while they will weep forever over some imaginary person's troubles, they generally could be counted on to do damned little to help out a real person.
But then they have no real idea what it is like to be not rich. To not have money. To have to work so hard and to earn so little and to never have enough of anything.
He thought of his widowed mother who was waiting at home this very moment and the many times she had reminded him and his siblings about the life she had known before she had been dispossessed by the Revolution. Whenever one of them would bring home a bottle of wine to celebrate a birthday, their mother would say, “When I was a little girl, we used to celebrate with champagne, not wine.” And then she would say nothing else.
Somehow he got the feeling that she would have liked the story the class was talking about.
But he never would.
The yammering was continuing and he tried to ignore it by telling himself that it was just a story. No more important than the stories his co-workers would tell on lunch break or even the stories his mother would tell of her own girlhood. He did not have to agree with the others about it. In fact, he was better off ignoring it.
Then he noticed the silence.
“Anything to add, Mr. Morales?” the teacher asked.
Morales blinked. The class was looking at him and the teacher kept staring at him as if expecting something. Morales knew he should say something neutral but instead he said, “This story is stupid.”
He relished the shocked look on his classmates' faces as they cried “What?” in unison and then he continued.
“The woman in the story -- she spent all those years in love with this dead guy she didn't even like at first and yet she had no love for the spouse who had worked for years to put food on her table and a roof over her head. In my mind, that's a stupid story.”
The teacher just smiled. “I'm sorry you have so little appreciation for great literature, Mr. Morales. Perhaps when you're older and you know more about life, you will appreciate it more.”
There was so much more Morales could have said at that moment yet he stayed silent. Somehow he didn't see himself having the words to make either the teacher or the class understand. Perhaps no one had such words. But especially not him.
Instead he just waited silently for the dismissal bell to ring. When it did, he quietly gathered up his books and walked out into the winter cold.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Cuento de Mi Id
“Christina’s World”
In a museum near my current house, there is a copy of the famous Andrew Wyeth painting Christina’s World. I look at the painting and see a young girl staring at a farmhouse. Judging from her posture, it is difficult to say whether she is attempting to crawl toward or away from it. The artist gives us no clues.
Afterward, I drive through the neighborhood where I had spent my childhood and stop by the house where I no longer live.
I gaze at my old house and note with sorrow the boarded-up windows and the recently-painted graffiti. I blame it all on the way the neighborhood has changed and I indulge myself in a spate of forbidden racism, only to start at a sudden noise. I look up to see a small dark-faced boy peering down at me through a broken window pane. But there are no windows in the house anymore. They’re all boarded up.
I describe the incident to my cousin Roberto.
“Of course, you imagined it,” he says.
“Of course,” I say. “But for a moment, I could have sworn the little boy in the window looked like you.”
We both laugh at this point. It is a joyous laughter the type shared by close friends who just happen to be related by blood or marriage.
Then my husband enters the room and the mood soon changes. Roberto’s wife enters soon after.
*************************************************************************************************************
There is an old picture in my mother’s family album. A little blonde girl is shying away from the camera and above her shoulder a dark-faced boy stares defiantly into the camera lens. The dark-faced boy is Roberto. The girl, of course, is me. But I should not speak of these things.
*************************************************************************************************************
My full name is Maria Christina Fuentes, but my Anglo friends usually call me Chris. My cousin Lupe envies me for having access to an Anglo Christian name. She also envies me my fair complexion and blonde hair.
“The girls in school always made fun of me,” she said. “One girl even said I must be part-Negro.”
In the sixth grade, she wished she had a picture of me to prove that not her relatives were dark. She did not tell me this until she was thirty.
All through school, I had the exact opposite problem. I had a Spanish surname but no apparent physical right to it. I envied my dark-haired cousin Roberto who was so sure of his identity. He carried himself with the grace of a Latin dancer. If only I looked like his sisters, I’d think to myself, I’d be perfect.
One time we were visiting Roberto’s house and I was staying in a room upstairs. One afternoon, I discovered that I felt good to touch myself in a certain way. I was taking advantage of this discovery when I heard a knock on the door. It was Roberto.
“Everyone’s ready to jump in the pool,” he said, peering around the door. “Do you want to come?”
Still ashamed of the part of me I hid with a blanket, I said no.
“Very well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “If there’s anything else…”
He seemed reluctant to leave for some reason. I was reluctant to have him stay.
“Please leave,” I said.
There seemed to be a hurt expression in his eyes, but he left.
Three years later, he introduced me to the girl he was going to marry after graduation.
For some reason, I expected her to be blonde. She wasn’t. Roberto didn’t marry a blonde until his third marriage…
*************************************************************************************************************
Christina crawls toward the farmhouse, but she is scared to enter. It is dangerous to enter, she is told, and she must crawl away. But she does not want to.
Why is that I wonder?
If she is going toward it, why is there not more yearning in her expression? If she is leaving, why does she stare so intently in the opposite direction?
*************************************************************************************************************
I used to have a thing for dark-skinned boys. I had the strongest crush on a black Irish boy in my CCD class and another on a Puerto Rican in my high school Spanish class. I used to be flattered by the way the Arab students in college seemed so impressed by my blonde hair. I dared not tell them that I, too, was stunned by their looks.
I finally married an Anglo, but in the end, we broke up. He cheated on me, receiving calls from women who were inevitably shorter and uglier than me, proving mere looks have little to do with mere sex appeal.
I told myself that I had made a mistake marrying an Anglo and resolved to look for the exact opposite.
My Aunt Claudia tried to introduce me to a Mexican boy she knew, but I got nervous and spilled wine on my dress. Afterwards, I was too embarrassed until my cousin Roberto talked me into going out onto the dance floor. It was the loveliest moment of my life.
On the way back to the table, I was tempted to kiss him, but I knew his wife would be jealous if he did. So I kissed his older brother Martin, who promptly frowned and gave me an icy glare.
I am currently married to my second husband -- a Cuban. He is a kind and gentle man and he has given me three children. I am beginning to acknowledge the fact that I’m destined to spend the rest of my life with him, and if by some chance, Roberto and I end up simultaneously widowed or divorced, we’ll probably be too old to consummate a legal marriage. Perhaps it is just as well. Any children borne of such a marriage would undoubtedly be deformed and neither of us would want that to happen.
Yet old feelings don’t die. Roberto still brings a smile to my lips and I his when all else fails.
There is another thing to note as well. One day when I was carrying my third child, I drove by the old house and noticed that it was still boarded up. I saw someone staring down at me from an upper-story window. It was my dark-skinned friend again and this time he had a little blonde girl with him.
I was glad then that the front door had been boarded up as well or else I might have been tempted to go after them. As it was, I drove away from there as fast as I dared.
*************************************************************************************************************
The house that Christina stares at in the painting is a tempting refuge, but she dares not enter. Someday she might, but just not yet. I wish the artist had come out with a second painting which resolved the situation once and for all.
But he did not.
“Christina’s World”
In a museum near my current house, there is a copy of the famous Andrew Wyeth painting Christina’s World. I look at the painting and see a young girl staring at a farmhouse. Judging from her posture, it is difficult to say whether she is attempting to crawl toward or away from it. The artist gives us no clues.
Afterward, I drive through the neighborhood where I had spent my childhood and stop by the house where I no longer live.
I gaze at my old house and note with sorrow the boarded-up windows and the recently-painted graffiti. I blame it all on the way the neighborhood has changed and I indulge myself in a spate of forbidden racism, only to start at a sudden noise. I look up to see a small dark-faced boy peering down at me through a broken window pane. But there are no windows in the house anymore. They’re all boarded up.
I describe the incident to my cousin Roberto.
“Of course, you imagined it,” he says.
“Of course,” I say. “But for a moment, I could have sworn the little boy in the window looked like you.”
We both laugh at this point. It is a joyous laughter the type shared by close friends who just happen to be related by blood or marriage.
Then my husband enters the room and the mood soon changes. Roberto’s wife enters soon after.
*************************************************************************************************************
There is an old picture in my mother’s family album. A little blonde girl is shying away from the camera and above her shoulder a dark-faced boy stares defiantly into the camera lens. The dark-faced boy is Roberto. The girl, of course, is me. But I should not speak of these things.
*************************************************************************************************************
My full name is Maria Christina Fuentes, but my Anglo friends usually call me Chris. My cousin Lupe envies me for having access to an Anglo Christian name. She also envies me my fair complexion and blonde hair.
“The girls in school always made fun of me,” she said. “One girl even said I must be part-Negro.”
In the sixth grade, she wished she had a picture of me to prove that not her relatives were dark. She did not tell me this until she was thirty.
All through school, I had the exact opposite problem. I had a Spanish surname but no apparent physical right to it. I envied my dark-haired cousin Roberto who was so sure of his identity. He carried himself with the grace of a Latin dancer. If only I looked like his sisters, I’d think to myself, I’d be perfect.
One time we were visiting Roberto’s house and I was staying in a room upstairs. One afternoon, I discovered that I felt good to touch myself in a certain way. I was taking advantage of this discovery when I heard a knock on the door. It was Roberto.
“Everyone’s ready to jump in the pool,” he said, peering around the door. “Do you want to come?”
Still ashamed of the part of me I hid with a blanket, I said no.
“Very well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “If there’s anything else…”
He seemed reluctant to leave for some reason. I was reluctant to have him stay.
“Please leave,” I said.
There seemed to be a hurt expression in his eyes, but he left.
Three years later, he introduced me to the girl he was going to marry after graduation.
For some reason, I expected her to be blonde. She wasn’t. Roberto didn’t marry a blonde until his third marriage…
*************************************************************************************************************
Christina crawls toward the farmhouse, but she is scared to enter. It is dangerous to enter, she is told, and she must crawl away. But she does not want to.
Why is that I wonder?
If she is going toward it, why is there not more yearning in her expression? If she is leaving, why does she stare so intently in the opposite direction?
*************************************************************************************************************
I used to have a thing for dark-skinned boys. I had the strongest crush on a black Irish boy in my CCD class and another on a Puerto Rican in my high school Spanish class. I used to be flattered by the way the Arab students in college seemed so impressed by my blonde hair. I dared not tell them that I, too, was stunned by their looks.
I finally married an Anglo, but in the end, we broke up. He cheated on me, receiving calls from women who were inevitably shorter and uglier than me, proving mere looks have little to do with mere sex appeal.
I told myself that I had made a mistake marrying an Anglo and resolved to look for the exact opposite.
My Aunt Claudia tried to introduce me to a Mexican boy she knew, but I got nervous and spilled wine on my dress. Afterwards, I was too embarrassed until my cousin Roberto talked me into going out onto the dance floor. It was the loveliest moment of my life.
On the way back to the table, I was tempted to kiss him, but I knew his wife would be jealous if he did. So I kissed his older brother Martin, who promptly frowned and gave me an icy glare.
I am currently married to my second husband -- a Cuban. He is a kind and gentle man and he has given me three children. I am beginning to acknowledge the fact that I’m destined to spend the rest of my life with him, and if by some chance, Roberto and I end up simultaneously widowed or divorced, we’ll probably be too old to consummate a legal marriage. Perhaps it is just as well. Any children borne of such a marriage would undoubtedly be deformed and neither of us would want that to happen.
Yet old feelings don’t die. Roberto still brings a smile to my lips and I his when all else fails.
There is another thing to note as well. One day when I was carrying my third child, I drove by the old house and noticed that it was still boarded up. I saw someone staring down at me from an upper-story window. It was my dark-skinned friend again and this time he had a little blonde girl with him.
I was glad then that the front door had been boarded up as well or else I might have been tempted to go after them. As it was, I drove away from there as fast as I dared.
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The house that Christina stares at in the painting is a tempting refuge, but she dares not enter. Someday she might, but just not yet. I wish the artist had come out with a second painting which resolved the situation once and for all.
But he did not.
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