Authors: Rosie Perez
After five minutes or so, the teacher walked over to me and sweetly whispered in my ear, asking me to join the class again. I shook my head no with my eyes cast down at the floor—I was too ashamed. My head started to throb with pain.
“Rosemary, please.”
“My name’s not Rosemary. It’s Rosie,” I quietly stated. “My head hurts. It feels really hot.”
“Oh no,” she said as she felt my head. “I better get you to the nurse.”
Then everything went blank.
• • •
When I woke, I found myself in a clear plastic oxygen tent that was tucked under a white, iron-framed hospital twin bed. I remember being scared and wondering why I was inside that synthetic contraption. I was in the infirmary. I sat there for a moment, taking in the room. It was packed with sick kids only from the Home, ranging from toddlers to teenagers. Some were reading on their beds, others were playing checkers or cards on a small, wooden round table set toward the entrance of the room. And some were watching television! Yay! TV!
I saw a nun enter, dressed in an all-white habit. I decided to ask her what was going on. I slipped out of the tent by tugging at it for a long time.
“Ooh! You’re not supposed to leave your bed. You’re gonna get in trouble,” yelled out another older Spanish girl from Group Three. “You have to go back to bed or you’ll get in trouble with Sister Irene.”
Too late. Sister Irene, the head nun nurse in charge, had entered the room. Sister Irene was a white, fair-skinned, plain-looking nun with blond, swooping bangs that peeked out from under her habit. “Who told you to get out of bed?” I stopped in my tracks. I quickly climbed back into bed, watching her approach in a stern manner as another nun nurse followed behind.
“You are not to get out of bed unless given permission to do so. You have pneumonia and you are very sick. Understand?”
I nodded yes.
“Roll over.”
I did so. Then rolled back.
“What does ‘pneumonia’ mean?” I asked.
“It means you’re very sick.”
“I know that!” I coyly and precociously stated. “I mean, what does ‘pneumonia’
mean
?”
“Just roll over,” Sister Irene said with an amused smirk.
I did so. She pulled down my panties and stuck a thermometer into a jar of Vaseline and then stuck the thing up my butt. That shit was so shocking and hurt so much that my butt cheeks involuntarily clenched so tightly together and the thermometer popped right out—Sister Irene frantically scrambled for it. She finally got a hold of it. There was a momentary stare-off. I started to chuckle—she didn’t.
“Roll over.”
“Okay. But, excuse me, please, Sister, I don’t think you’re supposed to do it like that because I’m five now, and I saw on
I Love Lucy
that you’re supposed to put it in your mouth, not in your—”
She shushed me, then rolled me over and dug that freaking thermometer up my bum, with the other nun nurse squeezing my ass cheeks together. She read it, her forehead contorted with concern. She turned to the other nun nurse.
“Her temperature went up. Closely monitor her and move her bed over to the other side away from the other kids.”
As Sister Irene headed back to her office the other nun nurse pushed my bed to the other side of the room with the help of a skinny, tall black man.
My head started to spin with the fever, and then everything went black again.
I didn’t know how long I was out. I felt dazed and dehydrated. This big, ugly, older black kid, who was maybe fifteen or sixteen, was standing in the doorway staring straight at me with his zipperless fly on his hospital pajamas wide open, exposing his private parts, fondling himself unabashed. The older Spanish girl from Group Three quickly scurried over to me and whispered in my ear.
“Don’t look at him. He’s a pervert, and he’ll try to molest you like he did to Sorida from Group Two.”
I nodded yes, even though I didn’t know what being molested meant. What was worse was that I couldn’t stop looking. This was the first time I had seen a male’s genitals. I tugged at the older girl’s hospital gown and pointed.
“What are those three things hanging there?”
“Don’t do that! God! That’s his dick and his two balls.”
“Oh … what’s a dick?”
“It’s a guy’s private part. So, don’t be looking or it will make him hard.”
Huh?
“Okay … why does he have balls inside his skin?”
She laughed. I laughed back. It was more of an anxiety-ridden laugh. I wasn’t clear on everything but clearly understood the danger in her warning.
Later that night I was afraid to go to sleep. I kept one eye open, wondering if that perverted kid with the two balls and a dick was going to come and try to hurt me. I wished Tia would come to visit. I wished my mother would come too. But no one came. I was in the infirmary, stewing, for over a week.
A few weeks later, after I got out, Tia finally came to visit. I was so cold to her. She tried to explain that the Home informed her that it was best to wait until I had gotten better. She apologized. I politely accepted, but I was five—the hurt kept me silent and distant.
She began to sing her favorite Beatles song, “Penny Lane,” in her high-pitched, tone-deaf voice: “Penny lane is in
de
ears and in
de
minds. Da-da-da-da daa!” I looked up at her and started giggling. She smiled back and patted my hand. I slowly pulled it back but smiled back so I didn’t hurt her feelings too much.
BACK AND forth, forth and back, my two lives continued. I was six years old now and had moved up to Group One after I returned from a summer visit to Tia’s. I did not see my father that whole summer, nor my mother. There was no explanation as to why, and I didn’t ask for one. That’s how things were.
Group One was where the girls from first to third grade lived. It was on the second floor of the girls’ dormitory building, right above the Baby Girls’ dorm. Inside, a medium-sized hallway was lined with metal school-like lockers to the left. Just past the bathroom was the first dormitory bedroom lined with about ten twin beds, five on one side, five on the other. To the far right corner of the second bedroom was the clothes closet; the far left corner was where Sister Renata’s bedroom was. Following the bedrooms was the “living room,” equipped with a sofa, a rocking chair, a stereo component, and a TV—yay!
Sister Renata, brutal, strict—evil reincarnated, seriously—was Group One’s dorm “mother,” and she ran it like a Nazi. She was tall, white, pasty, and broad-shouldered, wore ugly black-rimmed glasses, had a slight grayish mustache with sprouting whiskers on her chin, and was strong as hell. I was so afraid of her. There were rumors of her merciless cruelty throughout the Home. While still in Baby Girls, I had witnessed firsthand Sister Renata’s infamous demented viciousness.
This girl, in Group One, wouldn’t eat her vegetables. “Eat! Now!” commanded Sister Renata as she stood behind the girl. The
room went silent. By the fourth or fifth bite the girl vomited all of it onto her plate. Sister Renata pushed the girl’s face close to the vomit and said, “Now you’re gonna eat all of that mess, and I better not see a morsel left on that plate!” The girl slowly picked up a heaping spoonful of her vomit, lips quivering, tears running down her eyes, and swallowed! Sister Renata looked around the room like General Patton after reprimanding the troops and then walked away. After the coast was clear, the cafeteria’s janitor—this kind black man with a slight hunch to his spine—came over with a wheeled garbage can and covertly dumped the girl’s plate and placed it back in front of her in one quick move. God bless that man, wherever he is.
• • •
Just as it was in the Baby Girls’ dormitory, the day was scheduled—when to get up, shower, eat, play, study, etc.—but the number of chores had increased. Sister Renata made sure that everything was done to the letter and didn’t hesitate to use her long wooden paddle, which she wore under her habit, to enforce her demands. She would resort to a ruler if she didn’t want to exhaust herself. Miss Millie, a skinny thing with an ugly big-ass mole on her face, helped Sister Renata run Group One, but Sister Renata really didn’t need her.
Some of the girls in Group One I already sort of knew from the playground. Of course Crazy Cindy was there! Yay! When she first saw me carrying my clothes to the clothes closet, she screamed with glee, gave me a quick hug, then scurried off to play with the other girls. Puerto Rican—Jew Evita Feinstein was in Group Two across the hall from Group One—she was older than us, so I didn’t see her as much. There was Lil Tillie, skinny with frizzy hair always in two twisted pigtails, and Fat Dina, a short, chubby, stocky girl with black hair that had the texture of a Brillo pad. Fat Dina looked like a Puerto Rican Tasmanian she-devil from the Bugs
Bunny cartoons—no lie. Most of us girls were afraid of her, or at least intimidated by her. Crazy Cindy wasn’t of course. If she was scared of Fat Dina, you couldn’t tell because she antagonized Fat Dina every chance she got. That made absolutely no sense, since Fat Dina could flatten Cindy in a hot second.
My first night in Group One was very memorable.
The Metro-North train whistled down the tracks in the distance along the Hudson River. Sister Renata led us into the bathroom. We all lined up, naked—still hated that—for showers. Most of the girls had begun developing and covered their breasts in modesty. It was four or five to a shower. The shower was covered with this brown, moldy filth. I was grossed out and found a clean spot, quickly washed myself, and dashed out. Sister Renata, standing guard, made me go back and stand in the middle of the guck and shower again, saying I hadn’t washed properly. It was so nasty that I wanted to vomit, but didn’t dare in fear that she would make me eat it.
Bedtime. We all knelt at the foot of our beds with our heads bowed as Sister Renata led the Lord’s Prayer. Lights out.
I think Crazy Cindy’s bed was across the room and one down from mine. She was whispering nonstop to some of the other girls. I kept looking over at her hoping that she would glance my way. But she didn’t. I didn’t want to seem like a crybaby. I was in Group One now, and crying was not tolerated by the nuns and the other girls—everyone knew that. I turned over on my side, stuck my thumb in my mouth, ran my hand over the donated wool army blanket, and tried to sleep.
“Who’s that talking?” yelled Sister Renata, walking out from her bedroom dressed in a granny nightgown and nightcap. Cindy quickly played like she was asleep—same ol’ Crazy Cindy. Sister Renata walked over, stood at the dividing doorway, and scanned each bed with her scowling, beady eyes. “If I hear a peep out of one of you girls, you will all be in trouble,” she said, then headed back into her room.
After a few minutes, Cindy finally called out to me.
“Psst. Psst. Rosie! Psst.”
A smile jumped up from my heart and spread across my face. She’s still my friend! I knew it—happy good feelings inside!
“Pssssst! Rosie. You sleeping?”
“Yes.”
“If you’re sleeping, why’d you answer me?”
She cracked up at her own joke. I couldn’t help it and let out a low snicker.
“Shut up!” screamed one of the girls in a whisper. “You’re gonna get us all in trouble!” She was one of the top dogs. The room fell silent.
After a moment, a rapid machine-gun fire of loud tight farts rang out in the darkness—
pop, pop, pop, pop, pop!
A few heads lifted to see who the culprit was. Cindy’s body shook with giggles as she tried to bury her guilt-ridden laughter in her pillow. “Shut up!” screamed the alpha female. Sister Renata rushed out of her room, this time with her paddle in her hand. “Everyone! Up! Now!”
All the girls quickly jumped out of their beds, forming two lines, waiting for further instructions. I was a bit slow and wary getting up. Everyone was shooting dirty looks at Crazy Cindy. She tried to shrug it off, but I knew she felt bad.
“Give me fifty squats!” screamed Sister Renata.
“What the heck is a squat?” I innocently and slightly sarcastically asked one of the girls.
Smack!
Sister Renata’s manly hands went right across the kisser! Shit stung like a biatch!
“Watch that mouth, young lady. Now get in line!”
After about twenty tiring dips or so, Sister Renata told us to go back to bed, except for Cindy and myself. “I want fifty more, and then you can stand there and wait until I get back.” She turned and walked back to her room.
With every few deep knee squats, Crazy Cindy would fart and
quietly laugh at the same time. I then joined in with a dip and a fart of my own—we died laughing! Dag it! Out came Sister Renata like a bat out of hell. She grabbed both of us by the back of our nightgowns and stood us in front of the metal lockers in the second bedroom with our noses inches away.
“You will stand there for an hour with your eyes straight ahead, no talking, and your heads better not touch that locker.”
An hour? Uh, hello, I’m only six years old here!
She pulled up a rocking chair and sat to the side of us with that paddle on her lap. After a few minutes, which felt more like an hour, my eyes started to close shut and my head leaned forward.
Bam!
Sister Renata banged my head into the metal locker. My big-ass forehead instantly swelled up with a pounding headache. Sister Renata then marched back to her room.
Ten minutes passed by. I was completely exhausted. My head involuntarily leaned forward onto the cool metal of the locker. Cindy gently nudged me awake.
“Don’t. Or you’ll have to stay longer.… And she’ll bang your big forehead up again.” She giggled quietly, wanting me to join in. I didn’t. I wasn’t amused.
“Sorry,” she added softly.
“It’s okay,” I whispered back.
Pause.
“Do you like
Mod Squad
better or
The FBI
?” asked Cindy in a matter-of-fact way. “I like
Mod Squad
better because.…” She paused for a moment, squinting her eyes shut with her butt sticking out. “Ooh, a perfume fart. That one’s gonna stink.” She then stuck her hand down the back of her panties, pulled it back up, smelled it, and said, “Yup, it stinks.” A sneeze-laugh snuck out of me along with a spray of snot. Cindy burst out laughing! Dag it!