Authors: Rosie Perez
Eileen was in the same grade as me at Brinkerhoff Elementary. She lived about a mile up and around the hill from the Group Home in a ranch-style house. I would hang with her almost every day after school, and we are still in contact. Although I was a class clown at school, I was very shy about making real friends. Eileen was a patient, funny, and good person. It took a while for us to create a bond, but once we did, we were besties! We spent endless hours together watching
The Muppet Show
and singing the theme song at the top of our lungs, having sleepovers, baking cakes and cookies, and listening to Elton John and Kiki Dee’s “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” over and over again. Nerds.
I loved Gene, Eileen’s mother, very much too. Witnessing the connection she had with her kids used to make me happy. I would sit in their kitchen baking with her and Eileen, in awe of their relationship. They probably had no clue I was doing this, but while they were being entertained by my flawless repertoire of corny jokes and crazy stories of Brooklyn and the Home, I’d absorb that special, subconscious mother-daughter exchange without a blink in my delivery. They were the only people upstate to whom I told the whole truth about being in the system. Eileen and Gene made me feel safe like that.
At first the kids had no idea I was from the GH, but once they found out, a few treated me subpar. I got into a couple of fistfights, mostly with boys, defending my honor, which only validated their
prejudice. I remember one boy taunting me and calling me a jerk; he took my shyness as an easy target. I had never heard that expression and took it for the insult that it was, so I smushed him in the face. He smushed me back. So I kicked him in the balls and punched him in the face. I was sent to the principal’s office. He didn’t punish me. He just talked to me, told me I shouldn’t have done that and to go back to class.
Too embarrassed to go back inside, I stood at the door staring at my fourth-grade teacher, Mr. Kenney—fine as hell. He caught my eye, came out, and sat with me.
“Who cares what he thinks. Sometimes I’m a jerk.”
“You are? What’s a jerk?”
He laughed and hugged me. I was freaked out by his touch, but excited because I was in love with him. He was so dreamy, like Robert Redford.
“Mr. Kenney, would you marry me?”
“I’m very flattered, but I’m too old for you.” He chuckled.
“No, you’re not. Audrey Hepburn married Humphrey Bogart in Sabrina, and he was really old.”
“Humphrey Bogart? What do you know about Humphrey Bogart? Let’s go back inside. And don’t let silly things bother you so much, ’kay?”
I wanted to participate in everything Brinkerhoff offered. I did what I could, but was seriously limited. Not just because of my emotional roadblocks but mainly for financial reasons. I couldn’t join the Little League team after I made the tryouts because the Home wouldn’t approve the purchase of my uniform. Even if I did, I knew I would have to walk the five miles back and forth because there was no one to take me to the games. There were too many girls with other requests in the house that took priority. I joined band after the Home said they would pay for my instrument, but then they didn’t. Sat there for about three weeks playing air-clarinet—humiliation. The music teacher kept me on as long
as she could, but finally she had no other choice but to ask me to leave—beyond humiliating.
I hated not being able to afford things that kids should have for free, like the arts and recreational sports. And I hated not being able to join in the fun, like going to Dairy Queen after school with the rest of the kids. Refusing defeat, I started to work for the first time, doing yard work, cleaning out garages, anything. I didn’t have enough for Little League, but I had enough to purchase my own movie tickets, French fries, pizza, Dairy Queen’s Hot Fudge Brownie Sundae with walnuts—love—and Nestlé $100,000 chocolate bars without having to take the other kids or their parents up on their offers to buy these things for me. And when I made the after-school softball team, they gave me the team’s T-shirt and I did that five-mile trek back and forth, without asking for a ride, singing songs along the way so I wouldn’t get pissed off about the long-ass trip.
Mr. Mackie, my fifth-grade teacher, made learning fun, championed my good grades, and even let me dance during breaks—not kidding. He asked me to show the class how to do the Robot like Michael Jackson did on
Soul Train
. And you know I did! He was the first person to address my speech impediment in a positive way and got me to go to speech therapy—God bless America two times! Bad thing was that the speech therapist, who was white, had me sounding like her. Some of the girls in the Group Home accused me of acting like a wannabe after that. What a bore. Seriously. If you liked rock and roll, you wanted to be white; if you read a lot of books, you wanted to be white; if you had manners and were polite and blah, blah, blah—so pathetic and boring.
Unfortunately, I still had issues and continued to act out.
In Mr. Mackie’s class, I asked to go to the bathroom after some extreme blowout with one of my classmates. Alone inside the bathroom stall, I lit a piece of toilet paper hanging from the toilet paper dispenser with a book of matches. I ripped off the flaming tissue
before it rose up into the rest of the roll. It felt good, fun, and cool. I lit another piece, ripped it off, and lit another. This time I wasn’t fast enough—the flame rose up and the dispenser caught fire!
I tried kicking the damn thing off, but it was too hot. Before I knew it, the dispenser started to warp from the heat. I thought to myself,
If I get caught, I’m done for and I’ll be sent back to the Home in a hot second
. I figured that after all the toilet paper burned out, the fire would stop. So I ran out, snuck into another bathroom on the other side of the building, quickly washed off the smell of smoke, and in a quiet panic walked back to class.
The fire department came. Thank goodness only the dispenser went up in flames. Everyone was questioned. I clammed up—had to. I felt like crap. I thought about the cigarette incident and not being accountable. I thought about Mr. Neil and Ed Yano and their high regard for me and their expectations of me. I thought about Sister Minetta-Mary and her lecture on the chances that I’d been given. Man, why was I such a good girl and yet did such bad things like this?
I got my A game on after that. I stopped being late for dinner from playing baseball or touch football with the neighbors. I did my chores and homework at top speed. I didn’t talk back. And I did more and more odd jobs, not just for the money, but to keep myself out of trouble too.
SAINT JOSEPH’S sent Sister Mary-Grace—just her—to take over from Miss Carmen, who stayed on as a counselor. Everyone knew Sister Mary-Grace when she was just a novice at the Home—curly auburn hair, tall, slim, white, good breeding, and never known to raise a hand toward a child. She asked us to call her Grace. I think she didn’t want us to feel embarrassed by having to call her “Sister” in our new community. That simple gesture was the beginning of my trust in her.
And there was an order she brought instantly to the house that felt safe and light. Some of the girls didn’t like her. Maybe it was because she was so sure of herself that they mistook that as arrogance. I think it was because she demanded the best from us constantly, in regards to our character and ability, without fear or intimidation—that’s powerful.
And Grace got us a new dog! A half pointer, half springer spaniel named Freckles. I loved this dog more than I loved Citizen, more than I loved anyone, even Tia. (Well, that’s how I felt at the time.) Freckles loved me instantly and unconditionally too. We were thick as thieves. She followed me everywhere I went, licked my secret tears, and slept with me nightly. Every morning when I got on the yellow school bus, Freckles barked for me and chased it down the road. I felt like I would never see her again each time I left her. After school, I would frantically look out the window for her as the school bus pulled up to the GH, even though I knew Freckles would be waiting for me at the mailbox. Each time I would see her,
I’d breathe a sigh of relief. When I went on a home visit to Tia’s, I moped about, endlessly longing for Freckles, until Tia distracted me with something like cooking
bacaloa
salad.
At school, we were given an assignment to write about who we loved the most. I wrote about Freckles. At ten years old, I got the school alarmed, writing that. Good thing Dr. Tisby didn’t make a big deal out of it when I was forced to see him because of this. Grace didn’t either. She told me it takes a special and intelligent person to understand and appreciate an animal, and that a dog always recognizes a true heart. She told me that someday I would come to love a person as much as I loved Freckles. I didn’t believe her, but that statement solidified my connection with her, made me feel like she got me.
One day, while shopping at the Grand Union for the weekly food supply with Grace, Miss Carmen, and the rest of the girls, Miss Carmen asked me to get several cans of French-cut green beans. I went over to the veggie aisle and picked up the dented cans. I always hated that they were left on the shelf and no one was ever going to pick them up. I knew I’d get shit for it but scooped them up anyway.
“Why do you do this all the time? Put them back now!” yelled Miss Carmen.
I stood there with a pleading grin, refusing to budge. Grace gave me a look and shook her head with a smile. Got her!
“Please, can we buy them? Tia buys dented cans all the time. She says it’s worth the chance. There is usually nothing wrong with them, and they’re half-price, so you get over.”
“ ‘Get over’? For goodness’ sake, what the heck does that mean?” Grace laughed.
“She’s right. Nothing’s wrong with most of them, and they are discounted,” the cashier interjected.
“You see! I’m a genius!” I gleefully yelled out.
“Okay, genius,” Grace said sympathetically, without pity, “we’ll take your dented cans, this time. Go wait in the station wagon.”
“Can I stay to make sure you won’t put them back … pretty please, with sugar and a big fat juicy cherry on top and hot chocolate fudge drizzle for good measure?”
I sealed it with a cheesy grin and a little shimmy and shake of my butt. Why? Who the hell knows? I did shit like that all the time. (Olga used to say I would act like Fozzie Bear, Miss Piggy—the personality, not the looks, people—and Bugs Bunny combined just for a good laugh.)
“Rosie, you are a pip!” declared Grace.
“A pip!”
Then, of course, I had to break into a spontaneous rendition of Barbra Streisand’s “I’m the Greatest Star” from
Funny Girl!
Who is the pip with pizazz? Who is all ginger and jazz?
“Get in the car, Barbra!” laughed Grace.
“Barbra! Do I sound like her? Do I—”
“Stop! Go! Now!”
I hung out with Grace constantly. I couldn’t wait to come home and share my day with her. She taught me how to bake better than the nuns without standing over my shoulder barking orders. She introduced me to Charles Dickens and Emily Brontë—which were tough reads and depressed the hell out of me, but I loved them. She checked my “attitude” without making me feel defensive, then later praised the slightest improvements I’d make. She made me feel okay about being a cornball—seriously. We just hung out, you know? We enjoyed each other’s company and had fun.
When all was beginning to get right with the world, Grace decided to leave—not only the Group Home, but the order too! She didn’t want to be a nun anymore. She had met a man and fallen
in love. Scandalous! Although inspired by her choice to listen to her heart, I was seriously broken up by her departure. I remember her sitting with just me the day she was leaving, saying everything was going to be okay, things would carry on. Nothing helped ease the pain—except for Freckles, who became everything to me even more after that. The other girls thought my “obsession” with Freckles was weird. I didn’t care. I would disappear with her for hours, walking through the woods and singing happy songs to cheer myself up before I got back to the house. (My pride prevented me from showing how affected I was.)
After Grace left, we went through several different Group Home parents.
There were Abby and Michael, wholesome and very Americana—cheerleader marries soft-spoken jock.
We had three new girls from the Home after one of the original girls left, another got pregnant and married, and the aunt of another took custody of her and brought her home. These new girls were much more hard-core and gave Abby and Michael hell.
One night, as retaliation for a punishment, the three new girls snuck downstairs after dark and taped Kotex pads stained with ketchup on their door to spell out “fuck you”—a new low point for sure.
Abby and Michael were pretty much gone after that.
Then came Priscilla and Elvis.
Priscilla was mushy fat, and Elvis was skinny as a rail. Most of us couldn’t stand either of them. Priscilla had gotten into a fight with one of my half-sisters. Elvis stepped in and put my half-sister in a bear hug. My sister flipped out. Scared, I grabbed the kitchen knife, stood up on the dining-room chair, and pointed it at Priscilla’s throat, telling her she better tell her husband to let go of my sister or else. Priscilla, not threatened in the slightest, rolled her eyes and told me to get down. I sheepishly backed away and quickly apologized—feeling like an idiot.
They were gone shortly after that.
Next came Sharon and Bobby, two Italian American sweethearts from Long Island. We all felt that these two actually cared about us. Sharon was great. Bobby was too, at times. Most of us thought he was closeted from day one. Sharon eventually found out that he was in fact gay and left with their daughter, who I adored, without giving us an explanation, but we all knew why. Scandalous!
Bobby stayed, for a while, but was soon gone after that.
Several other GH parents came and went who were nasty or ill equipped or both. I just checked out. I spent even more time with Freckles, as well as with Eileen and other friends from school. After a while, I became well known as a social butterfly, living the casual, joy-filled suburban life of sleepovers, Pop Warner football games, and weekend house parties with the kids upstate. And I loved every minute of it! Because of this, the girls in the house thought I was stuck up. I didn’t think so and was bothered by their perception. I didn’t mean to be so separate from them. I just wanted to escape—television wasn’t enough anymore—and unfortunately, the other girls were unintended casualties. Well, except for Olga and this new girl, Mita. Especially Olga, since she and I had kind of the same mind-set. She and I hated our predicament, knowing we deserved better, yet we never saw ourselves as victims and took full advantage of what was being offered to us by way of education and our social environment.