Authors: Rosie Perez
“We are all his children. You and me and everyone in the whole wide world.”
“Wow. He has a lot of children, right?”
They laughed. I smiled.
“I made you laugh?” I clapped my hands together, applauding myself. “Yay!”
They giggled.
“Want me to do it again?” I asked. (Disgustingly shameless! Begging for applause already, at the tender age of three.) I kept going. “You look like these ladies that were in a movie I saw with
my mommie. And I loved it very much,” I added. “And it’s called
Bell of Mawees
, and the man in the movie sings a lot of songs, all the time, and in all his movies. His name is Bing
Cwossie
. I like him. I wish he was my friend, and I wish he could come to my house and sing with me and Mommie and my sisters. ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, Like the ones I use to snow.…’ ”
They cut me off with their giggling.
“When can I go back to my mommie’s house?”
They looked at each other again, this time with pity in their eyes. That look of pity made me so angry inside that I wanted to scream, but after just a day at the Home, I knew better.
SEVERAL WEEKS in the Home went by, maybe even months—who the hell knows, I was in a time warp—with the same routine every day. With everything, we were told what to do, when to do it, and how to do it: when to wake up, when to shower, how to shower, when and how to clean up, when to eat, how to pray, when to play, when to fucking pee and poop, and how to wipe our ass. And I knew I’d better follow the rules. A lot of brutal spankings were doled out, and I wanted to be sure not to get one. And the amount of praying was staggering! I hated praying. I quickly learned how to fake it and to daydream instead about blueberry and apple pie. Since snacking and second helpings were not allowed, and withholding food was also used as a punishment, I daydreamed a lot about scrumptious delights.
I remember becoming more and more withdrawn. At meals I ate silently, without joining the girls’ chatter. I made my bed, neatly and thoroughly, and did my chores, which consisted of picking up a handful of toys and books and folding the few clothing items I had into my bin without any horseplay. At playtime I sat to the side while the other kids played, daydreaming while I drew in the dirt, making pictures of blueberry pies, wishing they were real, writing out letters of the alphabet. At times I’d play with Crazy Cindy, but mostly, I’d wander back into the playroom and grab a book, read to myself, and daydream some more—about Tia and Titi and Millie and Cookie and Lorraine. For some reason, their faces were getting harder to remember.
One of my few enjoyments was when I’d sing to myself or when Sister Ann-Marie and the counselors sang along with me. Some of the other girls would make fun of me when I sang. I’d blush with embarrassment, go quiet, and start sucking my thumb. But my favorite thing was when we got to watch TV—oh the sweet, sweet joy of joys—for an hour in the afternoon, an hour or two at night, and a lot more on the weekends! The TV room was in the back of the first floor. I loved it. I was in there every chance I got. I’d sit there, sucking my thumb, in a trance, escaping into the world of
Bugs Bunny, Casper the Friendly Ghost, The Jetsons
. I remember hating Captain Kangaroo—that old man creeped me out. One of my favorites was
The Little Rascals
, and I loved pretending I was one of them. Once in a while they would let us stay up late and watch
The Flying Nun, I Dream of Jeannie
, etc. My favorite was
The Jackie Gleason Show
, and I loved imitating Jackie Gleason for the nuns. I’d really ham it up, and it would kill, every time—holla!
One day Sister Ann-Marie came over to me as I was coming back from breakfast.
“Rosemary, come with me. You’re not going outside today to play,” she explained. “We would like you to play a couple of games with us, okay?”
I nodded as I followed her into the playroom. I got a little nervous, but remained quiet.
“Rosemary, this is Miss Beth. She is one of our nursery-school teachers.”
“Hello, Rosemary. It’s very nice to meet you.”
“It’s very nice to meet you too. My name’s not
Wosemary
, it’s
Wosie
.”
“Oh, okay, ‘Rosie.’ Sister Ann-Marie tells me that you like books.”
“Yes I do,” I replied, softly. “I like to read. I like to sing songs too, but some of the other girls laugh at me.”
“May I see you read a book, please?” she asked.
She handed me a picture book with the name of each picture written in big bold letters beneath it.
“When can I go home?” I asked.
Miss Beth looked uncomfortably at Sister Ann-Marie.
“This is your home now,” Sister Ann-Marie told me. “And you know that we call all the girls and boys here by their Christian name, okay?”
I said nothing in response. There was a moment of awkwardness in the room.
Miss Beth tried to change the mood. In a perky voice, she asked, “Would you like to read the book to me, Rosie?” I nodded yes slowly, opened the book, pointed to the first picture, and said, “Apple,” then the next, “Ball,” and so on. “Do you know what the words under the picture say, or do you just know the name of each picture?” This made me nervous, so I just shrugged. “It’s okay, Rosie, if you know it or not.”
“Sometimes I know them, but sometimes I don’t.”
She pointed to a word. “Do you know what this word means?”
“Yes, ‘ball.’ You play with it and have fun.”
“How about this one?”
“ ‘Cat.’ It’s a cat, and the cat says, ‘Meow.’ ”
“This one?” she asked as she giggled.
I shook my head no.
“ ‘Boat,’ ” Miss Beth explained. “It spells ‘boat,’ b-o-a-t, boat.”
I pointed to the picture and repeated her words. “Boat. B-o-a-t. Boat!”
“Very good, Rosie.”
I applauded myself with my little hands: “Yay!” (What can I say?) Both of the ladies laughed and clapped with me.
Miss Beth took out a more advanced book. It was one from the classic “Dick and Jane” series. She smiled at me and asked, “Can you read this one for me?” I froze up again, I think because I recognized
it and it probably brought up a bunch of memories of my nice, safe, and loving home with Tia.
“Do you know what it says?” she asked as she pointed to the word “look.”
I nodded yes, then no.
“That’s okay. It says, ‘Look.’ Do you know what the little girl is doing in the picture?”
“Yes,” I answered. “She’s putting on big shoes.”
“Did your mother teach you how to read?” asked Miss Beth.
“Yes. My mommie reads to me sometimes when she’s not tired, and Millie and Cookie, and Miss Wosie. Miss Wosie reads to me all the time. She plays with me all day till Mommie comes home. I miss my mommie.”
I bit my bottom lip, trying not to cry.
Sister Ann-Marie turned to Miss Beth and said, “She means her aunt and her cousins. Her aunt helped her mother raise her before her mother came and brought her here.” (Okay, sidebar here: “helped my mother raise me”? That was a good one.)
“What else did your aunt teach you?”
“Who?” I asked Miss Beth.
“Who’s who? Your aunt?” she replied.
I nodded yes.
Sister Ann-Marie interjected, “Ana Dominga’s your aunt, Rosemary. The lady you came here with is your mother. Do you understand?”
I sat silent, confused. Miss Beth put her hand on my shoulder. “Would you take a look at these flash cards for me?” she asked. I didn’t want to. I shook my head no. Things were starting to come together, but at the same time I felt more confused than ever. I couldn’t handle responding to Miss Beth.
They continued anyway and put me through a series of IQ and other tests. After a while, I forgot about my mommie/aunt and
started to get into it. My enthusiasm began to pop like fireworks. Every time I got something right, my smile grew and I’d applaud myself. By the end of the test, I was elated.
“You can go outside and play with the other girls now,” Miss Beth finally said.
“Can I stay inside with you?”
I wanted her to be my friend and hold my hand and play with me.
“Well, I have a lot of work to do, and Sister Ann-Marie is going outside to play with you and all the other girls.”
I didn’t want to cry in front of Miss Beth, but the tears still came. Sister Ann-Marie took me by the arm and led me outside. I kept looking back at Miss Beth, wishing that she was my friend and that she’d save me from this place.
• • •
That night I had a nightmare. I don’t remember what it was about, but I remember waking up in the middle of the night, feeling soaking wet. I sat up. I had peed the bed. I don’t think I’d ever peed the bed before. I was so scared. That old, ugly, mean nun was going to beat me like she did all the other girls who peed their beds.
I looked around. Everyone was fast asleep. I took off the bottom sheet and climbed down my bunk, being very cautious not to wake the other girls. I tiptoed to the laundry chute. I was too short to reach it. I panicked! What to do? I went into the linen and clothes closet and stuffed the sheet into one of the bins. I grabbed a clean one. The other sheets on top of it came tumbling down on my head. I tried to stuff them back, tried to make them look like they did before I messed them up. I tiptoed quickly back to my bed, climbed up, and put the sheet on. I sat there looking around to make sure that no one saw me.
“You peed the bed?”
My head snapped to the right, and I saw Crazy Cindy sitting up looking at me.
“No,” I answered.
Look at that! The nuns already had me lying——probably for the first time too, I might add.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
She lay back down. I did the same. I couldn’t go back to sleep right away. All the possible scenarios of getting caught and being beaten were running rapidly through my head.
Morning.
Clap! Clap! Clap!
The old bag came in, and everyone jumped into the regular routine. As I was climbing down my bunk, Sister Elizabeth-Claire, the short, stout, round thing, came over to me.
“Come with me,” she said with a serious, solemn face.
My heart started to pound. I looked at Crazy Cindy. She was shaking her head at me behind Sister Elizabeth-Claire, as if to say,
Don’t say anything!
I followed her down the hallway of the dormitory. She went straight to the closet, opened it, and pointed to the smelly, yellow-stained bedsheet.
“Did you do that?” she asked.
How the hell she knew I was the one who did the crime is still a mystery. I couldn’t answer. Tears ran down my face. She lifted my nightgown and smacked me so freaking hard across my bottom. The shock from the instant pain and sting stopped my tears. I’d never been hit. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I tried to use my hand to block the blows. She grabbed it, holding my arm straight up in the air, and resumed the spanking. I used my other hand to block her again. Then she grabbed both arms, holding them up in the air with one of her hands, and went at it again with the other. I don’t know what came over me, but I started to kick her with my tiny foot.
A crowd of little girls formed around us. Crazy Cindy was crazed with excitement, cheering me on. I wanted her to stop. She
was only making it worse. The old bag came in with Sister Ann-Marie running behind her. All the girls, scared of punishment for being nosy, ran into the bathroom—all except for Cindy.
“What is going on here?” demanded Sister Mary-Domenica.
Sister Elizabeth-Claire, flustered and red-faced, turned to her and said, “She peed the bed and stuffed the sheet in here, and when I spanked her for it, she started kicking me.”
“We do not hit, kick, or do anything to the nuns here, young lady. Do you understand me? Do you?!” the old bag screamed.
I stared at her with fear and contempt. The decrepit hag grabbed me by my wrist and proceeded to pull me down to the end of the hall. I was now screaming at the top of my lungs in full rebellion. Where the hell did all this come from? All the angst, fear, confusion, terror, and anger wailed out of me, all the way down that hallway.
Some of the girls came out of the bathroom and timidly followed behind. Crazy Cindy was right there too. Sister Mary-Domenica sat on a chair, grabbed her spanking paddle with one hand, and pulled me over her lap with the other. She then lifted up my nightgown, exposing my bare bottom, and beat the shit out of me until my bottom cracked with a slight hint of blood. She pushed me off of her.
“Get that sheet,” she ordered. “Put it in the laundry chute and go back to your bed and don’t move until I say you can. There will be no breakfast for you, missy. And let that be a lesson to all of you. You will respect each and every nun here. Is that understood? Is it, Rosemary?!”
“Yes.”
“Yes, sister!” she corrected.
“Yes, sister,” I answered, filled with crazy emotions.
I walked back down the hallway, past the glares and stares. I can’t tell you the humiliation I felt. I kept looking straight ahead. I went over to the closet, got the sheet, and tried my best to stuff
it up in the laundry chute, but still couldn’t reach it. Crazy Cindy rushed over to help me. Sister Ann-Marie came over and put her hand on Cindy’s shoulder, moving her out of the way. She lifted me up, and I pushed the sheet down the chute. She set me back down.
“Why don’t you take a shower?” she said softly. I looked at her, my face drained, turned away, and headed for my bunk instead.
THE NEW school year had begun. They told me my birthday, September 4, was coming up too. I was about to turn four years old, and I was filled with double the excitement. I don’t remember a birthday party, but I’m sure there was one. They always remembered your birthday and cut a cake for you, though they’d deny you a celebration if you’d been bad.
Most of the girls went to school in the Baby Girls’ playroom, but I was sent to a separate nursery school on the same floor as the Baby Girls’ dormitory across the hall. They had handpicked me and one other girl because of our test results. They gave me a nice, simple dress to wear, with lace bobby socks and practical Mary Jane shoes. Sister Ann-Marie did my hair into two ponytails. The other girl was wearing a dress too, but it was plainer than mine. I felt bad about that. Sister Mary-Domenica and Sister Ann-Marie came into the playroom where we were waiting for them with another pretty lady with a television frosted hairstyle.