Authors: Rosie Perez
“Girls, this is Mrs. Connie Burton,” said Sister Ann-Marie. “She is going to be your volunteer [nowadays referred to as a Big Sister]. She’s going to be your friend and your guide, okay?”
I nodded and looked at this beautiful, full-figured, dyed-blond woman. She got giddy and remarked how tiny and cute I was—holla!
“Hi, girls. I hope we can be friends,” this extraordinary-looking woman said. “Would you like to come with me to class?”
Miss Connie held out her hand toward me, and I took it. I was
drawn to her instantly. She had a warm and sincere quality. As we started walking down to the nursery school, I began to feel bad as I looked back at the other little girl trailing behind. I wanted to reach out for her hand, but I was too afraid that I’d get in trouble, so I motioned with my hand for her to follow us. She ran up to us and we walked on, side by side.
The room was medium-sized and colorful. In the far back were paint easels, toys, books, and the usual nursery-school paraphernalia. My eyes widened with excitement at first. The Baby Girls’ dorm didn’t look as wonderful as this room did. I started to rush in, but then hesitated. The room was filled with little kids I hadn’t seen before, all white except for one black boy. They were dressed really nice too. I looked down at my dress and lacy socks, and then back at the other girls in perfectly ironed baby doll dresses or two-piece flowered coordinates. The boys wore V-neck sweaters, collared shirts, and blazers. Suddenly my new outfit no longer felt so special.
These were the “outside” kids. They weren’t part of the Home; they had their own homes and parents who paid extra for a Catholic school education and who tucked them in at night. I was intimidated by their casualness, a casualness that I recognized, but that had been erased from me in less than a few months. I wanted them to be my friends, but I knew that wouldn’t happen.
Despite this, school became another escape. I enjoyed it, ran in cheerfully each morning. I absorbed everything like a sponge. I felt I was in my own magical learning world, that I wasn’t in the Home, and that I was just like the other kids who had parents and slept in their own bedrooms and woke up to a breakfast of pancakes with gobs of maple syrup. Miss Connie helped to make me feel special too every time the outside kids’ parents would come for some event—she would be with me as if she were a relative of mine.
At first the kids liked me, sort of. Their parents already had a
prejudice against us because we were from the Home. There was this one irritating boy, with light blond hair and blue eyes, who dressed as if he was attending Oxford. He was a condescending little snot; he’d go out of his way to make me feel like I was stupid and less than. I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why he’d engage in conversations with me just to eventually put me down. “This is a crayon,” the snot would say to me. “Do you know crayons have lots and lots and lots of colors?” I would answer, “Yes,” my mouth tight with anger. “That’s very good,” he’d condescendingly add. I remember embarrassing him later when Miss Beth asked the class what color does red and yellow make. He raised his hand up and shouted, “Brown!” Miss Beth told him he was incorrect. “Anyone else know the right answer?” I raised my hand and answered, “Orange.” I turned to him and smiled, hoping for a smile back. He gave me the nastiest look instead—fucking little snot.
At the end of a nursery-school day, I’d run to the window to watch the outside kids leave and get picked up by their parents. There was a street that ran through the grounds of the Home and divided the girls’ dormitory from the boys’, and parents would ride up or walk up to get their children, ruffle their hair, kiss them on their cheeks, and squat down with their arms wide open to receive them. I wanted that; it weirdly excited me. Their parents didn’t abandon them. Their parents weren’t so poor that they were forced to give them to the Church. Their parents weren’t mentally ill or dead or just didn’t give a fuck and left them there to grow up all emotionally damaged. Although I felt a bit jealous, it brought me hope. Maybe one day that would happen to me and I’d be just like them—casual, at ease. I’d wish that their parents would be my parents and ruffle my hair and squat down with their arms wide open. I’d just stand there trying my best to act as if my conflicting emotions didn’t bother me, as if nothing special was happening. As the months went by I began to hate watching, but I couldn’t stop.
• • •
Every Sunday was visiting day. All the boys’ and girls’ parents, grandparents, what have you, would come up on the train from the city—a few by car—to visit their children. I never got a visitor, and neither did Crazy Cindy. It would hurt. Cindy acted as if it didn’t bother her in the least. I kept wondering why nothing affected this girl. Was it because she was a little kooky? Or was it because she was stronger than me, since I was a crybaby, like all the other girls accused me of being?
But all was not lost. Oh no. There were some benefits to having no visitors. The first was that most of the nuns were busy making sure that everyone who had visitors was on their best behavior and looked their best, and I mean
everyone
. Most of them supervised the visits as well—which took place either in the cafeteria, the canteen, or on the various playgrounds—weather permitting—which meant that those with no visitors were pretty much forgotten about. Yay! Second, we had the place more or less to ourselves. I was definitely a loner, but not when it came to one-on-one time with Crazy Cindy! She was my best friend. On visiting day, we would hang out together and play, or explore the nooks and crannies of the Home, sometimes with Puerto Rican—Jew Evita Feinstein, although her mother would usually come every Sunday. Evita would always share the candy that her mother brought her with us too. We looked up to her, and her generosity meant a lot.
I liked playing in the bathroom the most because there was an extra radio high up on the shelf. We would crank up the volume on Cousin Brucie’s show on WABC, which was never allowed any other time, and when Cindy and I sang it would sound really cool, the echo bouncing off the tiles with just the two of us in there. Sometimes we’d go into the bin closet—a radio was usually always on in there too. We’d act like the groups we were listening to,
fighting over who would be Diana Ross in the Supremes or dancing like we were the Temptations—snapping our fingers with the steps, singing our hearts out. Fun! Fun! Fun!
I loved all of Motown and Stax. I liked the Beatles too. Actually, I loved the Beatles. Man, did I get shit for that. Puerto Ricans and blacks weren’t supposed to like the Beatles. That meant you were trying to be white. But I didn’t care. Plus, I was in love with John Lennon too. And I loved corny songs as well, like Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline”—ba, ba, ba—or “Love (Can Make You Happy)” by Mercy. But the first time I heard the Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction” I stopped dead in my tracks. I loved it! I bounced up and down to Keith Richards’s guitar riff like a bunny rabbit. Cindy died laughing at me.
We loved to play hide-and-seek too. Well, Crazy Cindy loved to play hide-and-seek. I was afraid of hiding in dark places and was even more afraid of getting caught by the nuns and getting spanked. Although I did my best to avoid spankings, they still happened. So I became even more of a Goody Two-shoes, and my best defense was my sense of humor.
• • •
It was Sunday again, visitors’ day, months into my time at Saint Joseph’s. Crazy Cindy and I began to discuss what adventures we were going to get into while the other kids spent time with their loved ones. Sister Mary-Domenica came into the dormitory and walked over to my bunk with a nice off-white dress and a pair of brown Mary Jane shoes. She told me to put them on. I had no idea why, but I did.
“You have a visitor today,” she said. “Your aunt, Ana, has come to see you.”
I stared at her blankly.
“Are you not excited?” she asked.
I couldn’t say anything. I was confused. I didn’t know I had an aunt. Or at least, I had forgotten. It was probably my mind and soul’s attempt to protect me from being hurt any further. It was weird because I could count up to twenty-five by now, knew all of my ABCs and all of the primary colors, but couldn’t remember a thing about Tia.
“Do you not remember her? Do you not remember your Aunt Ana?”
I shook my head no.
“Well, of course you do.”
I looked back at Crazy Cindy and asked, “She can come too?”
“No. This is your visit, not hers,” she replied.
Cindy shrugged and said, “So? I don’t care.”
“Watch that tone, young lady. Get me the brush so I can brush this bush of hers,” Sister Mary-Domenica commanded Cindy.
As Cindy ran off to get the brush, I looked up at the old bag with a deep sigh. I hated getting my hair combed by her. She was so harsh about it, not like the counselors and Sister Ann-Marie. I was what they would call “tender-headed,” meaning my head was extremely sensitive, and you had to go very slowly when pulling at my cotton-candy, curly bush. Cindy came back, dragging her feet, handed Sister Mary-Domenica the brush, and leaned against the bunk post. I took a deep breath and squeezed my eyes tightly shut, anticipating the pain. And boy, did it come. With every stroke of the brush, I winced and jerked away, only to have her pull me back. “Keep still, Rosemary!” she barked. Man, oh man, the witch was killing me. It felt like she had pure hate for my frizz, like she was pulling all the Caribbean out of each strand.
“Ouch! It hurts,” I whined.
“Of course it hurts,” she sternly replied. “With this kind of hair, what do you expect?”
Say what?
I left with Sister Mary-Domenica, looking back at Crazy Cindy. She looked so sad, so abandoned. I felt like I was betraying her, betraying our little “outsiders” pack. For the first time, I saw Cindy cry.
Sister Mary-Domenica brought me out to one of the smaller courtyards and told me to wait there. It was early fall. The leaves had just started to turn colors. I climbed up on a white iron bench. No one else was there. I turned around to see where Sister Mary-Domenica had gone. She was talking to this light-skinned, plump woman who was holding a large brown paper shopping bag, pointing at me. The woman slowly walked over to me.
“Hello, Rosie. I mean, Rosemary. Do you remember me?”
I shook my head no. I really didn’t, but then again she kind of looked familiar. For some reason, I felt threatened. My breathing began to quicken, and I pressed my lips together, trying to prevent them from quivering. I hated being a crybaby, especially in front of this woman, who was looking more and more familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“May I sit down with you?” she asked softly. I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t answer her.
She sat down next to me anyway. I inched away.
“You don’t remember me?” she asked again. Again, I didn’t reply. I shook my head no.
Who was this woman?
“I’m your Tia. Oh, sorry, I mean your aunt, Ana.
De
nuns told me not to speak Spanish to you. They say you get confused. I brought you some food, your favorite,
arroz y gandules
. Oh, sorry. I mean rice with pigeon peas. And a little birthday cake.” She pulled out a small, hard plastic bowl covered with aluminum foil. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come for your birthday. I was very sick.” She then took out the tiny round cake and began to put four candles in it. “Would
you like some?” Again, no response from me. “How about some chocolate? I brought you a 100 Grand candy bar.”
She held it out for a minute. I didn’t take it. Boy, she was making me pissed and confused.
This woman is my aunt? I don’t want her to be my aunt. I can’t stand this woman
. She set the candy bar next to me anyway. I wanted it so bad. The only time I had candy was when Puerto Rican—Jew Evita Feinstein shared hers or when Crazy Cindy would give me any leftovers she got after she begged the other girls for candy at the end of visiting day, since I was too proud to beg. But I wanted to get away from this lady. Where were the nuns, who were always up your ass, when you needed them? I held my ground and replied, “No thank you, ma’am. May I go now?” Her eyes flooded with water. With a sad smile, she simply replied, “If you like.”
I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. There was an awkward pause. I wanted to go, but I didn’t want to leave either. I didn’t want to hurt this nice, plump lady who I hated for no reason.
I looked down at my shoes and started swinging my feet back and forth. “Do you like your shoes?” she asked, looking down at them as well. “I picked them out myself. Your cousin Millie helped pick out
de
color.” This got my attention.
She looked back at me, hopefully, and said, “I sent you
de
dress you’re wearing too.
Espero que te guste. Espero que te guste a todos los robes que si
. [I hope you like it. I hope you like all the dresses I sent you.] You look very pretty in it.”
Tears started to roll down my face. She touched my hand—I pulled it back. I felt bad for doing that. I knew I was hurting her, but I couldn’t stop myself. She began to cry too, but she never stopped smiling. I looked at her. I saw those big sad eyes, the full lips, and the high cheekbones. I thought to myself,
I know this lady. But who is she?
Why did I recognize her voice when she spoke Spanish?
“I brought you some more birthday presents. This one is one of your favorites,” she said with a light smile.
She pulled out a Shirley Temple coloring book and some crayons. Shirley Temple? How did she know I liked Shirley Temple? My heart was exploding; it felt like it was too big for my chest.
“Do you remember Shirley Temple?”
I nodded yes.
“Do you remember when we used to watch her movies together?”
I couldn’t move. I did, kind of. I wasn’t sure. But I
was
sure. Was this why I hated her? Could she be the one who allowed that lady everyone was calling my mother to take me away? Was she the one who didn’t come and save me from this awful place?
We sat there for a while not saying anything to each other. I looked up at the puffy clouds, then at the leaves turning brown on the trees. I watched a leaf fall off its branch and twirl down to the ground. The tension slowly started to erode. I looked back down at my feet. She handed me a box of animal crackers. I took the box and said in a whisper,
“Gracias.” Gracias?
Why am I speaking Spanish?