How Tía Lola Learned to Teach (14 page)

By the time Miguel, Juanita, Tía Lola, and Mami arrive, a crowd has gathered in front of the no-nonsense, boxlike brick building.
DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY
, a large sign announces. Several police cars are parked directly in front of the building, and the pathway to the door is blocked by sawhorse barricades. The officers look baffled as to why such a multitude has descended on their sleepy little town on a sunny April morning.

The minute Tía Lola appears, the crowd cheers. The three policemen are suddenly at attention, ready to protect the building against any attack. But coming toward them is a nice-looking young woman in an elegant black
pantsuit, accompanied by a boy and a girl dressed up real nice as well. Behind them—must be the grandmother—is a perky, older lady with a jaunty purple flower in her hair and a bright yellow scarf draped over her coat. Only thing a little different about the family is their brown skin and their super-courteous manners. They stop to explain who they are, apologizing for any disturbance. So this is the family everyone has been expecting.

“Your lawyers just went in,” one of the officers explains. “They’re waiting for you inside.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mami says, eyeing Miguel and Juanita, who chime in, “Thank you, sir, thank you.” On the ride up, Mami has coached them, using Tía Lola’s saying about catching flies with a drop of honey, not a quart of vinegar.

“Muchas gracias,”
Tía Lola echoes in Spanish, adding,
“El amor lo vence todo.”
It’s one of her sayings: Love conquers all.

“Not yet, Tía Lola,” Miguel whispers. She should save her sayings for later. This officer is not the person Tía Lola has to impress.

But Tía Lola’s smile is so radiant, the gruff-looking man smiles back. “Watch your step,” he cautions, and opens the door for her!

Inside, Carmen is so happy to see them, she gives them all hugs, even though she and Mami usually just shake hands. When they are done with their greetings, a tall brown-skinned man steps forward. His hair is black and disheveled, his glasses small and round. He looks
more like an absentminded professor than a sharp New York City lawyer.
“Ay, perdóname,”
Carmen apologizes. She introduces her lawyer friend, whose specialty is immigration law: Víctor Espada. That
is
a lucky omen, Miguel can’t help thinking: a lawyer whose name means “victory sword.”

“Hola, mucho gusto,”
he greets them in perfect Spanish. It turns out that Víctor’s ancestors came from Mexico a long time ago. “Actually, they didn’t come
here
as much as the United States came to
them
in 1848.” Miguel remembers learning about the Mexican-American War in history class, how a whole chunk of the Southwest was handed over by Mexico when the United States won the war.

After the introductions, Mami explains about the oracle idea her brilliant son came up with. “Sounds like a plan,” Víctor says, giving Miguel a man-to-man nod. It’s enough of a compliment without being all gushy, which Miguel appreciates.

“What do you say we bring in a few of the town’s prominent citizens to speak up for Tía Lola?” Víctor looks over at Miguel like they are planning this case together. That is how Mrs. Stevens and Rudy and Colonel Charlebois, dressed in his old army uniform, are allowed inside the building.

Once their party is all assembled, the switchboard person calls for a Homeland Security officer to come escort them to the hearing room, where Judge Reginald Laliberte is waiting for them.

“Reginald Laliberte?” Colonel Charlebois recognizes the name. “Why, I shipped out to Korea with his father. Got shot down. Left the family fatherless. Mother died soon thereafter. Heard the six kids were farmed out to relatives, a couple to a home. Last I heard, some did well, some ended up behind bars. I guess we’re about to see one of the ones who did okay. Reggie’s son—who would have thought!”

Miguel isn’t sure if this is good news or bad news. Sounds like this judge has had a tough life, and sometimes that can make a person be tough on everyone else. But it’s too late to request an alternate.

They file down the hall quietly, overtaken by the somber air of the place. The walls are bare, except for a few posters with warnings (no smoking, no firearms, no photographs)—nothing cheerful like kittens playing with balls of yarn or photographs of pretty scenes in Vermont. Only Tía Lola seems relaxed, smiling eagerly, as if she’s about to enter a party rather than a room where her fate will soon be decided.

“Aren’t you nervous, Tía Lola?” Miguel whispers just before they go in.

“A mal tiempo, buena cara,”
she replies, flashing him an extra bright smile. In bad times, put on a good face. And that’s exactly what she does when she stands before the judge, who sits behind a big desk on a raised platform. He is an older man, gray-haired but with eyebrows that have not aged: they are an astonishing jet-black. This gives him a stern look, as if he is permanently scowling.

“Good morning,” he says, not unkindly. “Looks like spring has finally arrived.” Miguel knows the gray-haired man is talking about the sunny day outside the window. But he can’t help thinking that perhaps the judge is also paying a compliment to Tía Lola’s colorful flowered dress, now in full display as she removes her coat.

“Una golondrina no hace el verano,”
Tía Lola reminds him. “We’ll have to wait and see if spring is here!”

Víctor translates the saying.

“Very wisely put,” the judge says, making a note on his pad. “One swallow does not make a summer,” he murmurs, chuckling to himself.

“It doesn’t make a summer, but it’s a start,” Tía Lola adds, winking at the judge when he looks up from his notepad.

Mami is the first witness. The judge wants to know the whole story of why Tía Lola came up from the Dominican Republic. As Mami talks, he listens, head bowed, so he looks like he’s praying. Every once in a while, he glances up, as if verifying with a probing glance the truth of some remark.

Mami begins by explaining how Tía Lola took care of her as a little girl after her
mami
and
papi
died. (The judge looks up. Maybe he’s thinking about the deaths of his own parents?) How Mami got the opportunity to come to the States to study; how she met her husband, also an
immigrant; how they married, had two kids, separated, divorced. (Mami hurries through this part.) How she took a job in Vermont. How she needed another family member in the household to help with her kids when they came home from school. How Tía Lola came to visit and then decided to stay. How her visa was for sixteen months and is now about to expire. How they went to a lawyer and paid him a lot of money to help get Tía Lola a residency card so she could stay with the family, but he must not have done anything because Tía Lola just got a notice that she has to leave.

“I know she’s not technically my mother or the kids’ grandmother, but she really is to us.” Mami’s voice starts to quiver. “Please, Judge, sir, don’t tear my family apart.”

Miguel hopes with all his might that his
mami
won’t cry. For one thing, that’ll get Juanita started; then Carmen, who cries at the drop of a hat; and soon, Tía Lola will be bawling. This tough judge might decide this country doesn’t need more crybabies.

“Your aunt, or I should say your mother, certainly sounds like a very important member of your family,” the judge concedes to Mami. “And from the size of the crowd out there”—he nods toward the window—“she must also be a beloved member of your community.”

“I can attest to that,” Colonel Charlebois says, coming forward, leaning on his cane. “This individual is one of the best things that has ever happened to our town. And I’ve been around for a long time. Even served with your father!”

The judge glances up at the old man in a worn army uniform. For a moment he looks as if he is seeing a ghost from the past.

“Your father was a true hero,” Colonel Charlebois adds, drawing himself up as straight as he’s ever going to get and giving the gray-haired man a firm salute.

Slowly, the judge lifts one hand and salutes back.

After a brief recess, Tía Lola is next. The judge begins by asking her what she thinks of all this praise.

“They make me sound like a big hero, but I’m not,” Tía Lola explains in Spanish. Miguel shakes his head, contradicting his aunt. Tía Lola is supposed to be convincing the judge that she is extraordinary, not telling him she’s not! “But better than being an important person is being important to the people you love.
Mejor ser cabeza de ratón que rabo de león
.”

The judge laughs when Víctor translates Tía Lola’s saying. “Better to be the head of a rat than the tail of a lion,” he murmurs to himself as he writes down the saying in his pad.

One by one, the witnesses get up and attest to the worth of Tía Lola. Finally, when all the adults have had their say, the judge turns to Juanita and Miguel. “I guess the only two people I haven’t heard from in this room are you two. Will you come forward and introduce yourselves?”

Juanita jumps right up and approaches the bench. “My name is Juana Inés Guzmán, but everyone—except Carmen—calls me Juanita,” she rattles off easily. Before the judge can even ask her a question, Juanita has launched into how Tía Lola is like her combination grandmother, favorite aunt, and best friend. If she is forced to leave the United States, Juanita wants permission to go with her.

“Well, that would be a great loss to our country,” the judge says, looking genuinely concerned about losing Juanita to the Dominican Republic. “I hope you’re not going to abandon ship as well,” he says, craning his neck in order to look behind Juanita to where Miguel is still sitting. For some reason, Miguel has not been able to move. His legs might as well be two blocks of concrete. He feels almost as scared as he did when Rafi slammed him against the wall in the subway.

“Come forward, young man,” the judge urges him again. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

“He’s not afraid!” Tía Lola defends her nephew. “He just knows silence is precious.
En boca cerrada no entran moscas
.” No flies can enter a closed mouth.

The judge roars with laughter. “You are a lively lady, all right!”

“You should see her on Wednesday nights,” Rudy speaks up. He explains about the wonderful community dinners, the menu in Spanish, the dance lessons. “Amigos Café—come down and check it out.”

“Sounds like this individual
is
pretty extraordinary!
But I would like to hear from the young man. You know, our American boys and girls are our national treasure. And a word from them is worth any dozen testimonies from us old fogies.”

Given that summons, how can Miguel not come forward? Suddenly, his legs are as light as if he were that Greek god Mercury, with wings on his ankles and on his cap. He walks to the platform and looks up at the gray-haired man with stern eyebrows but surprisingly kind eyes.

“What have you got to say to add to this chorus of praise for Ms. Lola?”

And so Miguel tells him. How heartbroken he was when his parents separated. How he feels very lucky because slowly his family is re-forming in new ways. “She’s actually going to be my stepmother,” Miguel says, pointing to Carmen, who bows her head to hide her grateful tears. Then, pointing to Mami, he adds, “My
mami
is great at her job, but sometimes she has to work real late. Tía Lola is the only family we have in Vermont to help take care of us.” Actually, Tía Lola has held all the broken pieces of their family together during tough times. But Miguel doesn’t want to get too mushy in front of this crowd.

As Miguel speaks, the judge gazes intently at him, as if something in this boy reminds him of his younger self. “At first, I wasn’t sure about Tía Lola joining our family, because she was kind of different and I was afraid kids would make fun of us. But then Tía Lola came to our school and everybody fell in love with her.”

“She’s the best thing that has happened to Bridgeport Elementary School,” Mrs. Stevens adds.

“She’s like our barnacle,” Juanita says, getting her two new words confused. But it works: Tía Lola is like an oracle, but she’s also like a barnacle, attached to everyone, part of the flora and the fauna of their town.