Us, in Progress

  DEDICATION

  To the real twins behind “The Attack”

  and to their mother, con gran cariño —L.D.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Introduction

  The Attack

  Selfie

  Güera

  Burrito Man

  Band-Aid

  Firstborn

  Cubano Two

  Peacemaker

  The Secret

  Pickup Soccer

  Saturday School

  90,000 Children

  Acknowledgments

  Translations of Spanish Words and Phrases

  Translations of the Refranes

  Notes on the Stories

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  INTRODUCTION

  The first chapter in this book is also the story that inspired me to create this collection. “The Attack” tells the story of an encounter with the police gone wrong. It is a true story, and one that a family friend shared with me from her life. At the time I encouraged Guadalupe (not her real name) to go to the press, but she refused, not wanting to have additional complications with the police. Her choice to flee the United States and spare her sons further repercussions, rather than tell her story, left me unsettled. I firmly believed this story needed to be told. I started to read as much as I could about Latinos in the news. And a picture began to emerge that reinforced my belief that while we Latinos are an integral part of the American fabric and provide texture and richness to it, we remain elusive in children’s books. So I set out to create a collection of stories that portray coming-of-age experiences in the context of current events that affect young Latinos in the United States. The collection shows geographic and cultural diversity. Stories of middle-class Tejanos are featured alongside those of first-generation, working-class Mexicans and Puerto Rican diaspora kids in Florida. In presenting a broad swath of Latinidad, I aim to show that we are not a monolithic group. All stories are based on either news articles or the personal experiences of my friends and acquaintances.

  As I developed the collection, I chose to pair each story with a refrán. Refranes are Spanish sayings widely used throughout Latin America and often sprinkled in conversation. It takes less time to use a refrán to make a point than to find the right words to explain a complex situation. I’d like you, the reader, to think about the point each refrán makes in relationship to the story.

  Finally, I decided to create mixed-media portraits of the main characters in the collection. The portraits give faces to the many young Latinos who are often invisible to mainstream America and who experience challenges similar to those described in the stories. I drew faces that show an array of feelings common to any young person, establishing a connection with the reader on an emotional level, and pulling him or her deeper into the stories.

  Each portrait is made with three layers. Just as I began my research process with a true story or piece of reporting, so I began my illustrations: the base layer is torn newspaper, linking in this way expository and creative writing. The next layer is a pencil drawing on a translucent plastic sheet called acetate: the unfinished portrait of a main character. I purposely left the drawings undone to suggest that each young person is a work in progress. The last, and top, layer is rice paper pierced with tiny holes at equal intervals suggesting a graph. In places, the holes increase in number, subtly marking the growing presence of Latinos in the United States. This imagery shows that this population is not only tightly woven into the fabric of the United States, but that it adds complexity and beauty to our country.

  I hope that after reading the collection and looking at the art, you will have a more nuanced view of the young Latinos growing up among us, and I hope that some stories will provide you with answers and others will pose questions.

  Enjoy the stories! ¡Disfruta los cuentos!

  Lulu Delacre

  THE ATTACK

  De noche todos los gatos son pardos.

  Emilio watched the steam rise from the hot iron as Mamá pressed the collar of Mr. Rodok’s perfectly white shirt. She stared out the window of the laundry room at her old green van parked by the edge of the manicured lawn.

  “As soon as we’re done here, I’ll drop you two home and head to the pharmacy,” she told Emilio and José. “I need to get Tony’s epilepsy medicine.” Mamá frowned, and Emilio knew she worried about the medicine.

  “Can we go with you?” asked José, standing by the tall double dryer. “To buy new school supplies?”

  “Don’t think so, m’hijo,” Mamá said, wiping sweat beads from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Tell you what: On Saturday I’ll take you and Emilio to the Minneapolis back-to-school fair for some free supplies. ¿Sí?”

  Emilio heard the eagerness in Mamá’s voice, like she was offering a chocolate-covered almond instead of a stale peanut. He lifted his eyes from his book and saw his twin slide down against the dryer’s door to land on the floor, sulking.

  “Yeah, we’ll find something,” Emilio said to soothe José. Emilio knew how hard Mamá worked as a maid in ten different houses to make ends meet. Three of their older brothers were on their own. But since Papá had trouble holding down a job and Tony’s was part-time because of his disability, Mamá was the main provider for the family. She went on vacation only every two years. That’s when the bunch of them would pack into their van and drive the long way south to their parents’ native Guanajuato in Mexico, to visit family and friends. Mamá said she didn’t want her US-born sons to lose track of their roots.

  “When school starts,” José said as he jumped to his feet, “me and my friends Marco and Pablo are starting a fútbol club! Emilio will be in it too. Right, Emilio? Last year the teacher told us that you can be anything you want in America. And I’m going to be una estrella del fútbol.”

  “¡Qué bueno!” said Mamá. “Now come, my soccer star, and help me carry up these ironed clothes.”

  Today Mamá had insisted on bringing Emilio and José to work. Emilio had a cold, and even though they were already eleven, Mamá did not like to leave them alone in the house. Emilio knew why. He had once overheard Mamá talking to the neighbor about how special he and his brother were. They are my milagros, Mamá had said. The way Mamá told it, she’d known she would be having identical twins long before she had gone to the doctor. La Virgen de Guadalupe had told her so in a dream. She was old, fifty-one, and was not supposed to be able to have more children. After raising three boys and having to manage Tony’s condition, she was also exhausted. Mamá said that when her milagros arrived, the light of day came into her life again.

  Emilio smiled at the thought of being a miracle.

  The twins ran upstairs as soon as they got home. Emilio went into their room first, wanting to see Tony before he left for work. Lately, he had noticed that Tony’s seizures had become more frequent. His older brother would complain about how scary it was when the attacks came without warning. Tony said it was better to feel the trembling and chills in his body, the metallic taste in his mouth, than to be taken by surprise. The nasty symptoms allowed him to get ready. “It’s horrible.” Tony had tried to describe to Emilio what an epileptic attack was like. “It’s like having a huge electric storm inside my head. An unstoppable storm.”

  Tony was coming out of the shower and reached for his meds on top of the chest of drawers. He found the vial empty.

  “Mamá is bringing your prescription soon,” Emilio said.

  “That’s right,” agreed José, pulling Emilio by the shirt to coax him into playing an action video game next to him.

  Tony finished getting dressed and headed downstairs for a snack before catching the bus.
“Do you two want some pineapple?” he called from the kitchen. “I’m cutting up a new one that Mamá brought last night.”

  “No, thanks!” Emilio and José yelled at the same time. “¡Gracias!”

  Emilio got up and went into the bathroom. On top of the toilet tank was Tony’s MedicAlert bracelet. It was engraved with his condition, and he was supposed to wear it at all times. But his brother didn’t like to shower with it. Emilio could hear his mother’s voice in his head, upset with Tony for forgetting the bracelet in the bathroom.

  “Tony!” Emilio hollered. “Your bracelet!”

  Before Tony could answer, a loud thump came from downstairs, followed by a string of shattering noises. Emilio raced down the stairs and slid to a stop outside the small, dark kitchen. Tony was sprawled on the floor, clenching a bloody knife in his right fist—his eyelids fluttering, eyeballs rolling back. Pieces of pineapple were scattered across the kitchen. Emilio opened his mouth, wanting to call José, but nothing would come out. So he stood there, frozen. Suddenly he felt his twin’s presence. He turned to see José springing from the stairs and lunging toward Tony, ready to take the knife out of his hand.

  “No!” Emilio yelled. “Don’t touch him! He could hurt you if he starts jerking around. I’ll call nine-one-one!”

  Within minutes, blaring sirens filled the air. Two officers from the station around the corner burst through the front door.

  “Get out of the way!” said one of them, pushing Emilio to the side as soon as he saw Tony lying on the floor with the knife in his hand. The officers rushed into the kitchen to control the situation. They screamed at Tony and kicked him several times to make him release his tight grip on the knife. But instead the blows seemed to trigger another seizure. Tony flailed his arm and the knife’s blade sliced into the leg of one of the officers.

  “What an idiot!” the injured policeman cried, cursing under his breath.

  Backup officers pushed their way into the house, yelling back and forth, one louder than the other. Emilio retreated to the foot of the stairs and crouched by the doorway, covering his ears, his eyes glued to the scene. José shouted through the commotion as he tried to explain his brother’s condition to the police. And adding to the mayhem, a tall officer stormed into the house. She drew her gun and aimed it at Tony, who was now lying motionless and barely conscious on the linoleum floor.

  “Don’t shoot!” someone ordered. “Handcuff the guy and take him in. Charge him with assault on a law enforcement officer.”

  On that command, a policeman put Tony’s arms behind his back, handcuffed him, and started to read him his rights.

  “No!” screamed José. “He didn’t mean it.”

  “He’s sick,” Emilio whispered. “He—he—has epilepsy.”

  Mamá pulled into the driveway to find Tony being pushed by his head into the backseat of a police car, its engine rumbling.

  “¡Ay, Diosito mío!” Emilio heard her scream as she jumped out of her van, dropping Tony’s medicine. “My God, what is going on?” She ran after the car as it rounded the corner. “Come back!” she cried again and again.

  From that day on, Emilio began to have nightmares. As days turned into weeks, the nightmares became more frequent and scarier. In the still of the night, he would wake up sobbing. When this happened, José would move to his side and lie quietly next to him until Emilio fell asleep again.

  One night, Emilio could not go back to sleep. Even with José by his side he couldn’t stop thinking about all the things that had happened since that awful afternoon. Their parents had received a letter from the police suing Tony for attempting to harm an officer. Their mother had held endless conversations with Tony’s social worker, neurologist, and lawyer. The court date for Tony to defend himself was fast approaching. But even with the likely prospect of all charges being dropped and the lawsuit being dismissed because of Tony’s medical condition, Papá had been threatening to leave the United States for good. He thought the police had singled them out and didn’t feel welcome anymore.

  Part of Emilio wanted to leave too. Go far, far away, to Mexico, where he wouldn’t have to walk by the police station on his way home from school. Every time he did, his breathing became shallow, his skin felt clammy, and the blood drained from his face. But part of Emilio wanted to stay; he was sad for José, knowing how hard it would be for him to leave. Just two months into middle school, José was having a great time. He had joined a soccer club, just like he had dreamed about. He liked his teachers and had made many new friends. Not Emilio. At school, Emilio could hardly concentrate. He couldn’t help but wonder why all of this had had to happen. If he hadn’t called 911, Tony would have never been arrested. He replayed the scene in his head over and over, each time coming up with a different ending, one that did not involve Tony getting sent to jail, creating more problems for Mamá to try to solve. At times Emilio wondered: If he hadn’t called, would José have been able to pry the knife out of Tony’s hand safely? Calling for help was the right thing to do! José kept telling him. True, they had learned at school that in an emergency you called 911. But was that wrong? And what if Tony had been wearing his bracelet? Maybe then the officers would have understood right away that he was ill. In the end, Emilio knew, he was the one who’d chosen to make the call that had triggered the horrible events. No one else.

  They are my milagros, Mamá always said. Some miracle he was.

  Since school started, Emilio had been to the counselor’s office many times. The counselor had asked endless questions, trying to figure out what was going on in his head. Why had his grades worsened? Why wasn’t he engaged in school? Emilio was polite but refused to talk. He couldn’t bear to say a single word that would remind him of the events of that afternoon. Each time someone brought up the subject, Emilio clammed up, stone-faced.

  Outside, the sun rose. And at the first morning light Emilio felt a headache coming on.

  José jumped out of bed. “Let’s go, Emilio!” he exclaimed. “I have soccer practice at school today!”

  Emilio got ready for school in wordless, mechanical motions. Later in the afternoon Mamá and Papá were meeting with his school counselor. What would come of it? Emilio wondered.

  That evening, Emilio was home, helping to clear the dinner dishes along with José. It was then that Mamá gathered the family together. “Vamos a rezar,” Mamá said. “Let’s pray.” Emilio knew something was troubling Mamá. When she was troubled, she would urge the family to pray the rosary in the middle of the week. Emilio, José, Mamá, Papá, and Tony alternated Hail Marys for every single bead.

  After they were done, Mamá leaned back in her chair.

  “Listen, niños,” she said, measuring her words. “Your father and I think you need to finish school in Mexico. Tony will stay here in the house with one of your older brothers. He needs the care that the county provides.”

  Emilio looked up, holding his breath.

  “What?” José blurted from the edge of his seat. “You mean forever?”

  “No, not forever. We’ll drive back to visit, just as we visited Mexico some summers. It will be great to live there with family and friends who love you. Aren’t you excited?” Mamá said, trying to make light of it.

  José sank in his chair.

  Emilio glanced down, pulled into the well-known dark place again. He could almost hear his twin’s thoughts. What about Marco, Pablo, and all his new soccer buddies? Was he supposed to leave the only home he had ever known, the country of his birth? Would he ever become a fútbol star if he left America? José had shared his dreams so many times with Emilio. Emilio felt tears running down his cheeks. A tear for his brother. A tear for himself.

  José stood up, ready to protest, but then his gaze met Emilio’s. Their eyes locked, and Emilio knew José was looking deep into Emilio’s soul, seeing the relief, the sorrow, the confusion. José sat down again.

  “Sí, Mamá,” said José flatly. “It will be great moving to Mexico.”

  Wh
en Emilio heard José, he felt like a lead cloud had been lifted. His twin had chosen for both of them. He got up and gave José a warm hug.

  Gently, Mamá placed her rosary back in its small wicker box and breathed deeply.

  “You know,” she said to Papá, “I feel torn about leaving Tony behind. And we don’t know if I’ll find work in Mexico.” She rose, smoothing her shirt, and walked to the stove to finish cleaning.

  José had turned Emilio’s hug into a wrestling match. They grappled with each other on the floor. Emilio had just pinned José when he saw Mamá clutch the silver medal of the Virgen de Guadalupe that hung by her heart and stare at the sky out the window. For a second, guilt gripped Emilio again, thinking of Mamá’s worry, but then José made him laugh, and Mamá turned to them.

  A broad smile brightened her face as she looked from Emilio to José and back to Emilio.

  “Mis milagros,” Mamá whispered.

  And suddenly Emilio knew it was their smiles that fed Mamá’s. That—that—was the miracle.

  SELFIE

  El que quiera celeste, que le cueste.

  “Picture Day!” Marla said to herself, standing in front of the bathroom mirror. She applied a little lip gloss, wanting to look good for Picture Day at school. Marla tilted her head this way and that to check out her new highlights. That’s when she noticed it. The ring around the sides of her neck had darkened. It had spread toward the front, too! She cringed. She pulled her hair up and rubbed her neck with soap and water until it felt raw, but the ring remained. Frantic, she headed to the kitchen, stepping over piles of stuff on the floor of the room she shared with Mamá in their East LA apartment. She’d seen on TV that potatoes lightened the skin. She opened the fridge to find it almost empty, the last potato rotten. Marla sighed. It was that time of the month again. Mamá made barely enough for the rent, so they depended on government help for food, and the money always came on the tenth. Today was September 9.