States because she had gone there tempting fate as an undocumented worker, leaving us with the promise that in a few months she’d send for us, as soon as she had a visa, a place to live, and a job. Some of the girls in my school, back in our native country, would go out to flaunt their stuff in tight Lycra pants, Nike shoes, and Bebe brand shirts with brilliant hearts and silver sequins. There was no need to ask where such treasures came from. “This is American,” they said, “they brought it to me from Miami.” I didn’t have anyone who could bring me anything from Miami, not even Barbies. On the other hand, we knew that Bolivia was there and that one day she’d bring us there, me and my sister, and she’d fill our closets with American clothes. Sometimes, I saved enough money to buy a Milky Way. They sold them as contraband near the school exit and I’d taste them with my eyes closed, not daring to actually ever bite into one, thinking, this is what America tastes like, and the first thing I’m going to do when I get there is to go on a Milky Way binge. I’m going to buy a whole bag of the minis just for myself, my favorite, because I could stick the whole thing in my mouth and dream about my mother in America.
Bolivia had left Violeta and me in different houses, cared for by different families in separate cities. She couldn’t find anyone to take both girls at once. As I’ve said, when she left I was seven and Violeta only a few months old. I was one man’s daughter, Violeta another man’s, and my mother had broken things off with both of them. Who were these men, what kind of creatures were they, what color were their eyes, their hair, were they good people or not? Only our mother knew. See how things are, I’ve never known anything about the man who gave me life, and now I don’t know much about you, who is going to write my biography. I know that once you hit a bear riding a motorcycle on a mountain road. I know it because you told the story in class. I’m trying to remember what your hands looked like. Big? White? That would be the obvious choice, but the truth is I don’t know. Maybe I’ve forgotten, or perhaps never really looked at them, although I doubt it, I like masculine hands and in Manninpox there weren’t many. Your face also has been erased, so I have given you Andre Agassi’s face. I hope that’s okay.
Oh, Bolivia, at what point did you become obsessed with America? The fact was that we too lived in America, Latin America. But that wasn’t America: the North had even taken the name. Bolivia would say on the phone, “Here the streets are safe, honey; the trucks pick up the garbage every day and there is no one without a car.” That’s what Bolivia said, and she assured me that America smelled clean and I believed her, and I dreamed of that smell, and of the taste of Milky Ways, and took it for a fact that Bolivia had a car. If everyone else did, why not my mom? She called every month religiously, once a month, and she sent money for our upkeep. She also called Violeta, although at first she was too young, but even when she was older, she never wanted to speak on the phone. She had her issues, Violeta, so pretty and so locked up in her silences. Unless she gets the urge to talk or scream, and then no one talks as much or screams as loud.
Once, when we were already in the States and Violeta must have been around thirteen, she started to scream in a museum where I had taken her one Sunday. All of a sudden she let out a prolonged shriek because of a portrait she had seen. Of a saint. I don’t remember the painter, but an old, dark canvas. There was something terrifying about it, for sure. It was St. Agatha and she was carrying her breasts on a platter, white, very round, and tender, one on each side of what seemed to be a silver platter. They had severed them to torture her and she exhibited them so that humanity took note of her unshakable faith. It was my fault; I shouldn’t
Bolivia had left Violeta and me in different houses, cared for by different families in separate cities. She couldn’t find anyone to take both girls at once. As I’ve said, when she left I was seven and Violeta only a few months old. I was one man’s daughter, Violeta another man’s, and my mother had broken things off with both of them. Who were these men, what kind of creatures were they, what color were their eyes, their hair, were they good people or not? Only our mother knew. See how things are, I’ve never known anything about the man who gave me life, and now I don’t know much about you, who is going to write my biography. I know that once you hit a bear riding a motorcycle on a mountain road. I know it because you told the story in class. I’m trying to remember what your hands looked like. Big? White? That would be the obvious choice, but the truth is I don’t know. Maybe I’ve forgotten, or perhaps never really looked at them, although I doubt it, I like masculine hands and in Manninpox there weren’t many. Your face also has been erased, so I have given you Andre Agassi’s face. I hope that’s okay.
Oh, Bolivia, at what point did you become obsessed with America? The fact was that we too lived in America, Latin America. But that wasn’t America: the North had even taken the name. Bolivia would say on the phone, “Here the streets are safe, honey; the trucks pick up the garbage every day and there is no one without a car.” That’s what Bolivia said, and she assured me that America smelled clean and I believed her, and I dreamed of that smell, and of the taste of Milky Ways, and took it for a fact that Bolivia had a car. If everyone else did, why not my mom? She called every month religiously, once a month, and she sent money for our upkeep. She also called Violeta, although at first she was too young, but even when she was older, she never wanted to speak on the phone. She had her issues, Violeta, so pretty and so locked up in her silences. Unless she gets the urge to talk or scream, and then no one talks as much or screams as loud.
Once, when we were already in the States and Violeta must have been around thirteen, she started to scream in a museum where I had taken her one Sunday. All of a sudden she let out a prolonged shriek because of a portrait she had seen. Of a saint. I don’t remember the painter, but an old, dark canvas. There was something terrifying about it, for sure. It was St. Agatha and she was carrying her breasts on a platter, white, very round, and tender, one on each side of what seemed to be a silver platter. They had severed them to torture her and she exhibited them so that humanity took note of her unshakable faith. It was my fault; I shouldn’t
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