The Revolution of Evelyn Serrano by Sonia Manzano

her work so I knew that her back was still hurting her. Still — she wanted to make coffee for me.
    â€œMaybe you shouldn’t be making pasteles ’cause you hurt your back and all.”
    â€œI have to make them, mija . People expect me to.”
    â€œI know, Mami, but you don’t make that much more money.”
    â€œIt’s the only way.”
    I started to tell her maybe working so hard wasn’t the only way but didn’t. She wouldn’t get it anyway.
    â€œYou going to church?” she asked, tossing the peeled yautía into a pot of salted water.
    â€œYes.”
    She laughed. “I guess I can thank the Young Lords for that.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThey making you like church. Even though you are wearing jeans — like you are a farmer.”
    It was true. Since Abuela bought me a pair of jeans from Lerner’s, it’s all I’d been wanting to wear. But I ignored Mami’s comment and watched her peel another yautía .
    â€œThe pastor has agreed to meet with the Young Lords today, Mami.”
    â€œ Pues lo que sea. Whatever,” she said, and continued working. The light coming in from the window was hitting the back of Mami’s head so I couldn’t see her face, but I could see her hands. She had one split nail that grew in crooked and a scar. I knew the nail had been damaged while she was helping Pops unload a refrigerator, but I didn’t know how she got the scar under her thumb. The cuticles on all her fingers were jagged, all the nails ragged. The image of Abuela’s coral-colored fingertips went through my mind and I had to ask.
    â€œMami, how come you and Abuela are fighting all the time?”
    We listened to the sound of her knife gouging off the hard skin of the yautía before she answered carefully.
    â€œI guess you are maybe old enough to understand. Your abuela and I were never close. How could we be? She was always away working with the Nationalists all over the island.”
    â€œWho did you stay with?”
    â€œA few people. For a while, I stayed with an older cousin in Ponce. They were nice, they were doing all right, but I always felt I was taking from them.”
    â€œTaking what?”
    â€œI don’t know. Food. Space.”
    Mami sighed.
    â€œWhen my cousin had a baby, she needed the room, so I had to leave.” Mami dumped the yautía she was peeling into the salted water. “There was another cousin who took me in, but it was on the other side of the island, Aguas Buenas. That was hard. It was mountainous, and when it rained, it was very muddy. I didn’t see my mother much after that.”
    She stopped talking and poured some lard into a frying pan, set the flame, and began to slice up some onions. “These onions always get in my eyes,” she said, wiping them with the back of her hand. “I was happy to get married to your father and live in my own place.” Then she started laughing. “It’s funny. One of the few times I saw your grandmother was when tu padre died. She came to protest.”
    â€œThat he died?”
    â€œNo, to protest the war in Korea.”
    â€œBut Papi died way after the war.”
    â€œBut he died of a wound that happened during the war. Your abuela came with signs that said she was against all wars fought by poor people for the rich.”
    Mami said this with no hint of judgment or opinion.
    â€œPregnant with you, I came to New York as soon as I could. I had to get away. There was work here. I wanted my own house. I just didn’t know how hard it was going to be to get one.” She tossed the onions into the hot fat, and we listened to it sizzle. “But I got here — and I will get my house.” She paused, then went on, “You better go. I’ll stay here and finish.”
    She didn’t want to talk anymore. I went from being angry to pitying her and walked to church trying to contain the revolution those two