corner, on the night of his triumphant return, he had screamed, What in carajo are you doing?
Decent people live around here and that’s how we’re going to live. You’re Americans now. He had his Chivas Regal bottle on his knee.
After waiting a few seconds to show that yes, I’d digested everything he’d said, I asked, Can we go out now?
Why don’t you help me unpack? Mami suggested. Her hands were very still; usually they were fussing with a piece of paper, a sleeve, or each other.
We’ll just be out for a little while, I said. I got up and pulled on my boots. Had I known my father even a little I might not have turned my back on him. But I didn’t know him; he’d spent the last five years in the States working, and we’d spent the last five years in Santo Domingo waiting. He grabbed my ear and wrenched me back onto the couch. He did not look happy.
You’ll go out when I say you’re ready.
I looked over at Rafa, who sat quietly in front of the TV. Back on the Island, the two of us had taken guaguas clear across the capital by ourselves. I looked up at Papi, his narrow face still unfamiliar. Don’t you eye me, he said.
Mami stood up. You kids might as well give me a hand.
I didn’t move. On the TV the newscasters were making small, flat noises at each other. They were repeating one word over and over. Later when I went to school I would learn that the word they were saying was
Vietnam
.
—
SINCE WE WEREN’T ALLOWED out of the house—it’s too cold, Papi said once but really there was no reason other than that’s what he wanted—we mostly sat in front of the TV or stared out at the snow those first days. Mami cleaned everything about ten times and made us some damn elaborate lunches. We were all bored speechless.
Pretty early on Mami decided that watching TV was beneficial; you could learn the language from it. She saw our young minds as bright, spiky sunflowers in need of light, and arranged us as close to the TV as possible to maximize our exposure. We watched the news, sitcoms, cartoons,
Tarzan, Flash Gordon, Jonny Quest, The Herculoids, Sesame Street
—eight, nine hours of TV a day, but it was
Sesame Street
that gave us our best lessons. Each word my brother and I learned we passed between ourselves, repeating over and over, and when Mami asked us to show her how to say it, we shook our heads and said, Don’t worry about it.
Just tell me, she said, and when we pronounced the words slowly, forming huge, lazy soap bubbles of sound, she never could duplicate them. Her lips seemed to tug apart even the simplest vowels. That sounds horrible, I said.
What do you know about English? she asked.
At dinner she’d try her English out on Papi, but he just poked at his pernil, which was not my mother’s best dish.
I can’t understand a word you’re saying, he said finally. It’s best if I take care of the English.
How do you expect me to learn?
You don’t have to learn, he said. Besides, the average woman can’t learn English.
It’s a difficult language to master, he said, first in Spanish and then in English.
Mami didn’t say another word. In the morning, as soon as Papi was out of the apartment, Mami turned on the TV and put us in front of it. The apartment was always cold in the morning and leaving our beds was a serious torment.
It’s too early, we said.
It’s like school, she suggested.
No, it’s not, we said. We were used to going to school at noon.
You two complain too much. She would stand behind us and when I turned around she would be mouthing the words we were learning, trying to make sense of them.
—
EVEN PAPI’S EARLY-MORNING noises were strange to me. I lay in bed, listening to him stumbling around in the bathroom, like he was drunk or something. I didn’t know what he did for Reynolds Aluminum, but he had a lot of uniforms in his closet, all filthy with machine oil.
I had expected a different father, one about seven feet tall with enough money to buy our
Decent people live around here and that’s how we’re going to live. You’re Americans now. He had his Chivas Regal bottle on his knee.
After waiting a few seconds to show that yes, I’d digested everything he’d said, I asked, Can we go out now?
Why don’t you help me unpack? Mami suggested. Her hands were very still; usually they were fussing with a piece of paper, a sleeve, or each other.
We’ll just be out for a little while, I said. I got up and pulled on my boots. Had I known my father even a little I might not have turned my back on him. But I didn’t know him; he’d spent the last five years in the States working, and we’d spent the last five years in Santo Domingo waiting. He grabbed my ear and wrenched me back onto the couch. He did not look happy.
You’ll go out when I say you’re ready.
I looked over at Rafa, who sat quietly in front of the TV. Back on the Island, the two of us had taken guaguas clear across the capital by ourselves. I looked up at Papi, his narrow face still unfamiliar. Don’t you eye me, he said.
Mami stood up. You kids might as well give me a hand.
I didn’t move. On the TV the newscasters were making small, flat noises at each other. They were repeating one word over and over. Later when I went to school I would learn that the word they were saying was
Vietnam
.
—
SINCE WE WEREN’T ALLOWED out of the house—it’s too cold, Papi said once but really there was no reason other than that’s what he wanted—we mostly sat in front of the TV or stared out at the snow those first days. Mami cleaned everything about ten times and made us some damn elaborate lunches. We were all bored speechless.
Pretty early on Mami decided that watching TV was beneficial; you could learn the language from it. She saw our young minds as bright, spiky sunflowers in need of light, and arranged us as close to the TV as possible to maximize our exposure. We watched the news, sitcoms, cartoons,
Tarzan, Flash Gordon, Jonny Quest, The Herculoids, Sesame Street
—eight, nine hours of TV a day, but it was
Sesame Street
that gave us our best lessons. Each word my brother and I learned we passed between ourselves, repeating over and over, and when Mami asked us to show her how to say it, we shook our heads and said, Don’t worry about it.
Just tell me, she said, and when we pronounced the words slowly, forming huge, lazy soap bubbles of sound, she never could duplicate them. Her lips seemed to tug apart even the simplest vowels. That sounds horrible, I said.
What do you know about English? she asked.
At dinner she’d try her English out on Papi, but he just poked at his pernil, which was not my mother’s best dish.
I can’t understand a word you’re saying, he said finally. It’s best if I take care of the English.
How do you expect me to learn?
You don’t have to learn, he said. Besides, the average woman can’t learn English.
It’s a difficult language to master, he said, first in Spanish and then in English.
Mami didn’t say another word. In the morning, as soon as Papi was out of the apartment, Mami turned on the TV and put us in front of it. The apartment was always cold in the morning and leaving our beds was a serious torment.
It’s too early, we said.
It’s like school, she suggested.
No, it’s not, we said. We were used to going to school at noon.
You two complain too much. She would stand behind us and when I turned around she would be mouthing the words we were learning, trying to make sense of them.
—
EVEN PAPI’S EARLY-MORNING noises were strange to me. I lay in bed, listening to him stumbling around in the bathroom, like he was drunk or something. I didn’t know what he did for Reynolds Aluminum, but he had a lot of uniforms in his closet, all filthy with machine oil.
I had expected a different father, one about seven feet tall with enough money to buy our
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