07. chapter seven
—i've been so naïve

AGE: NINE

I GUESS YOU COULD say that I have always known my dads status here in the United States. It wasn't something that was new to me. I knew that he was born in Mexico and he did everything he could to get here, but not really a why, not that it mattered. Again, it wasn't something unknown to either me or everyone else in my life. Well, there was an extent to what they knew. Much didn't know he had come here the "wrong" way. He had always told me that it wasn't any of their business.

To clarify, I don't think there is such a thing as the "wrong" way. I think that people have the right to fight for themselves and their family, even if that means going against something that isn't "correct". The whole wrong or correct is a complete bullshit thing to say because it's not real. There is no correct way when it's a matter of life or death. There is no correct way when it comes to family. Family is and will always be first, now that's one valuable lesson my dad has come to teach me more than one time.

I have always seen my dads status as something normal, but taught that it's something that should be kept for me to know and my classmates to wonder. It wasn't that my dad was ashamed, because he wasn't, he's the proudest man I know, but everything I knew was led by, uno nunca sabe. You never know. I used to roll my eyes at that. I mean, who would care about that sort of thing? He must've been paranoid, right? Wrong.

I believed it, I believed that it was something no one would ever really care about, well until I heard someone, it was at a school event, talking bad about a topic I held close to my heart. It was my history, my story. Everything that is now, it was led by that moment. I tried convincing myself that she must've not meant it, but being nine years old and hearing the things she was saying about my people, it stuck. It stuck until I finally went to my dads the next weekend, until I finally had the chance to ask him about it.

We were in our small kitchen, I was doing homework on the table fit for one—we did our best to make it work—while he was cooking Flautas. "Why did you cross?" I said, writing down my answer for number five. I spoke to him in English, somehow ashamed.

He looked at me confused, not understanding my question. So, I repeated myself, only this time in Spanish, "Porqué cruzaste?" I wanted so badly to roll my eyes... but just then, I wanted to kick myself for thinking something so stupid because I knew how hard he tried.

"No entiendo," His confused look still remained. I understood why, one second he was making sure he didn't over cook the taco, the next I was asking why he had crossed the border.

"Por qué cruzaste la frontera," I clarified.

He paused and turned to me, stunned. "Y eso de donde salió?" Where did that come from? I shrugged, not feeling like, or rather not wanting to admit the real reason why I was asking this in the first place. I might've been nine but I wasn't stupid, but sometimes I wished I was.

I hated feeling ashamed. I hated how Lizzy's mom made me feel. Everything that my dad had taught me about being proud, it just washed away. All of it gone as I heard Lizzy's mom say, "Those Mexicans don't deserve a place here. The government should take care of them, send them back to where they belong." Lizzy was one of my friends. We've had classes together since the first grade. We have never met up outside of school though, our friendship revolved around school, that's it.

The day was not like any other. Today was Culture Day at my little private elementary school. There were tables spread around the school cafeteria with flags representing each country each student was from.

My school was bland. It was mostly every other European country. Most were a stretch too. Ten generations down the line of "decades ago..." I had mostly drowned those out because they were always the same story and some even added their own dramatic charm to make it sound more appealing.

I am a first generation Mexican-American on my dad's side and a second generation on my mom's. I am often stuck on which one to say when someone asks me that daunting question. I usually respond with being second generation, which I am, but it feels like I'm betraying my dad by saying it. Then when I respond first, it feels like I'm ignoring the privilege that comes with also being a second generation. It has always been a complicated question to answer, especially to somebody that usually only wants to hear a two word answer.

Back to Culture day, our table was decorated in a way that captured México for more than sombreros and tacos. Mi abuela Alma, yes she named my mother after herself, was wearing her traditional blue and white striped mandil. She had only made her famous tamales de queso. Reasoning being, "No voy a hacer de verde ni de rajas porque esos gringos van a salir volando."

She made me laugh so hard that I started tearing up with that remark, not because she was wrong but because she had this saying, "Si no lo vas a hacer picoso, mejor no cocines." I think I even saw her hand twitching towards the jalapeños.

I found her saying ironic since Eduardo doesn't like spicy foods. The ironic part: my abue doesn't make a different batch of salsa for his chilaquiles or for any food really. I think she secretly hates him, secretly wishes that he was my dad. Of course, she doesn't voice this out loud, it would've killed Josh to know that his grandma never wished for his existence. Even if that's not what abue actually meant.

My mom wore her México soccer jersey as she stirred el arroz con leche, her arroz could top my abue's, even abue would admit it.

I wore a traditional white shirt that had flowers stitched at the neck line. It was a gift from my tia from when she went to México.

Josh was off, also wearing his México jersey, eating the different foods from each table.

Our school was quite creative when it came to Culture day. They printed off "passports" and each time you visited a table, which was considered a country, they would stamp it. So then it looked like you traveled to said country. I think I've kept each one from the start of kindergarten to now.

But this year I wasn't going to walk around and explore Europe. No, I was going to stand beside my mom and my abue, and also this new lady, named Elena, we welcomed her to our table. Her son just entered kindergarten. From what I've noticed, she's a doctor and rich.

Okay, back to the point, I was going to stand beside them and wear my shirt proudly. Just like my dad taught me to.

Everything was great, I thanked them as they complimented abuela's tamales and my wrapping skills. Then with others, I laughed as they tried eating the husk. My mom nearly kicked me each time. But other than the kicking part, it was nice, I was happy.

Well, until Lizzy approached with her passport in hand. A woman, who I assumed was her mother, followed a couple paces away, until she stopped completely, nowhere near us.

"OMG!" Lizzy took a glance around the table. "I've been to Mexico before. The beaches were so pretty!"

"That's cool," I smiled at her. "I've never been, but from what I've been told, the beaches are only a fourth of what makes México beautiful."

My mom noticed the women just staring us down. "Would you like some traditional tamales?" She asked politely, motioning towards our big steaming pot filled to the brim. Also abue's doing, she always said, "Si no vas a hacer para toda la vecindad, ¿para qué gusto mi tempo?"

She also had a problem with food validation. Everyone had to compliment the main course down to every single side, or else she'd think that everyone hated it.

Abue and Josh were probably the only people I looked forward to seeing on the days that my mom had me. I also looked forward to the small moments my mom actually tried, those were rare though, but that didn't stop me.

Lizzy's mom shook her head, disgusted.

"Mom, come on!" Lizzy laughed, playfully. She looked sure that her mom was clearly joking about this. "Mom?" Lizzy's mood shifted when the woman just motioned her to leave it alone.

I was confused, so I turned towards Mom and Abuela. My mom looked angry, Abuela was much in the same boat as I was.

"Por qué ella no quiere venir?" I asked, why does she not want to come? My eyes flickered back at the situation at hand. Lizzy was walking back to her mom. Just then, a family came to visit, my mom's expression changed.

But as the family complimented Elena's chocolate to abue's tamales and Mom's arroz con leche, my eyes were still focused on Lizzy. Her mom seemed to be giving her a lecture about something, about what just happened.

They walked off suddenly.

When Culture Day was slowly coming down from its peak, abue told me to enjoy some other countries too. She told me that she'd give me five dollars if I happened to come across France and if they were sampling some pan, like they have done for years now, that I should bring her some.

I knew my mission, so I held my head high, trying to find that blue, white, and red flag, which looked too much like every other flag. Yet, it was easy to find.

I rushed towards the table that always seemed to compete with us for the most thought out table. I was nowhere near focused on anything but taking the last piece of pan for abue. That being said, I ran into some fifth grader, someone who was unfortunately holding a cup filled with our Mexican soda.

"What the heck!" He yelled, apparently more angry than I was. As if he had been the one that had soda spilled all over his shirt.

"You just ruined my shirt!" I screamed at him, angry. He flinched by the suddenness of my rise of voice.

I didn't let the surprised boy finish, instead I ran to the nearest restroom to try to save my shirt. Thankfully, while on my way towards the restroom, I didn't crash into anybody new.

I slowed down while in the hallway because I saw the principal talking to a couple parents near the entrance. Her face dropped as she saw the stain on the shirt she had just complimented an hour ago. I waved it off and slowly made it inside the restroom.

The restroom had a very weird entrance way that seemed so complicated and expensive, which was why my mom has always told me and Josh how privileged we were to go to this school, how privileged she was that she landed a job in this district that gave Josh and I an opportunity to go here. Well, by "opportunity" they mean by giving us a chance to take the test in order to see if we were advanced enough.

I stopped midway through the entrance way. I heard a familiar voice.

"I don't understand," Lizzy sounded confused and whiny, like she didn't seem to like having this conversation with her mom.

"Well, the only thing you need to learn from this is that you are never going to talk to that little girl again. God knows what kind of things she's put into that precious brain of yours," Lizzy's Mom said with a huff at the end. "I can't believe I paid for you to get an education with them. Those Mexicans don't deserve a place here. The government should take care of them, send them back to where they belong."

I felt my heart drop in that instant. I felt every proud bone in my body wash away and just like that gone. My naiveness with it.

Because at that moment, things changed. I wasn't going to see the world as I did before. I understood why my dad had said all those things before. It all just finally clicked. All in that moment.

I watched as Pa's calm started turned into an angry one, his jaw was clenched and he looked like he was willing to punch a wall.

My eyes widened, surprised. I've never seen him like this. Not ever.

When he turned to look at me, he was more calm than he was a few seconds ago. "I shouldn't have told you..."

He cut me off. "Tu abuelito estaba muy enfermo. Los doctores estaban perdiendo la esperanza, especialmente cuando vieron el dinero que debíamos."

I paused. I let his words sink in. He's never told me that before, but for some reason, now that he did, I feel some sort of closure.

"La odio, Pa." I hate her, Dad, I whispered. I hated that I wanted to cry. I hated that I almost gave her the pleasure. "La odio por haciéndome sentir avergonzada de ti." I hate her for making me feel ashamed of you.

My dad finally took a seat beside me. "Déjame decirte esto." Let me tell you this. He paused. "No puedes dejar que nadie te haga sentir avergonzada. Porque no me arrepiento de lo que hice, así que tú tampoco deberías. Entonces, ¿qué es lo que decimos?" You cannot let anyone make you feel ashamed. Because I don't regret a single thing that I have done, so neither should you. So, what is it that we say?

I half smiled. "Viva México?"

"¿Qué? No te oigo."

"Dije, ¡viva México!" We laughed together until we couldn't breathe.

My dad smiled down at me, proudly. I never had to work hard for my dad to be proud of me, I could order his food for him and he'd stand there looking at me like I had won child of the year. I think that's why I liked going to his house on the days he had me. I could finally let my shoulders rest from all the pressure my mom gave me. He was my vacation.

AUTHORS NOTE:
i literally hate school. it's so stressful. junior year can eat ass.

anyway hope you all are going okay, hope you enjoyed todays update that was some more background of sonny and her dad, which i wish i had rubén as my dad ngl.

-ria

PS—literally omg!! 10k!!