Gabi, a Girl in Pieces. Isabel Quintero
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Название: Gabi, a Girl in Pieces
Автор: Isabel Quintero
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Учебная литература
isbn: 9781935955962
isbn:
And it wasn’t that I was jealous. Okay, I was a little jealous, but she liked to rub it in my face that we were so different. That she was better. She’d remind me that when you’re a Gabi, price always matters. No name brand here, only generic, and that is okay until Sandra tells you that it is not okay. I begged my mom for clothes she couldn’t afford, asked for something that didn’t belong to me, that didn’t belong to a world where we get free food from school at Christmas or where your dad spends his money on street corners or where your mom collects cans to make the rent. I couldn’t tell my mom that the girl that she’s always comparing me to is the reason for so many of our arguments. If I did, she would say something like, “Well, maybe you’d feel better about yourself if you took more care of yourself like Sandra does.” And then I’d go do my hair and makeup, squeeze into a pretty little dress and jump in front of a moving train.
I tried to be like Sandra for a little bit. We went to the mall to a super fancy store and bought a very expensive dress. I had to beg my mom for it for weeks until she finally said yes. I felt a little guilty, but my mom gave in because she wanted me to look good and feel good. A brown dress with little white flowers sewn all over, it was short and sleeveless and very 1960s. It was truly a dress. But each time I wore it, my body was exposed—the little brown dress was too expensive for my cheap little white skin. But Sandra thought it looked good, so I felt good (at least about that). Still, I missed the indoor swap-meet with Cindy. Going through the rows of lycra, bright prints, black and whites with no purpose except to make regular girls feel like name-brand girls. To make Gabis feel like Sandras but at a discounted price.
I came to my senses, and Sandra left us. So it was just Cindy, Sebastian and me. Us tackys always have to stick together.
I tried to act like I didn’t care about the whole Josh situation, but it was hard. I came home today and told my mom what was going on (because she’s my mom and can ALWAYS tell when there’s something wrong and won’t let it go until I tell her) and she offered some words of comfort so my heart wouldn’t shatter. She knows heartbreak, she said. She said. “Yo se lo que es estar joven y enamorada.” I tried to think of my mom as young and in love, but I couldn’t, it was too far of a stretch. Secretly I was glad she tried to protect me. It didn’t matter though. My heart shattered into a thousand pieces. Just like when you drop one of those Christmas ornaments made with glass so thin that when it shatters it goes everywhere, and you are still finding pieces in dark corners of your living room for months afterwards. That’s exactly how I broke. Nothing more to say except that Cindy and Sebastian showed up at my house a few hours ago, and I had the best banana split of my life.
Today is Mexican Independence Day. While I know we don’t live in Mexico, and I am not technically Mexican, there is still a sense of pride that swells in my chest during this day. Being Mexican-American is tough sometimes. Your allegiance is always questioned. My mom constantly worries that I will be too Americana. This morning we were talking about Cindy, and my mom starting saying crazy things like, “The reason Cindy is pregnant is because she was hanging out con esa gabachilla Diana, her neighbor. Remember? That girl who got pregnant by her dad’s friend?” My response was, “Yeah, she did. That guy was super old and took advantage of her. It was totally different.” “Yeah, but remember how she was always wearing those short shorts? Offering her goodies to everyone? Parecia una hoochie.” I laughed so hard because my mom straight out said, “goodies.” And “hoochie.” She got all embarrassed and told me to hurry up and go to school. So I did. Love my mom.
The other problem with being me—and my Mexican ancestry—is that people don’t believe that I am any kind of Mexican. They always think I’m White, and it bugs the shit out of me. Not because I hate White people, but because I have to go into a history lesson every time someone questions my Mexicanness.
I told Sebastian this once and he was like, “It’s not a big deal.” It may not be a big deal to him because he is a nice Mexican brown. Or a big deal to Sandra who is perfectly dark-skinned. Her Mexicanness is never questioned. Of course. People never say racist things around them. Sandra and Sebastian carry their culture on their skin like a museum exhibit to ohhhh and ahhhhh at. People look at Sandra’s long brown hair, dark brown eyes and skin that doesn’t need sun, and they think how exotic, how very perfectly Mexican. Not too much to give discomfort—there is no accent, no rough transition from white to brown. A perfect attempt at assimilation, so her brownness can be excused.
Morena. Bonita. Preciosa. Flaca. Flaquita.
On the other hand, I have the kind of skin that is not allowed in the sun for more than fifteen minutes before turning into an overcooked lobster. Sunburn for sure each time I visit the beach. My skin is there for all the world to see and point at and judge. Guerra. Casper. Ghost. Freckle Face. Ugly. Whitey. White girl. Gringa. I’ve been called all of those names. Skin that doesn’t make me Mexican enough. Skin that always makes people say, “You’re not what a Mexican’s supposed to look like.” To which I respond, “Well, what is a Mexican supposed to look like? Am I supposed to be brown and short? Carry a leaf blower on my back? Speak with a thick accent? Say things like ‘I no spik ingles?’ Should I have dark hair and dark eyes, like my mother and grandmother?”
This skin thing always pisses me off. What I need is a nopal on my forehead to let the world know about my roots. One of those flat cactus plants that my grandpa grew behind his house before he died—nopal en la frente. Yup. That would solve all my problems. It would say, “This lightskinned White-looking young lady is of Mexican descent. Really she is. Yes, she speaks Spanish. And English too. She is a sight to see, folks, a real marvel. (Unless you travel to Mexico where there are lots more like her.)” The nopal would solve those problems.
And besides the whole skin situation to annoy me, there are people going around school in sombreros and mustaches and acting like idiots. Apparently along with being brown, we all have mustaches.
At lunch time there were activities for us to participate in, but we skipped out on them because we had heard they were going to be really lame like a churro-eating contest and a guess-that-Spanish-word and the ever popular Mexican Independence Day game—pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. After lunch was my poetry class, which is not as bad as I thought. Today we actually began writing poems. Ms. Abernard had us write haikus (a Japanese style of poetry that has 5 syllables in the first line, 7 in the second line, and 5 in the last line). Here is a sad one that I just wrote:
Joshua Moore is gone
My heart in seven pieces
I am not lucky
Having a father who is addicted to meth is exhausting. It’s like you have to walk on eggshells all the time. Have to be worried all the time. Have to be scared all the time. And definitely have to be anxious all the time. People on meth are always looking for and thinking about meth. That’s it. There is nothing more important to the meth addict than the next fix. They’re always chasing something they will never catch and even though they know this, they will never stop chasing it because they can’t. It is really sad. We have been on the sidelines watching my СКАЧАТЬ