My Sister

by Selenis Leyva

  It wasn’t like that in my prekindergarten class. In the mornings, when Mami helped me get ready, I’d eat breakfast, brush my teeth, and put on my uniform of dark blue pants, white shirt, and black tie. I never once dreaded taking the yellow bus to my special school in Washington Heights. I liked the other kids. We colored and played, and I didn’t even mind nap time.

  But by the time I was in first grade at PS 56, I was more self-conscious, more aware that I was not like the other kids in my class. During recess, the other kids teased me.

  “Why do you walk like that?”

  “Why do you talk like that?”

  “Why are you always with the girls?”

  “Josephina!”

  It got worse as I got older. After school, I took the shortcut through Oval Park. But these older boys who lived in the brick house on the corner sat on their porch and called me names as I walked by.

  “Faggot!”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  I didn’t really understand what they were asking. I tried to ignore these kinds of questions. I tried not to let these words get to me. I walked quickly through the park, past other kids climbing up the playscapes and my brothers on the basketball court. I liked it there, and though I wanted to play with the others, I didn’t want them to start making fun of me, too. I didn’t want the park to be a place where I’d be bullied or made to feel unsafe. I didn’t want to stop going there because I was afraid of what kids would say to me. And so I kept to myself. I tried to think about all that had happened at school, to get it all out before I got home. When I made it to the tunnel at the far end of the park, I raised my face and let out a long “haaa-oooohh!” I loved hearing my voice crisp and clear, echoing. I turned the corner and saw the old farmhouse museum and was filled with a sense of relief: I was almost home.

  SOMETIMES, I did wonder: Is there something wrong with me? I just wanted to be one of the girls, like Seli, or Isa, or Elsa—the pretty Mexican girl in my class with the long straight black hair. But slowly, I realized that this was impossible. That I was only dreaming. At home, in my room, it was a relief to be alone. To be able to wear Seli’s clothes. To play with one of Isa’s forgotten Barbies. To not have anyone question me. I looked out my window onto the park and tried to imagine what it would be like if I had just been born a girl. This was my little escape. The place where I could be myself, experiment with makeup and clothes and listen to music loud. I was infatuated with Shakira then, and I’d belly dance in front of the mirror, my hair wrapped. But even then, behind my locked door, I was nervous that someone would come in. All you needed was a bobby pin to pop the lock from the outside, and sometimes Isa would bust in, without as little as a knock. I’d try to cover myself up, to tell her to get out, that I was changing and needed privacy! But I knew that, eventually, I’d have to come back to my reality: that because of the body I’d been born into, these things must be kept secret from everyone else.

  Isa got to do all the things I wanted to do. She played with Barbies. She could wear dresses and skirts and grow her hair long. When we played house, she insisted that I be the daddy.

  “Can’t I be the mommy or the sister?” I asked.

  “No, you’re a boy!”

  “Fine.” But in my mind, I was the mommy. I slipped on Seli’s pink fuzzy slippers and carried baby dolls in my arms, feeding them, burping them.

  “No, you’re doing it wrong! That’s not how the daddy does it!”

  Why couldn’t Isa just let me be? I wished that she was more like Seli, that she would just let me have fun. Isa never wanted to play with her girly toys—it was only when I wanted to play with them that she’d get possessive. In her room, she had a big blue-and-white-striped laundry bag full of Barbies and their accessories that she hardly touched. I’d go in and open the bag to take Barbies out to play. When she saw me playing with her things, she’d throw a fit. “Noooooooo, that’s mine! Mami!”

  Oh no, I’d think. Here we go.

  Mami would come and see what I was doing, and sigh. “Well, they are Isa’s things. And if she doesn’t want you playing with it, then you can’t.”

  Sometimes, Isa would want me to play Barbies with her, and I’d get so excited. Yes, finally! I’d always go all-in, picking out the cutest clothes and accessories. Things would be okay for a minute, until Isa saw how cute my Barbie looked. Then, she’d snatch it out of my hands. “You’re not supposed to be playing with it anyways,” she’d say. “This one is my Barbie.” So I’d pick up another and make her outfit even cuter. And Isa’d notice and snatch that one away too.

  I couldn’t wait for Seli to get home. But when she was home, she needed to practice her lines. I begged her to let me be in her room with her.

  “No! I need some time alone.”

  “Please?” I asked. “Can’t I just watch?!”

  “You can’t be here right now,” she said, locking me out.

  I waited out in the hallway for her to let me in. I tried to be very patient. But every few minutes I’d give a little knock, just to remind her that I was still there. Eventually, in my frustration, I went back to my room. I found one of Isa’s old Barbies that I hid under my bed, and I used scissors to cut off all of her long, straight yellow hair.

  MY BROTHERS—THEY tried to toughen me up. They’d dress me up in football gear and take me to the park, where they tried to show me what it was like to be a boy. It always felt wrong to me, what they were doing, and now I know that it is impossible to change one’s natural tendencies or gender identity through violence and intimidation. But at the time, they thought that this was the way to make me stronger, to man me up. One day, my brothers and their friend Ricky decided to stage a fight between me and Ricky’s little brother, who was my age but bigger and tougher. They stood us in front of one another at the bottom of the slope we’d sled down in winter and formed a circle around us. And then, the taunts began.

  “Jose, you better fuck him up!”

  “Hit him, Jose!”

  “Punch his lights out!”

  But I couldn’t hit anyone. I was fragile. I was terrified to fight. I didn’t want to raise a punch. And I couldn’t understand why my brothers were putting me, who always acted and felt like a little girl, up against a boy. It didn’t seem fair. And so I just stood there, frozen, scared for my life.

  Please, can’t I just go home and be with Seli? I wanted to ask.

  And then I felt it: a fist against my face. And another. And another. I was bleeding and could already feel where my lip and eyebrow would bruise and swell.

  I didn’t really talk about what happened that day. I remember, when I got home, Mami asking me what had happened. I shrugged and told her that I was just at the park with Tony and Tito and their friends. My brothers had broken us apart before too long, before I was hurt real bad, but the damage was already done.

  WHEN I was around ten, Mami told me that I needed to get a passport.

  “Vamos a visitar a tu papa Jose en Santo Domingo.”

  “NO!” I responded. “Mami, no quiero ir.”

  “Jose,” she explained. “Tenemos que ir, el te quiere ver.”

  I didn’t understand why my biological father wanted to see me. I never wanted to talk to Jose Sr., and sometimes, when he’d call, Mami and Papi told him I wasn’t there. Other times, they’d make me talk to him, just to say hello. But now, in retrospect, I think that my parents felt like they needed to keep Ruth and Jose Sr. happy. I think Mami and Papi were afraid that if they didn’t, I would be taken away from them again. The moment Mami told me about the trip, however, my anxiety grew.

  DR was like nothing I’d ever seen before. In my memory, the floors and roads were all made of dirt. Mami and I arrived at the prison, which was ugly and dark, and the guards checked us in. I didn’t want anything to do with Jose Sr., so I tried not to pay too much attention, but I remember noticing the metal bars.

  And then I heard him: “Bendicion, Papi.”

  His voice made me cringe. I beca
me angry and started to shut down and go numb. I stood there straight-faced, not saying anything. Mami spoke to me softly, telling me to say hi, to be nice. I greeted him, but after that I didn’t say anything more. I thought, I’m gonna be cold. Mami didn’t seem to notice or care, and thankfully, the visit was short. Afterward, we went to visit my biological grandmother. She lived on farmland, in the campo, and I kept my distance from her, too. Mami talked to her, but I didn’t know what they were saying.

  I asked to use the bathroom, and my grandmother pointed down the hall. When I closed the door, I saw that the toilet was nothing like I was used to. Instead, it was a metal tube that reminded me of a coffee canister, set into a hole in the ground.

  TOWARD THE end of the year, when I was in third grade, my teacher Miss Lopez had us do a math project with colored paper and scissors. I finished my assignment early, and so I sat there quietly sorting and tidying and making patterns with the colorful scraps. I took one, a long strip, and twisted it around my finger. I taped the coil onto my head and let it hang like a curl. The kids around me all started laughing. “Oh my God—what are you doing?” They shouted, “You’re not a girl!” Their voices steadily grew louder and louder, until Miss Lopez snapped.

  She pulled me out into the hallway. “You cannot do that,” she said. “You’re distracting the other kids from learning.”

  I wasn’t sure what she meant. I wasn’t trying to distract anyone—I was just playing with my hair! But I never did anything like this again, and teasing voices and whispers started following me in the hallways. Faggot! They’d say. Is that a girl?

  When school started the next year, and I was in the fourth grade, I realized that Miss Lopez made a request to have me placed in the special education class. Maybe part of her thought that I needed this, that it would be a better environment for me to learn in; but I can’t help but feel that part of her simply didn’t want that kind of energy—my energy—in the general education classes. At the time, I thought that maybe this smaller class would be better, that maybe these kids wouldn’t be as hurtful or mean. But very quickly I found that it was all the same. I wondered if I’d ever feel comfortable to be myself in front of others.

  Chapter 4

  SELENIS & MARIZOL

  I wish I could draw the scene: Christmas morning. The tree decorated and lit, the living room filled with wrapping paper. We’ve all had breakfast, and everyone’s excited and loud and opening presents. And here’s Jose, three years old, in his red one-piece pajamas, sitting in the middle of it all. He’s opened a gift, maybe two, but the rest sit untouched.

  You know how kids are. Ripping through the wrapping and the ribbons with excitement. Delighted by one gift and then on to the next.

  “Yay! It’s Christmas!”

  But not Jose. He’s straining to see what I’m opening, what Isa is opening. I think that every year he had hope. But every year, it was always the same: after he opened those first gifts, his eyes seemed to say, “Yep, all the same bullshit. I don’t want any of this.” The look of excitement he had earlier that morning quickly left his face. And it was replaced by a look I’ve come to know all too well over the years: a look of longing.

  A BARBIE with long hair—that’s what I wanted. Or a baby doll I could hold like Isa held hers. Maybe pink fluffy slippers like Seli had, like the ones I liked to wear when no one else was around. I loved the way they felt on my feet. With my wrapped gifts laid out in front of me, I closed my eyes and imagined all of my secret dreams coming true.

  I opened the first present: a truck. The next: a football. I shoved the boxes aside and waited for Isa to open hers. A Barbie. A stuffed white dog with a cute bow. A baby doll. I didn’t want everyone to know how excited I was about her gifts, so I tried to control myself. But I really wanted to grab them! Everything was pink, pretty—and not mine. I held one of her dolls, running my fingers through her hair. I imagined how I would change her clothes, and I reached for her little brush.

  “Leave her alone!” Isa screamed. “It’s mine! You have your own presents!”

  I just wanted to see what she got! I just wanted to play with them for a minute! But she didn’t want to share.

  I COULD SEE that Jose was embarrassed. He pretended to enjoy his own toys, but I saw the disappointment in his eyes—and I wished I could have done something to make him happy. Even now, I wish that, just once, I’d gotten him a Barbie.

  I WAS excited when I opened the Game Boy. Okay, this is something I like! It was blue and smooth in my hands. I told Mami and Papi, “Thank you.” I looked over at Isa, wanting to show her my cool new toy. But I saw that she got a Game Boy, too, and right away I wanted to trade. I could take hers, and she could take mine.

  Why not? Why couldn’t mine be pink?

  Chapter 5

  MARIZOL

  Seli always had the prettiest shoes. And so many of them. I remember her coming home from a long day of shoe shopping, walking around the house to flaunt her new heels. I loved the sound they made, that assertive little click against the hardwood floor. I was infatuated with Seli—her presence, her style, her femininity. And I wanted to do it, too: to be all fancy, to have my feet delicately arched in the air.

  The nicest shoes she kept in pairs, neatly arranged in a shoe rack on the inside of her closet door. Others were thrown in the back of the closet, one shoe’s match sometimes hard to find. I knew that I shouldn’t touch the ones on the rack, but the ones in the back felt like safer bets. They weren’t organized, and so she’d never know if they weren’t back in the exact right place. Or, at least, that’s what I hoped. But sometimes, I wondered if she knew how I’d sneak into her room while she wasn’t home, trying on her heels, her sandals, her flats. I worried she’d figure out that something was different and know right away that it was me. I wasn’t the only one who did this, though—often, Isa would try on Seli’s shoes with me.

  We always noticed the new pairs right away. One time: leather platform heels that were black and strappy, maybe six inches high. We each put one shoe on and stood, our bare feet hovering off the floor as we tried to balance.

  Another time, we were going through the closet not in her bedroom but along the porch, where Mami and Papi kept the out-of-season coats and fancier clothes. Though the closet is large, Isa and I didn’t have the space to walk around like we did in Seli’s room—and if we walked out onto the porch, we risked getting caught. For Isa, she would have been caught doing something she shouldn’t be doing: trying on Seli’s clothes without her permission. For me, it was the same but also something much worse. For me, there was an embarrassment, a kind of shame. So we shut the door and turned on the light. Mami and Seli had a wedding to go to the next day and everything had been set out and ironed. And that was when we saw them: Seli’s shoes for the wedding. They were beige and strappy and had a tall, skinny heel. I put one on, and Isa the other, and we hobbled around the narrow space, amazed at how the shoes looked on our feet.

  And then I heard a crack. I felt something go sideways and break. I stumbled and saw that the heel of the shoe had completely broken off.

  “Oh my God!” I said. “What are we gonna do? Seli’s gonna kill us.”

  “Not me,” Isa said. “You’re the one who broke it.”

  “Promise me you won’t say it was me. Isa, please? Promise?”

  She looked at the shoe, and then at me, and sighed. “Fine. But put it back—let’s get out of here.”

  We left the closet and everything in it as we found it—except for that one broken shoe. I knew that Seli was going to be home soon, and so I went to my room to try to calm myself. Maybe, I should just pretend to be sleeping, I thought. That way, when she comes home and finds it, I’ll have an excuse.

  Just a few minutes later, it seemed, my sister came storming into my room. My bed was lofted and next to the door, so when she pushed the door open her face was right next to mine. I tried to steady my breathing, to look like I was sleeping.

  “I know you’re awake,�
� she said.

  She doesn’t know, I thought. I could be asleep.

  “Jose,” she said, shaking me. “Jose.”

  Keep calm. Try not to smile.

  “Isa told me everything!”

  And that’s when I couldn’t hold it in any longer. My eyes darted open.

  Seli went on: “I can’t believe you broke my shoe!”

  “It wasn’t me!” I said. “I swear it wasn’t me!”

  “It was you,” she said. “I know it was you. What am I supposed to do for this wedding tomorrow?”

  She turned and left, slamming the door behind her, leaving me on my bed.

  Oh my God, I thought. Of course I didn’t mean to break it! I was just doing something I knew would feed my soul, something that would make me feel good. I wasn’t a little kid anymore—it had been a long time since I’d done Seli’s hair when she came home from school—and I was exploring more and more things that could make me feel whole. But I felt like I couldn’t be open about those things, not even with Seli. And so even though I felt bad about making Seli mad, I couldn’t help but worry about the bigger problem now that my secret of trying on her shoes was out: Is Seli gonna think different about me now? I was scared as hell.

  I NEVER told anyone at home about what the other kids at school said to me or how I was teased. Not Mami, not Papi, not even Seli. At the time, I didn’t really know why I didn’t say anything. Now, I think that part of me was afraid that if they heard those things, they would start to think that way about me, too.

  But of course they could sense that something was wrong. Isa went to the same school as me, so she knew. She knew, but we never talked about what it was like to be bullied all the time or how it made me feel. Sometimes, though, she’d tell me how the kids in her class would come up to her and ask her questions about me: “Why is your brother gay?” or “Why is he always hanging around the girls?” I know that she hated this, that it frustrated her to make excuses for me. But Isa was tough, and fiercely loyal. Family has always been big for her, and if anyone said anything about me or someone else in our family, she wasn’t afraid to shove them, to put them in their place. And this—despite all of the fighting we’d do at home and all of the competition that existed between us—was comforting.