Maya's Choice

by Earl Sewell

  “So, then you started dating Grandpa?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. We dated for a year. We had so much fun together. I remember one time he came and asked my father if it was okay if he kept me out all night. I was almost twenty years old and he was still asking my father for permission, and my father loved him for it.”

  “Where did you guys go?” I cautiously asked, hoping that my question wasn’t too personal.

  “We went to see Carlos Santana. That was a great concert,” she said, reminiscing on the moment.

  “I actually like his music,” I said.

  “He is one of the best musicians in the world. I love Santana. I also loved your grandfather. We got married in 1968 and in 1969 your mother, Raven, was born. The following year in 1970, your aunt Salena was born. He loved his two girls and spoiled them rotten,” she said, laughing.

  Grandmother Esmeralda and I spent the rest of the day talking. When I was first told that I had to come visit her I thought for sure I’d be bored out of my mind, but I actually found visiting with her to be enjoyable. I don’t know; maybe because I was a little older, but whatever the reason I was happy I’d come.

  The following day Grandmother Esmeralda and I ran errands together. We rode around the Pilsen community visiting local shops that had been family-owned for generations. We visited a bookstore, a grocery store that made fresh tortillas, and even took time to visit the National Museum of Mexican Art. I walked around looking at the artifacts, but to me they didn’t mean much.

  “Maya, do you remember any of our family history that I’ve told you about?” she asked as we causally glanced at a display that chronicled the Afro-Mexican slave trade.

  “Not really,” I said as I read something that caught my eye. “‘In 1492 King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella expelled the Islamic Moors out of Spain and back to Africa and started the exploration of the new lands to expand their growing empire.’ Hmm, I never knew that,” I said.

  “Knew what?” Esmeralda asked.

  “That people from Africa lived in Spain.”

  “Yes, this is true,” said Grandmother Esmeralda. “Spaniards brought slaves to Mexico as well as the United States. That is why some Mexicans have features that look more African than Aztec, but we are all from the same country, just different parts of it.”

  “So the Aztec Indians were in Mexico before the Spanish and the Africans got there,” I said as more of a question than a statement.

  “Yes. See, look right here. In 1519 a man named Hernán Cortés from Spain seized the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan. There is so much history that you can learn in a place like this,” Grandmother Esmeralda said.

  “I see,” I said as I continued on. I came across information about revolts due to the combined efforts of the Mexican and African people that I’d never known about. “They don’t teach this stuff in my high school history class,” I said.

  “Of course not, this is the history of Mexico.”

  “But, Mexico was once the United States.” I found myself engaging in an intellectual conversation with my grandmother. This was something that was really weird.

  “Oh, honey, you can tell people that until you’re blue, but people always downplay it as if it is something that should be forgotten. This is why I like to bring my grandchildren to places like this, so that you can learn. These are important things to know, but sadly many Mexican people don’t understand their own history.”

  “But why?” I asked.

  “For a lot of reasons,” Grandmother Esmeralda said as we made our way out the door. We stepped into the sunshine and I reached into my purse and pulled out my sunglasses. The warm sun felt great against my skin, but it wouldn’t be long before I got thirsty.

  “Come on, let’s walk this way,” she said. I walked alongside her. By the time we made it back to her car, my entire back felt sticky with sweat.

  “If feels like it’s one hundred degrees out here today,” Grandmother Esmeralda complained as she turned on the air conditioner.

  “Tell me about it. I feel like I’m melting.” We made a few more stops before we finally headed back home. After I took a shower and freshened up, I joined my grandmother in her bedroom. I know that I shouldn’t have been surprised, but she’d popped in the movie My Family for us to watch.

  “This is such a fantastic movie.” She smiled at me.

  “Uhm, don’t you have cable? We could probably find another movie to watch,” I suggested.

  “I just have basic cable and nothing good is ever on. But this movie here is excellent.” As much as I didn’t want to watch the film, I crawled into the bed beside her and watched it.

  At some point I fell asleep and awoke later that evening to the sound of a blender. I took a long stretch and relaxed just a little longer. I then heard the faint sound of music echoing from the kitchen. I finally got up and walked toward the sound and realized that Grandmother Esmeralda was listening to a song called “Maria Maria” by Carlos Santana.

  “What are you doing listening to that song?” I asked, completely surprised because I thought for sure the only music my grandmother liked was from the 1960s and ’70s.

  “Hey, once a Carlos Santana fan you’re a fan for life.” My grandmother did a little dance where she worked her hips. I almost had to slap myself because I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  “Okay,” I said long and slowly. “Have you been drinking?”

  “No.” My grandmother seemed offended by the comment. She poured whatever she was mixing up in the blender through a strainer and into a bowl.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “Gazpacho, and it’s very delicious,” she said and offered me a spoonful. I took a taste and loved it. “You like?”

  “Yeah, that’s very good,” I said as she lifted up another spoonful to my mouth. “What’s in it?”

  “You mean to tell me that your mother has never made this for you guys?”

  “No, not that I remember,” I said.

  “Well, that’s what grandmothers are for. I’ll teach you how to make it,” she said. “Go wash your hands and come on back.”

  While I learned how to make gazpacho, I listened to music with my grandmother. We then sat down at her kitchen table and she shared more of her knowledge with me.

  “Did you know that our family left Mexico in 1914? Your great-great-grandfather Phil came from Aguascalientes, Mexico. He came across the border to El Paso, Texas. He had to pay five cents to enter into the United States.”

  “Really?” I said, not caring too much about it because I was busy eating.

  “Yes, he left to find work. He was young and single. He got a job working in the sugar beet fields. It was hard labor, but something was better than nothing. By 1918 he married a woman named Aurora Gomez and had your great-grandfather Don. Aurora insisted that Don learn how to become more American. She pushed him to learn how to speak English and forget about the old Mexican ways. His father, Phil, didn’t like this, but Aurora won. In 1941 Don was twenty-three years old and hated working in the fields. So he signed up for the military and went off to serve in World War II. He served both in Europe and the Pacific. When he came back he told his parents that he wasn’t going to go back to doing fieldwork. Instead he came to Chicago and got a job working at the steel mill. He worked very hard and made much more money than a fieldworker. By 1946, Don had met and married Caroline Lopez. In 1948 I was born. My mother, Caroline, came from a family who believed in the American dream and way of life and wanted to make sure that I had every advantage possible.”

  “Do you have pictures?” I asked. Because now I was very interested in the story.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she said. “Hang on, they’re in a box under my bed.” Grandmother Esmeralda got up to go retrieve the photos. As I waited, I heard the doorbell ring.

  “Do you want me to get it?” I called out to my grandmother.

  “Hang on. I don’t know who it could be. I’m not expecting any company,” she said as
she entered into the kitchen again. The doorbell chimed once again. I followed her toward the front door.

  “Hang on, I’m coming!” she yelled out. Grandmother Esmeralda peeped through the viewfinder and gasped. “Oh, my goodness!” she said as she hurriedly opened the door. When the door opened up, there stood my aunt Salena. Her face was bruised and swollen. Her lip was busted and the dark sunglasses she was wearing were clearly hiding more battle scars. Standing beside her was my cousin Viviana. Her hair was pulled back from her face and braided into a long ponytail. Viviana looked rough. Her lips were dry and chapped; her skin was filled with blemishes and pimples that stretched across her forehead and along her jawline. The white-and-red bumps looked disgusting, and I suppose my facial expression said things that my mouth wasn’t brave enough to. I opened my mouth to try and speak, but words escaped me. My eyes darted back and forth between Salena and Viviana. I was trying to process what had happened to them. Finally, Viviana said, “Maya! Would you move out of the way!”

  “Oh,” I said, as I flinched before stepping aside to allow them to enter.

  eleven

  VIVIANA

  When Toya got busted and I rushed out of the train station I was completely freaked out. I was totally paranoid that the cops would come chasing after me as well, which forced me to keep looking over my shoulder. I didn’t really feel as if I’d gotten away until I was on the bus heading back home. I rested my head against the window of the bus, closed my eyes and relived everything that went down. I felt bad about cutting out on her, but jail was the last place I wanted or needed to go. I figured Toya knew her way around the judicial system and would find a way out of the mess she was in. By the time I arrived back home I’d completely justified my actions. Because there was no way I was going down for a friend who’d, on that very same day, threatened to do me bodily harm.

  When I got home, both my mother and Martin were gone. I was sort of hoping that my mother would be there because I could’ve really used someone to talk to. There were people I knew from other neighborhoods, but it had been a long time since I’d reached out to them. I suppose if I’d had a computer and an internet connection I could have gone online and talked to some anonymous person, but neither Martin nor my mother felt having a laptop was important.

  Sitting in an empty and quiet apartment could drive even the most sane person crazy, so I decided to take another long walk to the beach to kill time and figure out what to do next. I had to come up with a plan for how I was going to convince my mother to break up with Martin and find us a place to live. If I couldn’t persuade her, then I had a backup plan of striking out and making it on my own. I figured that I was young, healthy and could do just about anything. I’d have to drop out of high school, of course, but that was pretty much a waste of time anyway. I had never fit in with any of the school cliques. I wasn’t popular. I wasn’t a cheery-o-cheerleader, and I definitely wasn’t the brainy type. The drug kids were cool to a certain extent. I mean, I could smoke weed with seasoned pros, but it wasn’t like I went out of my way to do it. The kids at my school and around my neighborhood were into everything from sniffing markers to doing methamphetamines, which made them act crazy as hell. Still, if I wanted to be honest with myself, I did sort of miss hanging out with them at house parties. One of these days I’d go back and make up for lost time.

  I figured that if I needed money bad enough, I’d put on some dark sunglasses, pretend I was blind and stand on a street corner selling pencils. But I knew I wouldn’t have to go to the extreme. Fast-food places were always looking for help. I could work two part-time jobs and make it. Who knew? If I got lucky, by chance I’d meet a cool guy who was into helping birds like me who had a broken wing.

  Finally, I arrived at the beach and just chilled out. I did my usual thing, stuck my toes in the sand and watched people. Then out of nowhere this stranger decided to strike up a conversation with me. I humored him because he looked like the cartoon character from The Boondocks comic strip. He tried to get me to give up my phone number, but I just wasn’t feeling the guy like that. Besides, he was way too short.

  When I got back home, my mother and Martin were still not there. I was hungry, so I checked the refrigerator for something to eat. I was so glad to see a pizza box with several slices still left. I heated up the pizza and then sat down to watch television. I ended up watching a rerun of a program called Glee. I really liked the character Sue, who was a mean-spirited gym coach. I identified with her because she just didn’t give a damn about anything except her own interests. By the time the show ended, the sun had gone down and the streetlights came on. I was busy channel surfing, trying to find something else of interest to watch, when I heard someone on the sidewalk scream out my name.

  “Yo, Viviana!” the voice yelled out. I crept over to the window and peeped downstairs.

  “Yo, Viviana, I know you hear me, girl! I know your apartment is somewhere in the building.” It was Toya’s man, and he was holding his son. I raised up the window and leaned out.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “Yo, girl, where Toya at?” he asked.

  “She hasn’t called you yet?” I asked.

  “Hell, no!” he barked.

  “She got jammed up,” I explained.

  He lowered his head and said, “Damn! Do you know where they took her?”

  “No. I didn’t stick around for all that.”

  “Okay, look, you’re going to have to hold on to Junior for me. I’ve got some business to take care of and I can’t leave him with his blind great-grandmother.” He tried to gain my sympathy, but there was no way I was about to take care of his son.

  “I don’t know anything about taking care of a baby. You need to take him with you,” I said.

  He threaded his eyebrows together and spoke more forcefully. “Come on, now. Toya told me y’all was tight. Why can’t you just watch him for me while I make this quick run?”

  “Toya and I are tight, but not that cool. That’s your son. You should take pride in keeping him. My father took me with him everywhere when I was little like your son,” I said.

  “I’ll bet he didn’t take you to the bathroom,” he snapped.

  “That comment was way too ignorant to respond to. Later, man,” I said and tucked my head back inside the apartment. Just before I shut the window he saluted me with his middle finger. In kind, I turned my butt toward the window and smacked my fanny. He caught my drift the same way I caught his.

  I sat up and watched television hoping to catch my mother when she came home. At five o’clock I finally gave up and went to bed. I had waited up all night on her and she never showed up.

  “Viviana,” I heard someone whispering my name and shaking my shoulder.

  “Leave me alone,” I grumbled and turned over in the bed. All I wanted to do was sleep.

  “Get up,” the voice whispered. I then realized that it was my mother.

  “No. Let me sleep. I stayed up all night waiting on you. Now you will just have to wait on me.” I closed my eyes tighter, hoping that I’d float back into a deep sleep. My mother yanked the bedspread off me.

  “What the hell!” I opened my eyes and glared at her angrily. However, I quickly dropped my evil expression when I saw her bruised face. Her left eye was nearly closed shut, her lip was still bleeding, and the right side of her face was black-and-blue. I didn’t have to ask what happened. I already knew that it was Martin. I snatched both the knife and stun gun from beneath my pillow and sprang to my feet.

  “Where is he?” I asked, gripping the knife tighter. I was ready to declare war on Martin.

  “Viviana, we have to go,” she whispered.

  “No, he can’t get away with this!” I was fired up and angry.

  “Viviana, stop fighting me, please. Right now I just need you to come with me,” my mother desperately pleaded with me.

  “We should at least call an ambulance and the police,” I said, wanting to help and make sure that Martin paid t
he price.

  “No. I don’t want to deal with the police and I hate hospitals. They’ll ask too many questions, get social services involved, and you’ll end up in foster care somewhere until they can find housing for us. Just grab what you can and come with me.” I unenthusiastically gathered up my belongings and placed them in a large duffel bag while my mother watched. Once I had everything, I quietly walked out of the apartment with my mother. When we got outside she put on sunglasses to hide her wounds. We walked up to Martin Luther King Jr. Drive, where we hailed a taxi.

  “Where are we going?” I asked once I got situated.

  “To your grandmother’s house,” my mother answered.

  “But you don’t get along with her. Will she even let us in?” I asked.

  “She’ll always let us in,” my mother whispered. She gave the cab driver the address, then leaned back and rested her head against the back of the seat. I looped my arm behind her neck, cradled her shoulder and pulled her closer to me. I’d made up my mind that I was going to protect her. I wasn’t going to let anything or anyone hurt her anymore.

  When my mother and I arrived at the doorstep of Grandmother Esmeralda’s home, I was as shocked as America was when Barack Obama won the presidency to see my goody-two-shoes cousin Maya. She looked at my mother and me as if we were beneath her, and that really pissed me off. Once we were inside, Grandmother Esmeralda removed my mother’s dark sunglasses and both she and Maya gasped at her bruised face.

  “What happened to you?” Grandmother Esmeralda asked my mother.

  “Nothing,” my mother answered. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Have you seen yourself?” Grandmother Esmeralda asked. “What mean man have you gotten with this time? I swear, your father must be turning over in his grave. This is not the life he wanted for you.”

  “Mother, I don’t need one of your damn lectures right now!” Salena said.