I never went buck wild or got rebellious. When my classmates who had their parents here would get into trouble for no reason, I thought it was pathetic. That probably seems judgmental, but I couldn’t understand it. They had so many great things going for them and yet were willing to ruin it. In a way, not having Mami and Papi close led me to give myself rules. Structure. Boundaries. I wasn’t conscious of it, but it’s like I was parenting myself in their absence. I wanted to show people that even without my family here, I could remain on track.
In the fall, I traded in my job for another near campus. My friend Sophia, a theater major and incredibly talented poet, got me in at the Barnes & Noble Café in the Prudential Center. She and my girl Sasha were always talking about how much they loved it there. Once I got hired, the three of us became our own little club. We called each other habibi—an Arabic word that means “my darling”—because we’d heard it in Bend It Like Beckham, which we’d seen like a million times. We usually worked from five p.m. to close, or at the ass crack of dawn on weekends. It was fun. And I was growing up.
When I wasn’t whipping up cappuccinos or sneaking broken cookies into my mouth, I was hitting the books hard and prepping for SATs. With only months left until graduation, it was time to figure out my path. I really wanted to do work that made some kind of difference. Media was one idea I had. On campus, I was part of a literary and visual arts magazine called SlateBlue; Gabriela, several other students, and I would gather our classmates’ short stories, art, and poetry and choose the best to include in an annual collection. As part of our participation in the group, we took a field trip to the offices of The Improper Bostonian, a glossy lifestyle publication. The editors there taught us the ins and outs of the magazine.
While there, I daydreamed about how cool it’d be to appear on the magazine’s cover. But the trip did spark a thought: Maybe I could be a television news anchor, a job that would bring together my love for performing and my desire to make a contribution. A teacher had once told me I had to be very knowledgeable about politics and current events in order to be a good reporter, and that made a lot of sense. So I began exploring the possibility of studying political science and communication. To be honest, I had no friggin’ clue what I’d do, but I did know I’d apply to college. The staff at BAA had ingrained that in me from the get-go.
My spring semester, I was heavily committed to the dopest ensemble in school—rhythm and voice. The whole semester was all about preparing for my senior recital, the final evaluation. We got to choose our own songs. I picked “Funny Honey” from Chicago and a classical French piece. I also chose “Poor Wandering One” from The Pirates of Penzance. And of course, there was my personal favorite, Sarah Vaughan’s rendition of Poor Butterfly. Two afternoons a week, a voice coach came in to work with us one-on-one. I spent literally hours rehearsing, often even in my head while brewing coffee at Barnes. I intended to be ready.
In March, many of my classmates began receiving acceptance letters from universities all over the country. I hadn’t yet applied. Why? Because I was terrified that I wouldn’t get in. “It’s not too late, Diane,” my guidance counselor, Mr. McGillen, told me. “I can help you with the paperwork.”
In response to his nudge, I made a list of women’s colleges. I had this notion that in an all-female environment, I’d be able to focus. No boys to distract me. Up to then, I had had a serious boyfriend. He was a boy whose name I will not mention. He broke my heart into a million tiny pieces. (You know who you are! I thought I loooooved you and you loved meeeeeeee! Insert the ugliest cry face you will ever see in your life.) I’m sure every girl has come across a fuck boy or two in high school and beyond. It hurts. Anyway I digress. I’d experienced enough to realize that even puppy love can pull your attention away from your studies; I didn’t want even the possibility of nonsense. Also, I’d been reading a lot that year about Simone de Beauvoir and many other incredible feminists. Who knows why I connected my interest in feminism with going to a women’s college, but I did.
I applied to five programs in New England—and only the five I thought I had a shot at. Some of my friends were aiming for Tufts and Northeastern. Not me. As hard as I’d pushed to overcome my learning disabilities and get good grades, my GPA was average, not stellar. I knew I had to be realistic. I didn’t have the guts, the money, or the test scores to aim for prestigious schools. I was also fearful of leaving Boston, the only city I’d known. Even if, once in college, I wouldn’t see as much of Eva or Amelia as I did during all of high school, I still wanted them nearby as my security blankets.
That April, I got called in for a few interviews, and one of them was at the school near the top of my list: Regis College, a private Roman Catholic university a few miles outside of downtown Boston. Eva drove me to the small campus. It was gorgeous. Lush, green lawns that were flawlessly maintained. Massive trees. Historic brick buildings. Just being on campus, I felt like I was finally realizing my fantasy of living in a white suburban town. I sat in on a few classes, and the vibe was wonderful; it seemed like I could really make a path for myself there, grow as a student, and make lifelong friends. Everyone was so chill. And the teachers, some of whom were nuns, seemed to care about the students. Things were looking up.
I knew what I’d come there to do: sell myself. Much of what I’ve gotten in my life has had nothing to do with what’s on paper. Put me in a room, and I can talk myself into or out of anything—it’s called the gift of gab. I went wearing a cute dress and my strand of fake pearls, and I made my case to the admissions team as strongly as I could. “I would be a great addition to your school,” I told them passionately (I was probably the worst choice, but I wasn’t about to tell them that). “If you give me this opportunity,” I continued, “I will do everything possible to excel.” A month later, boom shakalaka—I was accepted. What did they get themselves into? Whatever—I was going to college, bitches!
I got into one other school but I settled on Regis right away. It didn’t hurt that they offered me a financial aid package that covered the majority of my first-year costs. I did have a moment of panic, however, when I realized I’d still have to take out some loans. Who could sign for me? No one—and I thought it was too much to ask of Eva or Amelia. So I blundered my own way through the forms and somehow got funded. I didn’t understand a lot of what I signed up for, and years later I’d pay dearly for some of my choices. Let’s just say Sallie Mae and I have had words over the years. Okay fine—we basically stopped talking after she accused me of being a thieving bitch, and I accused her of being a money-grubbing whore. Oh, but don’t worry, Sallie—you’ll get your money.
A couple of weeks before the end of the term, my senior recital came around. I arose early that morning, and, while showering, I warmed up my voice with some scales. I wore a beautiful pink strapless dress, one I’d picked out at Charlotte Russe, and pink flowers in my hair from my other favorite “designer,” H&M. I wore my mother’s shawl as a good luck charm; I could still smell her perfume on it. When I arrived in the music room (which was called the Boston Conservatory), Ms. Jackson, my voice coach, and a few other teachers were waiting.
“You ready?” asked Ms. Jackson with a smile that told me she knew I was.
“Yes,” I said with assurance. “I am.”
The next hour was one of the most special of my life. This was my night. It was my time to shine. As I sang the pieces I’d worked so hard to polish, the music transported me somewhere else, a place where sorrow and heartache and misery do not exist. I didn’t try to pull myself back into the present; rather, I gave in to the feeling, allowing it to carry me off. I ended with a jazz standard called “Poor Butterfly.” It’s about a Japanese girl enchanted by an American man who never returns to be with her; John Raymond Hubbell wrote the song about the main character in Puccini’s Madame Butterfly. I’d chosen it because it struck a powerful chord in me. The abandonment. The hoping and waiting and yearning for something that doesn’t happen. I’d been so moved t
he first time I heard Sarah Vaughan perform it. Now it was my turn.
At the end of my concert, the room went wild. Ms. Jackson and the other teachers all stood and clapped, a long round of applause that meant more to me than any I’ve received since. Sabrina, Eva, Gabriela, and Amelia all sat beaming and clapping in the front row. I was so appreciative of their support, even though I missed my parents. I had done it, and it was a feeling better than any I’d experienced. It took so much courage for me to put my voice on display, to let myself be seen and heard as I am. And for once, I was not afraid. Someone wise once said there are really only two emotions—fear and love—and it’s impossible to feel them at the same time. On that morning, in that room, I was surrounded by an overwhelming spirit of love alone.
The recital went so well that I began to regret not applying to a conservatory. But I’d placed a foot on the path toward Regis in the fall of 2004, so in my mind, that meant it was too late. Someone should’ve talked me out of that.
That entire school year and all the way up through graduation, my mami and papi called. And called. And called. It was as if they could sense I was drifting further and further away from them, and they were grasping to hold on to something, anything, that would keep our relationship intact. They’d missed a lot. Proms. Recitals. Birthdays. Think about all the big things that happen between ages fourteen and eighteen—all the markers we hit, how we change and develop and step into our personalities. At the end of my years at Boston Arts, I was already a little adult. I’d grown from that girl once frightened and shivering under a bed into a poised young woman, a butterfly, ready to spread my wings and navigate my life. And my parents, as deeply as they wished otherwise, hadn’t been there to witness any of the transformation.
Sophomore year at Regis College. The orientation leaders and me.
Junior year study abroad, Roma, Italy. In the back, looking sexy as hell, is a super-old Italian statue.
Venice, Italy, being the ultimate tourists.
CHAPTER 11
New World
Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.
—NEALE DONALD WALSCH, author
The day I set foot on campus, I knew I’d made a mistake. A big one. It’s not that Regis seemed any less ideal than it had during my visit; it was more stunning in fall than it had been in spring, and it was buzzing with the students’ energy of a fresh start. But after that memorable recital, my doubts about my direction had grown louder. Why didn’t I try for a conservatory? I kept thinking. And why am I not in New York? I’d rushed to do the whole university thing because it was the next logical step. I now realize I could’ve taken off a year to get clear about what I wanted. Oh well.
Right away, I had to make a huge adjustment to—how shall I put this?—Les (White) Girls. I’d befriended the sprinkles of Caucasians who’d been at Boston Arts, most of them the Jamaica Plain, clog-wearing, crunchy-granola types. But the girls at Regis were different, and those variations extended beyond race. There were hoity-toity suburban girls. Super nerds and super-religious girls. Girls who didn’t get into Wellesley. Oh, and lesbians—lots and lots of lesbians. Within a week of being there, I had my first lesbian experience. Phew—now that I’ve got that over with, what’s next? There were also quite a number of black and brown girls, but not nearly as many as I was used to. And I didn’t find much of an artsy crowd other than the Emo goths in the theater department. No more music and no more fantasy. I was stuck.
I missed my crew. Gabriela had enrolled at Pine Manor College in the greater Boston area. Sabrina was in the city too, attending beauty school to become a hairdresser. Sophia, my Barnes bud, had gone off to Hofstra University in New York. Sabrina, Gabriela, and their moms all dropped me off in my dorm room a week ahead of the fall semester. “You always have a spot in our house,” Eva assured me as we hugged good-bye. “You can visit anytime.” And I did sleep over on some weekends and holidays. But you know how it goes: After you move away, you often don’t keep in touch, even when your loved ones are nearby. That’s especially true once you get caught up in your new life.
And soon enough, I did. I immediately clicked with my roommate, Adrienne, this gorgeous girl with auburn hair and green eyes. She’d been raised in a progressive community in the Berkshires. When she pulled out a Les Misérables poster and hung it over her bed, I knew she was my kind of roomie. Artsy. Earthy. Cool. A good fit with my Artsy. Cool. Undecided.
As the year got underway, I did make more friends in class and in other school activities and functions around campus. I connected with a group of pals, including Paula, a Puerto Rican Republican in love with George Bush; Jemma, who was from Maine, super fun, and incredibly diligent and organized; Jenny, who was mild mannered and studying to be a nurse; and Sarah, who was then exploring the goth alternative lifestyle.
Especially during that first year at Regis, race was on my mind a lot because the topic was part of my curriculum. I’d chosen poli-sci and communications as a major. With my eye on a media career, I was hungry to educate myself, to learn all about the various philosophies. I read voraciously. Plato’s The Republic. Niccolò Machiavelli’s The Prince. Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Of the Social Contract. I’d get so attached to whatever I was reading that I’d switch my view. After some Henry David Thoreau, I’d be like, “Revolution is the only way to achieve justice!” Then following a little Aldous Huxley, I’d start spouting off about pacifism. I wasn’t simply reading. I was also carving out a belief system. An identity. A place to fit in as a Latina and a female and a Millennial. Trouble is, from one course to the next, I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to be a Black Panther or Mahatma Gandhi. Depended on my mood—#mood.
I’d bug out on certain issues that plagued my mind, things like racial and societal inequality, reproductive rights, and overall injustices. If I talked in class about wealth distribution being our world’s only hope, and a white girl then made a snarky remark, I’d snap, “Are you talkin’ to me? You fascist right-winged schoolgirl, you! You know nothing!”
Much of my anger was misplaced. I was furious that I’d lost my mother and father. Furious that those around me were from communities where my reality wasn’t part of the conversation. Furious that others paid little attention to the existence of undocumented workers. My family’s struggle to remain in America had defined my childhood, yet immigration wasn’t on their radars. They had absolutely no idea what I’d been through.
That was by design. I shared a lot with my friends, but I initially avoided that Kryptonite of conversations—my parents’ whereabouts. “Are you going home to see your folks?” a friend would ask. “Oh no,” I’d tell her. “They relocated overseas a few years ago.” While that was technically true, I’m sure she thought my parents were in the French Alps or Tahiti, not living hand-to-mouth in the Third World. If she or the others pressed the point, I quickly changed the subject because I was ashamed. Aside from that, I didn’t want to be seen as a victim. I’d done my share of sulking. I was ready to turn the page on the “poor Diane” story.
* * *
For most of my friends, summer break was summer break, that time when they traded their studies for, say, a Tuscany vacation. For me, however, the off-season was a reason to panic. I was worried about where I’d go and how I’d earn money. After freshman year, I headed to Eva’s place, but that got old really fast. Not only was I nervous about wearing out my welcome, I also wanted to show that I could at last be independent. Who wants to be a permanent charity case? I didn’t. But since neither my parents nor I had the cash to fly me to Colombia, I had to figure out something. So at the end of my freshman year, I became an orientation leader, a job that involved giving tours to prospective students and—bingo—staying in the dorms for free during June, July, and August. Second summer down, one to go.
Holidays were tricky as well. While others were preparing to deck the halls, I was stressing about whether my loans would cover the spring term. “I want you to come here in December,” Mami told me.
“I haven’t spent Christmas with you in four years.” In the winter of 2005, her plea got through to me and I arranged a trip. I didn’t have the money for the airfare, so God bless Gabriela’s sister, who put the eight-hundred-dollar ticket on her credit card. “I’ll pay you back,” I promised. (Which, by the way, I did; when all you’ve got is your reputation, you learn to be impeccable with your word. I’m anal about promptly repaying my friends, as well as returning, in pristine condition, any items I’ve borrowed.)
Christmas in Colombia was amazing. I’d heard about people going from house to house, singing and reciting verses during La Novena—exactly as we’d done in Boston, only multiplied by twenty. The stories didn’t come close to the experience itself. There were parties all over the place. Homes lit with hundreds of twinkling lights. Parks and plazas aglow with nativity displays. Children playing in the streets. Those who had jobs set them aside for the month. Music and fireworks filled the air. Over the years, one of my aunts had often sent me tapes of pretty Christmas carols. Some were those we sing here, such as “Silent Night” and “The Little Drummer Boy.” Others were traditional choruses like “Vamos Vamos Vamos Pastorcito” and “Los Pastores de Belén.” The sounds, the sights, the taste of buñuelos y massamora, Colombian pastries and cornlike pudding—it all brought the season to life and created this enormous national fiesta.
In the Country We Love Page 13
