“Are you there? Are you there?” her cousin asked.
Finally my mom summoned the will to speak, if only one word: “How?”
Her cousin explained that Anabel had burned with a fever for several days. In their little village, an illness that might be cured easily with a dose of antibiotics often ushered in death.
“We fixed her up real nice for the burial, Maria. She’s an angel now.”
My mom continued to listen in silence as her cousin pressed on.
“There’s nothing you can do now.”
My mom felt something heavy on her chest and she couldn’t draw enough breath. She hung up.
Although I was not even four years old, I hugged and kissed her and told her it would be okay. My mom didn’t want to move away from the phone because she thought that maybe—just maybe—her family had been playing a terrible joke on her. Maybe her cousin was only kidding. She waited by the phone all day for another phone call, but it never came.
For days afterward, my mom couldn’t get out of bed. Frank and Jan begged her to come back to work until finally she did. She didn’t want to, but she knew she had to. She needed to buy our food, make our rent.
My sister’s death made my mom realize that America—with all its advantages—really was the best place for us now, although she still missed my sister Consuelo terribly.
CHAPTER TWO
American Dreams
We settled into a comfortable routine of school and work. My mom was so proud when I marched off to my first day of kindergarten at Waller Elementary School. I didn’t speak much English yet, but she promised herself that as soon as I began to learn it in school, we’d speak it at home together.
In February 1988, La Migra appeared again, this time at the Mexican restaurant where everyone except my mom was legal.
“Put on my coat and go sit at a table like you’re a customer,” a coworker urged. My mom refused. She felt like she’d already spent enough time in the shadows. She was proud of who she was and all she’d endured to forge a life in this country. She believed that she deserved to be here. But if La Migra deported her, she’d take me back to the old country, knowing that at least with my own papers in hand I could return when I was eighteen.
The officers cuffed her and put her in their van. On the way to the immigration office, she said, “Please, I need to pick up my son from day care.”
The two men conferred quietly. She couldn’t hear what they were saying. And then, to her surprise, they pulled over.
“Get out,” one of the agents said. “We know something’s going on at your restaurant. We know people are selling drugs. We’ll come back and see you soon, and you can tell us what you know.”
My mom didn’t know anything about drugs. What she did know was that she needed to find a new daytime job. It didn’t make any sense to be there waiting when La Migra came back.
The years of hiding and fear finally ended in December 1988, when the New Orleans lawyer came through—my mom received her green card. She was a legal worker. Our fridge may have been empty because she’d spent all our money on the immigration process, but she didn’t care. She cried with happiness, which she’d never done before. I can’t imagine the relief she felt, the weight of all that worry finally lifted from her shoulders. (Five years later she applied for U.S. citizenship, and in March 1999 she received her American flag.)
My mother’s legal status also meant we were free to travel to El Salvador. I was just six years old the first time. My Spanish wasn’t so great once I’d started learning English in school, and I think my mom was a little bit embarrassed. In her mind, my weak language skills reflected poorly on her among her kin.
When we arrived in the capital, San Salvador, we caught a bus to my mom’s hometown. But the bus went only as far as the town center; from there we had to go by horseback to her mother’s home. I found it tremendously exciting. I’d never been near a horse before, but I confidently rode ahead of everyone else. At the home I met my grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins, and my half sister, Consuelo, who was about twelve years old.
I’d said hi to her on the phone a few times, but I was thrilled to meet her in person. We got along really well and immediately began to behave like a typical brother and sister despite our language barrier. I’d push open the door when she was in her room getting dressed, and she’d retaliate by chasing me around the house and hitting me.
The El Salvador culture was full of surprises. I thought it was fun to go to the bathroom in the forest, although I was slightly embarrassed and always made sure no one saw me wander away to do my business. No bathtubs or showers? Even better. What boy wants to bathe? If we had to do it, there was always the creek.
One time I saw a kid, maybe a few years older than me, carrying a machete. A couple of days later, I saw another boy who also had one. I was confused: Why did I have to play with toy weapons but these kids were allowed to have real ones? Like many boys, I was fascinated by guns and dangerous things.
My grandmother had kept the dress that my mom had sent for Anabel two years earlier. Now she asked to have it back, but my grandmother refused, saying she wanted to be buried with it. My mom and I returned home without it.
My mom wouldn’t get it back for two more years. During another visit to El Salvador, she again asked for the dress. She told my grandmother it would make her feel better, feel closer to Anabel. My grandmother agreed to let it go back to the United States under the condition that the person who dies first—my grandmother or my mom—gets buried with it.
My mother’s legal status brought her much-needed relief, even happiness, but for me, it didn’t make that much difference. Not because I didn’t care, but because I was already a happy kid. I knew my mom struggled sometimes, but she always managed to keep my world safe and untroubled, and I never had any reason to believe my life was harder than or different from the lives of other kids.
Except for not having a father. By the time I was in the first or second grade, I realized I’d been missing a man in my life. I’d see dads come to pick up their kids at school, coach their sons on the football field. If I had a dad, I thought, he could play catch with me. Instead, I had to throw a ball up on the roof and play catch by myself.
And then my mom met Hector. I was eight years old.
Monday was the one day a week my mom had off from her job at the Italian Garden. She’d gone to a club for a rare night out—to listen to music, dance a little cumbia in her white dress and heels—and there was Hector. Good-looking and educated—he’d been a teacher in Mexico—Hector was studying computers here in the United States. They started dating, and pretty quickly my mom was hooked.
While Hector was around, I had a dad. He was the first man who made me understand what a father could be. Hector could be strict with me, but I knew it was because he didn’t want some kid pulling one over on him. He wanted to spend time with me. He taught me how to change the oil in a car, showing me how to slide beneath the engine of our green Ford Escort, loosen the screws, and drain the oil. I’d help him pour the fluid through to clean out the system and then replace the filter.
He rough housed and wrestled with me a lot. He’d be walking past nonchalantly and suddenly reach out and punch me in the arm. “Got ya!” he’d say.
I’d laugh, and then I’d chase him so I could punch him in the arm, too. He’d pretend I’d hit him hard and he’d go down. Then we’d both die laughing.
Hector also taught me to love music. He set up a keyboard in our apartment. He’d place his ashtray on the keyboard, gesture for me to sit beside him on the bench. I’d take the cigarette from his mouth and put it into the ashtray for him, and we’d sing Spanish love songs together. He had a beautiful tenor voice. He was tough and gentle at the same time, and I totally respected that.
Sometimes we would walk down the street from our apartment to a bar called JC’s, where Hector played keyboards and I put on a little show. I’d dance the cumbia, and I’d sing tender songs about brok
en hearts filled with pain. It was during these evenings that I realized I loved being in front of people, making them happy. It made me feel good about myself.
But then Hector started hitting my mom, and it was hard for me to reconcile that violence with the man I was trying to love. His way was all I knew, but I knew enough to understand that it was wrong.
The first time it happened I was inside our apartment playing a video game. Out of the blue I heard my mom scream. I ran outside and saw my mom bent back against the hood of the car, Hector leaning over her, his arm drawn with a clenched fist. Before I had a moment to react, he punched her in the face.
“Get in the house!” my mom screamed at me.
I obeyed, and at that moment I loved her even harder than I already did. I sat in the back of the closet, hugging my knees, afraid to make a sound. That’s my mom and he’s hurting her! my nine-year-old mind screamed. Is he going to kill her? Soon enough it was over. But it was not an isolated incident. When Hector drank, all bets were off. One day, the three of us went to visit some friends at a barbecue. Hector boozed pretty heavily at the party. My mom got fed up and insisted we leave.
When we got back to our place, she and I went in but Hector stayed outside. The door had barely closed behind us when we heard the sound of shattering glass. My mom went out and discovered that Hector had smashed a beer bottle in the driveway. He was in a rage. He began yelling at her and soon had her pinned down, roaring in her face.
I ran out and jumped on his back. “Please, Daddy, don’t hurt my mama!”
In one swift motion, he shrugged me off him, turned to face me, and slapped me across the face so hard I spun around. It was the first time he’d ever hit me.
“Rene, go call the police!” my mom managed to sputter.
I didn’t get the chance. Hector grabbed both of us by the hair.
“Shut your faces! I should fucking kill you!”
He began marching us to the railroad tracks near our apartment. He laid us across the tracks and held us down by our throats. I began to cough hard, which seemed to anger him even more.
“Shut up, you little brat,” he spit. “I could choke you to death.”
My mom is petite, not even five feet tall, and I was only a little boy. We were no match for Hector.
But then, inexplicably, he changed his mind and let us up.
“Get in the car,” he barked. “We’re going to my place.”
It was a long drive to his house, which was located deep in the woods. Who knew what he was going to do with us there?
On the way, Hector’s thirst got the better of him and he stopped to buy more beer.
While he was in the store, I leaned over the front seat to ask my mom, “What now?”
“The first chance you see to make a run for it, you get away and call the police,” she whispered, without turning her head.
I was ready to bolt right then, but Hector was already on his way back to the car, a six-pack under his arm. He opened a can and took a big gulp before starting the engine.
We were driving down a dark lane alongside the Red River when Hector suddenly stopped in the middle of the road. I was terrified.
“You be quiet, Rene,” my mom said over her shoulder to me in the backseat. No doubt she thought if I cried or said anything, I might provoke Hector. I kept my mouth shut.
“Get out,” Hector ordered. My mom opened the front passenger door, while I pulled on the latch on the door in back. Hector didn’t move. When I looked back into the car from the side of the road, Hector’s hands were still on the steering wheel. He leaned forward, his forehead resting on his knuckles.
“Fuck this. Get back in. I’ll take you home.”
Maybe his rage had burned out. Or maybe his beer fog lifted just enough for him to come to his senses about what he was doing to these two people who loved him. We’ll never know.
When we pulled into the parking lot by our apartment, I saw my chance.
“I have to pee.”
“So go pee,” he said. He and my mother stayed in the car.
I walked inside and dialed 911. Within minutes, I heard the sirens come screeching into the lot. I went outside in time to watch the police officers cuffing Hector. My mom ran to my side.
“When I get out, I’m going to kill you!” he screamed at us. His finger impressions were still visible on my face.
I was furious that he was trying to hurt us, to hurt my mom. There had been incidents before this, when they had fought and I’d wished I could do something, clenching my little fists and growling in frustration. I wasn’t just angry at him then, but her, too. Why was she letting this happen? I knew she needed a man in her life, an adult relationship, but why was she putting herself through this? Why was she putting me through this?
CHAPTER THREE
Hope
My mother bought a gun off a guy on the street, and he showed her how to use it. “Don’t shoot him in the back, or you’ll get in trouble,” he told her. “And don’t kill him—just shoot him in the leg.”
I didn’t know anything about the gun, and thankfully my mom never needed to use it, but Hector’s threat was never far from her thoughts. It seemed like a good time for a fresh start.
My uncle had moved to Hope, Arkansas, the previous summer, so we picked up and followed him. Although my mom fielded some initial resistance from me about the move, I had to admit that the name seemed promising.
Nestled in the rural southwest part of the state, Hope was the epitome of small-town living, but it was starting to get national recognition as the birthplace of Bill Clinton, who was then campaigning to become our forty-second president. He touted the town in his 1992 nomination acceptance speech when he said, “I still believe in a place called Hope.”
I don’t know what Hope was like back when he lived there, but our experience wasn’t quite so idyllic. Home to about ten thousand residents, Hope didn’t support many high-paying jobs, but there were ample factory positions that offered steady paychecks. My uncle helped my mom land a job in quality control at a chicken-processing plant located in an industrial park on one side of town. The pay was good—nine dollars an hour—but her schedule was lousy. Assigned to the graveyard shift, she left for the plant every night at around nine thirty, not returning home until eight thirty or nine the next morning. That meant every evening she’d put me to bed and head out for work, leaving me alone in our duplex apartment all night. I was nine years old.
Most of the time, being left alone didn’t bother me. The only time I got scared was late at night when I couldn’t sleep. I loved to watch cop or mystery shows, but when I settled down in front of the TV, the only light in the darkened living room came in an eerie glow from the set, casting shadows on the walls. Sometimes I got spooked, convinced I heard a strange noise from somewhere in the apartment. Fear would march up my spine like a line of fire ants, and I’d crawl under the table in the living room to hide, wondering if someone was watching me through a window. Fortunately, that didn’t happen too often.
My mom worked six days a week, off only on Sundays, so I was pretty much in charge of myself. Every school day I’d get myself up and dressed. I’d eat ham and cheese Hot Pockets or Cinnamon Toast Crunch for breakfast before heading out to catch the school bus to William J. Clinton Primary School, where I attended the third grade. If I had some change and left early enough, I’d stop at the ramshackle market next door to our apartment and buy myself a honey bun and a Yoo-hoo.
After school let out in the afternoon, I’d ride the bus home. From the bus stop I’d walk straight to the store and buy myself a twenty-ounce Dr Pepper and a bag of Doritos. I relished my independence and felt proud that I could take care of myself.
These were the days before after-school programs, so I was one of the millions of America’s “latchkey kids” who returned from school to an empty home. I kept our key in my pocket, and its weight against my leg comforted me. My mom didn’t know about the research that said that kids left unsuperv
ised for long periods of time often experienced behavioral problems and lower levels of self-esteem, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to let me get into trouble if she could help it. She didn’t hesitate to dole out swift and decisive punishment when I got out of line.
That was at home. At school, where I was out of her reach, I got into a lot of trouble defending myself on the playground because kids picked on me for all the reasons kids can find to pick on someone: I was the new boy. I had a Louisiana accent. My name was Rene, which sounded like a girl’s name. I kind of looked like a girl, with long hair and silky skin. (Later, in high school, girls would ask me if my mom worked on my eyebrows because they were so clean.)
The first fight I ever got into was in the fourth grade, with a kid called A.J. It seemed like he called everyone in the class “cousin,” which bugged me. He sure has a lot of relatives, I thought. On this particular day, the teacher stepped out of the classroom, and A.J. started in on a couple of other students. He’d been teasing me all year, and when he turned his attention in my direction, something just went off in me. I jumped out of my chair and told him to step up. We faced off nose to nose, and I gave him a push. He shoved me back. We spent the next few seconds in a standoff, and then I took a swing, and we began to roll around. I felt victorious right up until I was marched to the principal’s office. My mom was going to kill me.
Over the next few years, my mom would get a lot of calls about me. At first kids had picked on me because I was new. But they kept ganging up on me for any reason at all, especially on the school bus. I fought back. But that meant my exhausted mom would walk through the door from work in the morning only to receive a phone call summoning her to school because I’d gotten into trouble again. The principal finally asked her if school administrators could paddle me when I acted up instead of calling her to come in. She agreed.
Many parents advocated corporal punishment for their children, and Arkansas was one of a handful of states where it was avidly practiced. Children were offered a choice of disciplinary methods: a detention, an out-of-school suspension, or a paddling—two or three hard whacks with a board—often called “licks.”
Full of Heart: My Story of Survival, Strength, and Spirit Page 2
