Ana's Story

by Jenna Bush

  37

  After summer, Aunt Sonia enrolled Ana in seventh grade at the local secondary school. Ana made friends easily and soon began scribbling notes and giggling with Yolanda, her new best friend. Ana loved Yolanda’s easy manner and quick laugh. She felt close to her because both of them lived without a father.

  After school, Ana spent as much time as she could at Yolanda’s house. Yolanda’s mamá knew that Ana’s parents had died and that she had to move away from her abuela, so she went out of her way to welcome Ana lovingly into her home. Yolanda’s papá had left them years before, so there was plenty of room at the table for Ana to join them for dinner. Yolanda’s mamá often took time to braid Ana’s long hair and, best of all, sometimes she called Ana “mi amor”—my love. When she was in Yolanda’s home, Ana didn’t feel angry or ashamed, and she didn’t feel burdened by her past.

  Ana often told her aunt Sonia that she and Yolanda had homework to do or that Yolanda’s mother needed help cleaning the house or pulling weeds in the yard—any excuse to spend time with them. Most days, no one cared that Ana was gone—no one except Isabel. Ana knew that Isabel felt abandoned and lonely when Ana spent time with her new friend, and did her best to make it up to her.

  When they were together, Ana and Yolanda danced and gossiped, tried on makeup, and experimented with new hairstyles. When Ana ate dinner at Yolanda’s house, she always excused herself after eating to take her HIV/AIDS medication in private.

  On the nights Ana slept over at Yolanda’s house, they whispered until the early morning hours, Ana confiding about how much she missed Mamá and Papá, how lonely she sometimes felt, and how her abuela used to hit her. Yet even on those nights when the girls opened up to each other, Ana didn’t share everything. She still did not trust anyone with her deepest secrets: that she was HIV-positive and what Ernesto had done to her. Ana didn’t want to reveal these truths about herself because as long as she kept them hidden, they weren’t really a part of her.

  38

  Once a month, Ana did not visit Yolanda after school, and she did not tell her friend where she was going. On these days, Ana walked several blocks and waited on the street corner for the bus that took her from her barrio to the children’s hospital in the city.

  Ana loved the buses; they looked like moving fiestas. They were painted with vivid graffitilike images of the Virgin Mary and Jesus posing with Bugs Bunny and the Tasmanian Devil. Strings of red, teal, and lavender lights hung around the windows, which were always open, allowing a dusty breeze to blow through.

  When the bus arrived, Ana boarded and found a seat by the window. She stared out and imagined she was traveling to visit her father in his apartment in the city. She wished more than anything that her papá was still alive.

  Instead, she got off the bus when it stopped in front of the hospital. She made her way through the labyrinth of corridors, never needing to pause or ask for directions. She was used to this by now. She ended by pushing open the door marked Infectious Diseases Unit.

  “Hola, Nurse López. ¿Cómo está?” Ana asked, smiling politely at the nurse sitting behind the counter.

  “Hola, Ana,” the nurse responded politely. “I’m fine; how are you feeling?”

  “Bien, I’m feeling great,” Ana said. “I’m just here for my medicine.” Since she had moved in with Aunt Sonia, Ana had been picking up her medication on her own. Aunt Sonia knew Ana was HIV-positive, but she didn’t have time to go into the city and pick up the medication.

  “Of course,” the nurse said.

  The nurse counted out the white pills and put them in a small bottle. She asked Ana to sign a form and then handed the pills and a receipt to her.

  Ana thanked the nurse and left. Sometimes she stayed for an AIDS-education program to learn more about staying healthy and preventing the spread of HIV. Every three months she had checkups and blood work. Ana’s trips to the hospital had become as familiar as breathing, as waking up every morning and looking at the picture of her mamá.

  39

  Whenever Ana walked from Yolanda’s home to Aunt Sonia’s house, the tension increased with every step. She had begun to hate it there. No one told her that they loved her or that she was pretty or smart; no one thanked her for helping with the dishes or taking out the trash; no one hugged her or braided her hair. She wasn’t valued as a member of the family. She was sure she was an unwelcome burden.

  She left Yolanda’s feeling like a normal thirteen-year-old girl, but by the time she arrived at Aunt Sonia’s house, she was hostile and angry, ready to strike out and defend herself—which she had to do regularly. Ana had become a fighter; she didn’t usually start the confrontation, but she no longer backed down when she was being bullied.

  Ana’s great-aunt and her cousin Susana treated her like the dirt on the roads of the barrio. If Ana walked into the house five minutes late after school, Aunt Sonia would yell at her.

  “What have you been doing?” she asked. “What are you, a tramp?”

  If Ana talked back, her aunt reached for a flyswatter or an extension cord and whipped her with it.

  At first the beatings were mild, but as the months passed, the punishments became harsher, more severe, and more frequent. Ana and her great-aunt developed a dialogue, a dance, both of them knowing how the other would respond. Both sides refused to back down. It had become a contest of wills. Ana’s razor-sharp attitude versus Sonia’s strict authority were opposing forces working against each other.

  Ana wouldn’t allow herself to be a victim anymore. All the anger she felt—at Ernesto for hurting her, at her abuela for not protecting her, at her mother’s and father’s deaths, at her great-aunt and cousins for not loving and accepting her—all of this anger simmered inside her, waiting for someone to provoke a response. Every incident at home became an outlet for both physical and emotional pain.

  Ana would defend herself, her voice as sharp as a machete. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me, you old witch. Don’t touch Isabel or me.”

  Aunt Sonia would not accept Ana’s new edge or the disrespect in her voice, and only punished her more.

  Susana often initiated the confrontations, as if teasing and hitting Ana were entertainment when the telenovelas were boring. Once, when Ana was an hour late returning from Yolanda’s house, Susana took pleasure in announcing, “Mamá, Ana is very late today.”

  Ana was forced to kneel in a corner of the house while Susana, her husband, and her children laughed at her. Isabel was the only one who didn’t laugh; instead she stayed in her room. She was unable to protect Ana and unable to watch her pain. Ana stayed in the corner for two hours, her back and knees aching, while everyone else in the household sat on the couch watching television.

  Ana almost welcomed the pain; she felt comfortable with it because it confirmed what she already believed about herself—that she deserved to be hurt—that something was wrong with her. No one but Isabel loved her now. Imagine what would happen if they knew the whole truth, if they knew all her secrets. Wasn’t that why Abuela had told her to keep her mouth shut?

  40

  Ana accepted the beatings in her home, but she was deeply humiliated when her aunt or cousin hit her in public. To avoid embarrassing encounters, Ana usually remained quiet and passive when she was out with her family, but if Ana was belligerent or talked back, they openly slapped or kicked her.

  Worse than the pain of the beatings was the shame she felt when she looked up and saw someone she knew from school standing across the street, witnessing the entire event. Most of the time her friends turned away when they recognized Ana, trying to spare her embarrassment, so that when they met at school the following day, they could ignore the incident. Ana was unhappy, she was hurt, and she needed help.

  41

  Ana’s favorite teacher at school was Señor García. He spent some class time talking with his students—and listening. He talked with them about their plans for the weekend, their plans for the summer, their plans for the re
st of their lives. He encouraged them to open up if they had any problems at school or at home.

  Señor García was much younger and more relaxed than most of the other teachers. He dressed in guayaberas and blue jeans instead of the more formal clothes that most of his colleagues wore, and he used pop culture and humor in his classes. He was a terrific teacher and his students loved him.

  “Ana, please stay after class a moment,” Señor García said one day.

  After the other students filed out to their lockers, Señor García closed the door and turned to Ana.

  “I don’t mean to embarrass you, but I have noticed that you have bruises on your arms and legs,” he said gently. “Are you okay? I want you to know that it’s safe to talk to me.”

  “I’m fine,” Ana said instinctively while pulling the sleeves of her uniform down to cover the bruises. She was ashamed that her bruises were visible to anyone who chose to notice.

  “I mean, my great-aunt, she sometimes…” Ana paused, then continued. “She sometimes hits and kicks me.” With that, the words flowed out. She told him about how her great-aunt beat and humiliated her. She told him that she had been taken from her abuela’s house before that for the same reason.

  “I want to leave my aunt Sonia’s house,” she confided, “but I don’t want to leave my sister, Isabel. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I will try to help you,” Señor García said reassuringly, and Ana believed him.

  42

  Speaking with Señor García gave Ana the courage to try to change her situation. On her way home, she went directly to Yolanda’s mamá and said, “I am not happy at my great-aunt’s house. Can I live here with you for a while? ¿Por favor?”

  Ana held her breath, feeling reckless for asking so much, for risking so much; if Yolanda’s mamá said no, Ana would feel rejected and hurt and nothing would be the same at Yolanda’s anymore.

  “Of course, Ana,” came the reply. Yolanda’s mamá hugged Ana gently, making an effort to avoid her bruises.

  Ana rushed home and gathered her clothes in a bag. Her heart stopped when she looked at the twin bed she shared with Isabel; she would have to leave her sister behind.

  But Isabel didn’t have the same trouble with Aunt Sonia. Isabel seemed to shrink back and become invisible when her great-aunt’s temper flared. Isabel avoided confrontation, and usually she avoided the beatings as well.

  “Isabel will be fine for now,” Ana told herself. “I’ll try to get Yolanda’s mother to take her, too.” This simple wish was enough to make Ana comfortable with her decision. She wouldn’t disappoint her father: Ana would take care of her sister, but she’d have to wait a little and come back for her later.

  Isabel wasn’t home from school yet, so Ana didn’t have a chance to explain the situation to her. Ana grabbed a pen and scribbled a note to Isabel on the back of her algebra homework:

  Hi, hermana,

  I have gone to Yolanda’s house. She and her mamá said that I could live with them for a while. I can’t stand this abuse anymore.

  I promise I will come back for you.

  I will protect you.

  Te amo.

  Tu hermana,

  Ana

  43

  That night, Ana had trouble falling asleep. Señor García had called Yolanda’s mother that evening, explaining that he would help file the papers if the family was willing to legally adopt Ana. Yolanda’s mamá loved Ana like a daughter, and she said she would seriously consider the matter.

  Ana knew that before she could allow Yolanda’s mamá to adopt her, she had to tell her the truth about her illness. It wouldn’t be fair to the family otherwise.

  The next morning, Ana woke up and found Yolanda and her mother sitting at the kitchen table, eating eggs and fried plantains for breakfast. The pinks and yellows of the sunrise brightened the room. A plate of food for her sat on the small table.

  Ana sat down. Before she could eat a single bite, she needed to unburden herself.

  “There is something you should know,” Ana started. “I have…” She stopped and looked down at her plate. She couldn’t find the words. What if she told them the truth and they told her that she couldn’t stay with them? Where would she go?

  Ana took a deep breath and started again.

  “I am infected with HIV,” she blurted out. “I was infected by my parents. They both died, but as long as I take my medicine I’ll be fine. You won’t catch it from me by living in the same house. You will be okay.”

  Ana looked up at Yolanda’s mamá. Tears flooded from Ana’s eyes.

  “Yes,” Yolanda said, reaching out to her. “It will be okay.”

  Yolanda’s mamá wiped the tears from Ana’s eyes and said, “You can stay here. Now, eat. Your breakfast is getting cold.”

  Ana hadn’t expected acceptance to come so easily. She hadn’t expected to be treated like a normal teenager, even if she was one living with HIV.

  44

  For several days, Ana went to school in the morning and returned home to Yolanda’s house in the afternoon. She missed Isabel and worried that her great-aunt Sonia would punish her now that Ana was gone. But Ana was afraid to call or stop by the house; she didn’t want to confront Sonia. She had nothing to say to her, and she knew they would just argue, or worse.

  Señor García had filed paperwork so that Ana could stay legally with Yolanda’s family while the details of the adoption were worked out. Ana had to appear before a local judge so that Yolanda’s mamá could receive temporary custody.

  Ana’s palms were sweaty when she went into the judge’s chamber. His desk was covered with stacks of work. He opened a manila folder and pulled out several sheets of paper. After glancing over them, he looked up over the edge of his glasses at Ana and Yolanda and her mamá.

  “You are?” he asked, nodding in Ana’s direction.

  “I’m Ana.”

  “Well, Ana, this isn’t going to work,” he said. “You can’t be adopted by a non–family member, not without the approval of the other relatives.”

  Ana’s heart froze. Her great-aunt and her abuela would never agree. It was too late to turn back now. She knew they would not forgive her for the embarrassment and take her back. Ana stared blankly at the judge.

  “You will report to the reform center.”

  A juvenile detention center? Why? She hadn’t done anything!

  “No, please, señor,” Ana pleaded. “Please.”

  The judge did not look at her. Instead, he reached for the folder containing the details of the next case.

  45

  After dinner that night, Ana carried everything she owned in a grocery bag as she entered the reform center. She was given a cardboard box and told to store her personal items there. A tall woman with long black hair and severe eyes handed Ana a T-shirt and cotton shorts.

  “This is your uniform,” she said without smiling. “You will wear it every day.”

  Ana looked around. The building was an old one that had been converted into a reform home and orphanage. The facility consisted of three connected structures, one for small children, another for teenage girls, and a third for teenage boys. The walls were painted bright shades of coral and turquoise, but Ana saw everything as though she were looking through a gray rain cloud.

  The guard led Ana to the girls’ dormitory, where about twenty girls slept in rows of beds. There was no air-conditioning or fan; the stale, hot air hung in the room.

  The guard unlocked the door, which looked like the metal bars of a prison cell. She held it open, and Ana passed through. The guard locked the door behind her saying, “The last row.”

  The bathroom was in the same room. The stalls had no doors, no privacy. No one spoke to her, so Ana suffered her humiliation in silence. She put on a mask of bravery and indifference, as if she had been in tougher situations in the past. She didn’t want to let anyone sense her weakness and fear.

  Ana found her way to her bed and climbed on the mattress, which felt lik
e it had been filled with small stones. She cried silently in the hot, dark room. It was like being in hell—not the fiery red hell of the Bible, but a drab, colorless one. I am in prison, she thought. What am I doing in this place?

  46

  An alarm sounded at five in the morning. The sky was still black when the girls were directed outside and told to run ten laps around a large field. As the sun rose over the hills, they were divided into groups and told to pull weeds in the yard surrounding the buildings.

  “What’s your name?” a girl a bit younger than Ana asked without smiling.

  “Ana.”

  “I’m Pilar.”

  While they worked, they talked a little about themselves. Pilar came from a small town in the mountains. She had been at the center for about six months, since just before her thirteenth birthday.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Pilar said.

  At seven o’clock, another alarm sounded and breakfast was served in the large cafeteria. Ana was hungry, but she ate very little of her first meal: leftover bread so hard and stale that she knew she could hurt someone with it if she threw it hard enough.

  After breakfast, Ana and Pilar sat together in the garden, watching the other girls play soccer. Precisely at noon, another alarm rang out, calling them to lunch, an unsatisfying combination of boiled chicken necks and overcooked yellow rice. Ana thought it looked like animal feed, so she refused to eat it.