Authors: Rosie Perez
I took out an elephant cracker and bit into it. It was so good. I missed eating animal crackers. I remember eating them at Mommie’s house. Wait! Mommie’s house? Oh my goodness! Who is she? There was a lump in my throat that felt like a big rock.
Tia started to sing softly, “Animal crackers in my soup. Monkeys and rabbits loop
de
loop.…”
I looked up at her. I do remember her! I remember her, and watching Shirley Temple with her. I wanted to tell her that I did, but I was so confused. She looked like my mommie, but she was calling herself Tia, and telling me that she was my aunt.
She continued to sing. Her soothing, out-of-tune voice danced in my head and through the early fall air. My foot started swinging back and forth, this time without tension, but in time with the rhythm of the lyrics. My fear began to subside. I looked back into the box of cookies and pulled out a lion. I quietly joined in between bites.
Animal crackers in my soup. Monkeys and rabbits loop de loop
.…
Tia laughed with so much joy, with that great cackle. I looked up and smiled. She smiled back and softly said, “I love you, Rosie. You know that?
Te quiero mucho
. I love you very much.” I got quiet. I hadn’t heard those words—“I love you”—said to me or to anyone at this place since I’d arrived. I looked at the coloring book, then back at her, waiting for an okay. “Sure. It is yours,” she replied. I opened the book, grabbed the crayons, and started coloring.
As the days went by I started to put the pieces together. Mommie was Tia, and Lydia was Mommie. Got it. Sort of. Oh my goodness, why? Why did Mommie have to be my aunt, and why did that beautiful, mean lady have to be my mother? Although I kind of wanted her to be my mommie. Or maybe I just wanted to be able to say I had a mommie. Confused? Think how I felt.
The days following the visit were spent vacillating between hating my aunt for not being my mother and missing her and wishing she was my mother and would take me out of this place. I also started fantasizing about the beautiful lady everyone called my mother, wishing she liked me.
The most painful thought that permeated my brain and heart was why neither of them came to get me out of the Home, or at the very least, why neither of them had come to see me sooner on a visiting day. That one visit from Tia made the following Sunday, when she didn’t come back, so much harder. I tried to learn from Crazy Cindy how to be nonchalant about it, but it was difficult. Being silly was definitely an option, like having farting contests with Cindy. It sure beat being so depressed and withdrawn.
But eventually Tia did come back. And started to come at least twice, sometimes three times a month. Cousin Millie told me that whether it was raining or sunny, even when there was four feet of snow on the ground, Tia would get up in the wee early hours of the morning while it was still dark out, take the subway to Grand
Central Station, and get on the Metro-North train for an hourlong ride to Peekskill. The whole trip took about two and a half hours. My cousins would watch her leave from the window, worried out of their minds. She’d be the first to arrive, she’d stay with me for most of the day, and then she’d get on the six o’clock train back into the city and do it all over again a week or two later.
I’d wait anxiously for Tia in the front office, watching the other kids greet their mother or father with a kiss. I wanted parents to do that with me too. By the time Tia would arrive, I would be sullen and quiet. “Hi, Rosemary. How are you?” Tia would shyly say as she timidly walked over to me. I’d look down at my shoes and say hi. “Why don’t you give your Aunt Ana a kiss, Rosemary?” the nuns would always say to me. Tia would tell them it was okay if I didn’t want to.
Tia never pressured me to do anything she felt I wasn’t comfortable with. She would, however, hold out her hand to me, every visit. At first I wouldn’t take it. I’d just follow closely behind or hold on to the side of her dress.
After a while I got used to seeing her, and some of the time I did take her hand. It felt good. We’d sit for the whole visit talking up a storm as I told her silly jokes or about a favorite book I had read. I loved it most when she’d tell me stories of my cousins and our neighbors in Williamsburg. I even got to introduce her to Crazy Cindy. She was doing her usual sneaking around and found me and shyly came over. Tia loved her! That made me feel so good inside. I was falling in love, all over again, with my mom. I mean my aunt.
THANKSGIVING WAS around the corner. I started to get bored in nursery school. It was beginning to get harder for me to remain focused. I’d daydream about Tia, about Marlo Thomas or Elizabeth Montgomery or the Little Rascals, about Williamsburg, hoping to see it again. At naptime I couldn’t keep still, and I’d wander off by myself and pick up a book or I’d color or whatever. Miss Connie would take me for walks or just chat with me during class, trying to discover why I was so distracted. Sometimes I would open up to her, but most of the time I didn’t. I was wary of her telling on me and the possibility I’d get a spanking from Sister Mary-Domenica.
It was visitors’ day again. Tia made sure that I knew she wasn’t coming so I wouldn’t be too disappointed. I was watching TV with a couple of the girls, sucking my thumb. Sister Ann-Marie came in and excitedly told me to change my clothes, that I had a special visitor. A special visitor? “Who is it?” I asked. She said that my mother was coming to visit me, along with my other brothers and sisters.
Say what? What other brothers and sisters? Did she mean Titi, Millie, Cookie, and Lorraine? And who were the brothers—maybe Tia’s cousin Rachel’s sons Sixto, who everyone called Junior, or Edgar? And wait a minute, which mother? Was it the woman who everyone told me was my mother? It had to be her. The nuns went out of their way to make sure I knew she was my mother, especially after my first visit with Tia. I wanted to throw up.
I immediately went looking for Crazy Cindy. I found her out in the Group One playground, playing in the mud.
“Cindy!” I screamed. “I got a visit, from my mommie!”
“You lie.”
“No, I’m not. Sister Ann-Marie told me. Dag, I wish you could go with me!”
“I’ll go!” she answered excitedly.
“No, you’ll get in trouble for sure!”
“So I’ll sneak in and meet you outside of the main office!”
“Okay!”
Of course I wanted her to go with me. She was my bestest friend, and I was too scared to go it alone. We both rushed into the dormitory and over to my bunk. Sister Mary-Domenica—aka Sister Evilene, as I referred to her in my mind—was waiting impatiently for me. We both stopped dead in our tracks! Her hands went up on her hips when she saw the two of us staring at her like two deer in headlights.
“What’s the matter with you two? I know something’s up. And where do you think you’re going, young lady?”
“I was gonna help Rosie get dressed, sister,” Crazy Cindy answered in her beguiling way.
“Yeah, right, missy! Hurry up and get me the hairbrush so I can brush this bush. Then you can help me clean the closet bin instead of wasting your entire Sunday doing only God knows what! How’s that for ya, little Miss Smarty Pants!” she barked.
As I started to dress myself I watched Cindy slowly and dejectedly walk away to get the brush. Why were they so cruel? Yes, Crazy Cindy was a fuckup, but innocently and hilariously so. We were freakin’ little kids—come on!
Sister Mary-Domenica walked me into the main office and instructed me to wait. I climbed up and sat on one of the chairs, my feet dangling. Another even older-looking nun brought in two girls. I’d seen them around, I thought, in the cafeteria and on the playgrounds. One was skinny and tall, with a dark olive complexion, dark, long, and wavy hair, pretty, and she wore Coke-bottle
glasses. The other one was very short with the same kind of hair, just slightly less wavy, and the same skin tone. She looked older than the first one, even though she was shorter and even prettier. And everyone knew her, she was very popular because she was so pretty and funny. “Rosemary, I’d like for you to meet your sisters, Betsy and Terry,” said the archaic nun. “Betsy and Terry, this is your youngest sister, Rosemary. They’re both in Group One.”
My sisters? Wait! Why didn’t they tell me that I had siblings here? I thought that was so weird. Imagine how shocked I was to learn that they had been in the Home before me. How long, I really don’t know. Gosh, I thought, they are so pretty, and look at all their long, soft, beautiful hair. I betcha they’re not tender-headed. Gosh, these are my sisters? They had that Ava Gardner essence. I looked down at my little chubby stomach and put my arms around it in an effort to hide it. They, however, looked, with surprise and envy, at the still fairly new-looking shoes Tia had given me, as if to say,
Who the hell are you and why do you get to wear new shoes?
“Hi!” I said, like a stupid, overly excited cornball. Ooh, I hope they like me, I hope, I hope, I hope!
Another older girl, who looked around sixteen—tall, same coloring and hair—came in. “Rosemary, this is your other sister, Amy. She’s in Group Three,” explained the nun. I’d seen her around as well. She was one of the popular girls too. And oh boy, she also was a stunner. With the utmost sincere sweetness, Amy bent down to me and said, “Hi, Rosemary. Nice to meet you.” Ooh, I hope, I hope, I hope she likes me too! Then two boys came in, sixteen and fourteen. They looked like the rest of the tribe as well. Man, how many kids did this woman have?
“Mommie!” the three girls screamed out. I turned and saw that pretty, mean lady who’d brought me here. Gosh, she was prettier than all of them. She was so petite too. They greeted her with a kiss, and she returned their kisses with kisses and hugs of her own. Ooh, I hope, I hope, I hope!
“Hello, Rosa,” she said, as if she were saying hello to the postman. She held out her cheek toward me. I kissed it. She didn’t kiss me back—no hug either. She seemed uncomfortable around me. Oh great, what a great start. Not only were my “sisters” and “brothers” beautiful, but this even more beautiful lady was not excited about seeing me like I’d fantasized she’d be. Really, I had scripted the whole thing in my head as Sister Mary-Domenica walked me to the main office. In my mind, it would be a total Shirley Temple scenario with the happy ending to boot—so much for that. I looked up at the big handsome man standing next to her. Man, he was really handsome. I was told that this was my “stepfather.” He gave me a nod and motioned with his head for all of us to head out. Things weren’t looking too good. I suppose we went over to the playground or the visitors’ room or something. I don’t remember. It must not have been good because I blocked it out.
One thing I do remember is that after that Sunday, whenever my mother visited—which was very rarely—with her handsome husband, Ventura, I was ostracized from the family group, and it wasn’t just my imagination. I was literally set apart. When we would go to the benches to eat the delicious Puerto Rican food that my mother made, my siblings would all get served, but not me—no lie. I would have to wait for Ventura to nudge Lydia the “okay”—then and only then would she make me a plate. In hindsight, I’m sure that in her crazy head she did that because of the whole “love child” thing—she didn’t want him to think that she favored me or showed special treatment to another man’s child. But at that time, it made me feel like she had stomped on my face while trying to step over me. I did my best to play it off.
My siblings rarely interacted with me even after the introduction. It was in part because we were separated by dorms. I barely saw the boys. When I’d see the girls—I mean my sisters, not my cousins who used to be my sisters—I couldn’t stop staring at them. Betsy would roll her eyes at me each time she caught me staring,
then would make fun of my hair or my potbelly or whatever she could pick at. Why? I didn’t understand. And Amy, well, I didn’t see her much either. She was always sweet, yet distant. Terry had warmed up to me too, kind of. Since we both were natural comedians and loved to act silly, we had a few moments. But I never felt connected to them the way I wanted to be. It was all very detached.
I told Crazy Cindy they were my sisters and made her promise not to tell anyone because I thought my sisters might become angry with me. I don’t know why I felt that way, maybe an instinct. She, of course, told Puerto Rican—Jew Evita Feinstein, who told everyone on the goddamn planet. Man, that did not go over well. And I was right, sort of. For some reason, not all of my sisters liked me claiming them as my blood. The word that got back to me was that Betsy was telling everyone I wasn’t their “real sister,” I was only their “half-sister.” Half? Yeah, I understand,
now
, the biology behind that statement, but how does the heart and soul divide that up when you’re under the age of five? Do you
half
-love them? It hurt like hell, but I began to learn how to suppress those types of feelings, so it was okay—or at least that’s what I told myself. Okay, it
wasn’t
okay, and it hurt like a biatch!
IT WAS the first week of December. The leaves had all fallen, and the cold air was brisk. I loved the cold. Everything seemed clean, ready for something new. Each group had its own Christmas tree, and the nuns and counselors let us put tinsel and one ornament each on our tree. I loved it. Thank goodness I was able to enjoy the festivities because I wasn’t going on a holiday home visit like some of the other girls or like … wait for it … my siblings! Yes, they all left to spend the holidays with my “mother.” Tia had already warned me that she wasn’t going to be able to send for me because my “mother” didn’t allow it. I loved Christmas too much, though, for all of that nonsense to bum me out.
One night a couple of weeks before the holiday we all gathered around the TV with Sister Mary-Domenica and Sister Ann-Marie, in our bathrobes and slippers, and watched
A Charlie Brown Christmas
. I loved the Charlie Brown Christmas special. I identified most with Charlie and Linus and was surprised that many saw me as Lucy. The fireplace was glowing; snow was falling outside. We were given cookies with warm milk. I think that was the first time I was somewhat happy at the Home—at least for that moment. It felt like Christmas in a Shirley Temple or Bing Crosby movie.