White Mexican: A Novel

Copyright © 2017 by Linda Chávez Doyle. All rights reserved.

Print ISBN: 978-1-54395-023-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54395-024-3

TO JOHN

Contents

GLOSSARY OF SPANISH TERMS

1 • REFLECTIONS

PART 1

2 • SPRING 2002: THE QUINCEAÑERA

CULTURAL MUSINGS

3 • BACK HOME, 2014

CULTURAL MUSINGS

4 • PERIOD OF ADJUSTMENT

CULTURAL MUSINGS

5 • FLYING TORTILLAS

CULTURAL MUSINGS

6 • THE WILL

CULTURAL MUSINGS

7 • CONFRONTATION

CULTURAL MUSINGS

PART 2

8 • BEACHED

CULTURAL MUSINGS

9 • FAMILY AFFAIR

CULTURAL MUSINGS

10 • ENDINGS

CULTURAL MUSINGS

11 • WHERE THERE’S A WILL…

CULTURAL MUSINGS

PART 3

12 • ONE YEAR LATER, SUMMER 2016

CULTURAL MUSINGS

13 • DON’T ASK

CULTURAL MUSINGS

14 • TOO MANY QUESTIONS

CULTURAL MUSINGS

15 • ROOTS

CULTURAL MUSINGS

16 • DISCOVERIES

CULTURAL MUSINGS

17 • MISJUDGED

CULTURAL MUSINGS

18 • CHANGES

CULTURAL MUSINGS

19 • A SIGN OF THE TIMES

CULTURAL MUSINGS

20 • CAUGHT BY SURPRISE

CULTURAL MUSINGS

21 • DINNER

CULTURAL MUSINGS

22 • SPRING 2017

CULTURAL MUSINGS

23 • HASTA LUEGO

CULTURAL MUSINGS

24 • CUT!

CULTURAL MUSINGS

25 • FAMILY GATHERING

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

GLOSSARY OF SPANISH TERMS

1

REFLECTIONS

I sensed someone watching but didn’t realize she was speaking to me until her bony hand touched my cold arm. Her hand was colder. As I felt her touch, a chilly gust of wind whipped a strand of hair over my eyes, so I couldn’t see her until I pulled the hair out of my face and stuffed it behind my ear. She was a tiny, brown woman standing next to me. We were waiting for the red light to change so we could cross Ocean Boulevard. Her eyes were large and dark, and other than two thin lines across her forehead, she didn’t seem much older than I. But her hand belied her youthful appearance. It was wrinkled, as if it had been left too long in the dishwater. Speaking in rapid Spanish, she asked me for directions to Redondo Avenue. I pointed as I told her she needed to walk in a northerly direction, then paused as my mind searched for the correct translation of the word left. It came to me. Izquierda. She thanked me solemnly and headed left, so quickly she was almost trotting. It wasn’t until the green light allowed me to cross the street and continue my walk home that I realized my mistake. I had used para instead of por. I inevitably made errors in Spanish. My inability to speak it perfectly felt like a handicap despite the fact English was my first language. Yet the woman had seemed satisfied with my response and thanked me for the directions.

I arrived at my apartment within minutes and studied my face in the oval mirror over the pedestal sink in the bathroom. Morena. Dark one. That was me. My parents had used that word to describe me when I was a child. To strangers, I could pass for Latina, Italian, Greek, Pakistani, Indian—even Jewish, as someone had once said. My American English was as good as any Southern Californian can manage. It labeled me as an American, but was that label a hyphenated one? Mexican-American? Did it matter?

Though I sometimes felt inferior because my Spanish-language skills were lacking, I’d never consciously felt less American because of my Mexican heritage, and I readily identified myself as white/Caucasian on questionnaires, though I checked Latino/Hispanic if that was specifically designated on the form. First and foremost, however, I’d always considered myself an American. Not until almost age thirty did I see I was denying a part of myself. I wasn’t living in the whole house, only in a few rooms.

PART 1

2

SPRING 2002: THE QUINCEAÑERA

They looked like turquoise-colored cotton candy. Curly, straight, brown, blond, and red hair distinguishing one girl from the other in their strapless, puffy turquoise dresses, posing for the camera. Encircling the girls, like bees drawn to flowers and ready to drink in the honey, was a swarm of young guys in formal wear. The girls were a garden of bright blossoms in the greenery outside a Catholic church in the city of Montebello, California.

I watched the photo shoot, impatiently leaning on one leg and then the other while my parents carried on a lengthy conversation with Manuel Cabrera, our next-door neighbor. Manuel was a loud man; we could often overhear his conversations with his family as my parents, my brother George, and I ate dinner. "Come on, m’ijo, Manuel would often say, you gotta eat your frijoles. Don’t waste food. Yo trabajo para darte comida, and you don’t eat it? How do you think that makes me feel?" Then his laughter would bark through the window. My father would frown and toss dirty looks in Manuel’s direction, but he never said anything. The houses were so close together in our neighborhood, we were satisfied we didn’t have to share a bathroom with the family next door. Though it sounded like Manuel Cabrera was laying a guilt trip on his son for not finishing the beans served for dinner, he was a jolly man whom I had never witnessed being verbally abusive toward his children.

I couldn’t help comparing Manuel to my father, Edmundo Tapia, tall, stern, undertaker-like, grim as the Reaper. My father had never seen a comedy he liked. I tried to remember how often I’d heard him laugh. Did he laugh when teenaged George appeared at the breakfast table in a pair of baggy pants that made him look like he was auditioning for a clown position with the circus? Or when Mom wore a new dress for the first time and spilled tomato sauce on it while she was preparing a meat loaf? My pop wasn’t a cruel man, but sometimes he exhibited a ruthless sense of humor. He laughed at the misfortunes of others.

Today, as he spoke with Manuel, he laughed so loudly, I stared in awe. What could have induced such a response from my gloomy father? His face was creased with laugh lines, and his eyes were like slits. It was indeed a strange sight to behold. As I pondered my father’s unusual joviality, strong arms wrapped around me in a bear hug. I stumbled sideways under the impact.

Sole! Wet lips slobbered on my cheek, and I used the back of my hand to wipe away the moisture. Why are you so quiet? The big arms loosened, and I turned to see my primo, Vince, tall, portly, bushy-haired, and a grin on his face. Hey, little Cuz—smile!

Vince called me Sole, the short version of my name, Soledad, which I hated. Who names a baby Soledad? It means solitude in Spanish, not a name that inspires a child to become a social animal. I preferred Sole, which is pronounced with two syllables, So-le (long o, short e), though it was commonly pronounced by English-speakers as Solay and sounded French. I didn’t care as long as they didn’t call me Soledad.

Vince was sometimes more like a brother to me than my own brother. His mom, my dad’s sister, had divorced her husband when Vince was a baby. Since then, they’d lived near us in the house on the other side of Manuel Cabrera’s. Vince and I were the same age and in the same class at the local public high school.

Hey, Vince, I said. What’s up?

Huh? I’m here to party! He waved his arms in a circle as if he meant to enjoy everything around us.

"You’ve never been to a quince you haven’t enjoyed, right?"

Now his big hands were stuffed in his pockets. How come you’re not part of Andrea’s entourage? I thought you two were BFFs.

No. No, we’re not, I said. Andrea’s just a good friend. She did ask me, but it’s expensive. It wasn’t all about the cost, though. I could have been the fourteenth attendant to round out the team, but I hated this kind of crap. It was so stupid, getting all dressed up because your friend is turning fifteen. Come on, how dumb is that? I would never say that out loud, though, because I didn’t want to offend anyone.

Yeah, Cuz, who needs it, anyway? He kicked at the grass. Hey, it’s Elisa! Wow! He put his fist to his mouth and bit it, as he began staring at one of the attendants, a girl with honey-blond hair who beamed at the camera for yet another shot.

I shoved him, but he was so large I couldn’t move him. Stop it! Get over it. She’ll never have you, you know.

He put his hand over his heart. You shoot down my hopes mercilessly.

The group of posers broke up. Elisa lifted her wide skirt and glided over the grass. She reminded me of Scarlett O’Hara running across Tara’s lawn toward the camera.

Sole! I thought you weren’t coming. What happened? She gave me a peck on the cheek, dry and sweet, unlike Vince’s slobber.

Hi, Elisa, said Vince, with a grin the size of a banana.

Hi, Vince. She gave a quick wave in his direction.

I didn’t say I couldn’t come, I told her. I couldn’t afford to be in the party. You know that.

Elisa colored, embarrassed by my frank reply.

Elisa! My mother came forward, her arms outstretched, and scooped my friend into her embrace. Teresa Tapia was cheerfully rounded with an ever-present smile (at least in public) and a lovely face that I had not inherited. My mom and dad were opposites in appearance and temperament. It was too bad I seemed to have inherited more of my father’s grim genes than my mom’s happy-faced ones. My brother, George, was on the sunny side of the family with his handsome face and pleasant personality that attracted girls like a pair of designer shoes.

"Hola, Señora Tapia. How are you?" Elisa asked after she was released from my mom’s death grip.

"¡Qué linda! You are so beautiful, Elisa. You will be the most beautiful quinceañera when your time comes."

I almost said, Hey, Mom, I’m standing right here. But I had steadfastly refused to have a quinceañera, so couldn’t complain that she was gushing over my friend, who would have her own celebration in a couple months.

As my fifteenth birthday had approached, Mom had almost begged me to agree to a quinceañera. Ordinarily, I was a laid-back kid. I obeyed my mom and dad, got A’s and B’s in school, and had never been in trouble with drugs, alcohol, the law, or boys. But when Mom began insisting on a quinceañera, I rebelled. To me, the popular Mexican tradition was all about being a girl who wants to announce to the world that she is menstruating and ready to begin popping out babies as soon as she’s got a gold band on her finger. That was not for me. I wanted to go to college, have a career, and then maybe consider having children. With or without the gold band. Mom saw the quinceañera as a tradition that could not be bypassed. When she couldn’t convince me to have one, she announced she’d save the money for my future wedding.

I protested. Mom, why not put the money aside so I can buy a used car when I get my license?

A car? No. If you want a car, you’ll have to pay for it yourself. I wish you had more pride in your heritage.

On that issue, she was adamant.

Contrary to what my mother believed, I wasn’t ashamed of my Mexican heritage. Unlike George, I did not eat and breathe tacos and churros, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t proud of my roots. In his mind, George was Mr. Chicano Power, a residual product of the movement in the 1970s that protested against the military draft and poor educational conditions in Mexican American communities. I used to teasingly call him Super Chicano Guy to his face. He never objected. Me? I was and felt American born and bred, spoke not a word of Spanish (though I could, if pushed), preferred hamburgers to tacos, and had never played one game of Lotería. However, there was one thing I couldn’t deny: in the mirror, I looked 100 percent Mexican, with straight black hair, big, heavy-lidded brown eyes, and skin the shade of coffee with cream. I didn’t mind my appearance. I never wished for white skin like Elisa’s—at least not anymore. But at the same time, it bothered me when strangers assumed I couldn’t speak English or that I’d been born in some remote Mexican village where people ran around barefooted and carried water jugs on their heads. Whenever anyone asked me where I was from, I answered, East Los Angeles. Their puzzled looks told me they were trying to understand why such a dark person spoke such good English and wasn’t born outside the US. Maybe I was too sensitive about my appearance and what others thought of me. Did it even matter? Most of the time it didn’t, or so I told myself, but I still wondered if it wouldn’t have been easier to be like Elisa, who could pass for the all-American girl, with her light skin and honey-blond hair, or like George, whom I did not resemble. He had brown hair, brown eyes that slanted slightly upwards, a wide mouth, and a long, pointy nose. He didn’t resemble our parents either, except that he was tall and had light skin like Pop. Mom said George was a throwback to a great-grandfather on her side of the family. Whatever the case, aside from his brown hair and eyes, Super Chicano Guy did not look one bit Chicano.

The musical ensemble, a conjunto playing Mexican boleros, sounded in the background. The rumble of voices and the clinking sounds of knives and forks were like the soundtrack to a movie where we played supporting roles to the quinceañera, as attendants, parents, relatives, and friends.

The room was rectangular, and long tables were set up to provide seating for the more than 300 guests. The lighting was dim, and without my glasses I couldn’t make out faces too clearly. That was fine with me. I didn’t want to be there. The clinging scent of the floral centerpieces turned my stomach, the super-hot green enchiladas that seared my tongue were inedible (there again, according to Mom, I betrayed my Mexican heritage by my inability to chow down fiery food), and the music was not my style. I was a temperamental teen going through a phase where I wanted to be my own person but didn’t yet know who that person was. I read too many books to be cool, wasn’t pretty enough to be desirable dating material, and was too reserved to be popular. And, of course, according to my mom, I was too American to be Mexican.

What was I sure about? That I’d made the right decision not to have a quince.

Andrea, the quinceañera, was lovely in her strapless white dress that complemented her creamy-white shoulders, but to be honest, Elisa was the true knockout in her attendant’s gown. The turquoise dress enhanced her skin tone and hair color. Vince stared at her as if she were some famous movie star making a personal appearance.

Vince, put your eyes back in your head.

What? He continued to ogle the object of his misdirected desires. I almost expected him to start drooling.

She’s a ten, Vince. You’re a five, possibly a six. On a good day. Remember? We talked about that. What about the redhead? I pointed at a well-endowed, cute girl with lips almost too big for her small face.

Vince dragged his eyes away from Elisa to take in the redhead. Aw, come on, Cuz. She doesn’t do anything for me.

Are you loco? She’s a solid seven, and that’s at least a point higher than you.

He blinked slowly, his long, dark lashes tapping against his cheeks. I don’t care. My heart has to be moved by a woman. She does nothing for me.

Okay, I said. Have it your way. But at least take a break. You’ll get eyestrain if you keep staring at her like that.

After the fiery-hot enchilada meal, the dancing started. My feet began to tap with impatience, but not because I wanted to move to the music. I hated dancing (further proof, according to Mom, I was not Mexican enough). It was my opinion that too many dancers moved like they were suffering from a case of hives. The quinceañera party performed the choreographed group dance, twisting butts, waving arms in the air, and jerking heads like pigeons. Then the floor filled with guests, mostly young folks, as the music turned hip-hop. Everyone at my table—Mom, Pop, George, even Vince—grabbed partners while I sat tapping my toe, ready to go—home. Elisa took the chair next to mine.

Hey, Sole, why aren’t you dancing?

I gave her a dumb look.

Oh, right. Stupid question. She flipped her blond locks and watched the dancers.

"Why aren’t you out there? I asked. You did a good job in the group dance."

I’m taking a break. She slipped one dainty foot out of her strappy high heel and wiggled her toes.

Elisa Rojas was my BFF and had been since we were toddlers. Our fathers were best friends who had met years ago at the beverage company where they worked in the warehouse. Elisa’s mother and father had even bought a house just around the corner from ours. She was an only child and the focus of her parents’ lives. Though she’d had everything a child could want— toys, dolls, happy playdates, and love—she was not spoiled. In fact, she was the most mature child I’d ever known. She was sweet, generous, and never seemed to fret if things didn’t go her way. We were opposites. I had a quick temper (though it tended to smolder rather than rant and rave) and was resentful of the numerous times life had let me down (like when my mother decided not to give me the money for a car). Elisa was beautiful. She had milky-white skin, large blue eyes, and long wavy hair. She was born in Mexico, but her parents had immigrated to the US when she was a baby. She spoke both English and Spanish fluently. Because of her kind and gentle manners, she was my role model. I often told her I wanted to be more like her, but in the meantime I was a snotty teen who couldn’t control my fluctuating emotions. She usually smiled and said nothing in response to my comment that I wanted to be more like her. Except for once:

Sole, you’ll grow to be your own person, and you’ll be an even better person than you are now. You are sweet and kind. You’re the kindest girl I know.

I was stunned, but I also knew she wasn’t bullshitting me. She wasn’t a liar. Yet I couldn’t help thinking she was so wrong, that she was not seeing the real me. But I also loved her for it and remained her faithful friend.

When we started high school, we were friends who ran in different circles. She became a leader in student government and served on the pep squad. She wasn’t allowed to date but went steady with one guy at the beginning of our freshman year and was always the object of some boy’s crush. I got good grades and went to the occasional dance so as not to appear a complete social outcast.

Recently she had started to hang with a boy named Adam, a long-haired, slope-shouldered, would-be slacker. She and Adam always met at my house because she didn’t want her parents to know about him. My parents were working and were unaware of our after-school activities. I couldn’t understand why she wasted time with Adam, but didn’t bad-mouth him.

Adam was at the quinceañera, though not in the party. I’d seen him earlier at the church. He was dressed in nice slacks and a long-sleeved dress shirt. His usually messy mass of curls was pulled into a ponytail. Today, for the first time, I could see why Elisa was attracted to him, at least physically. With his hair out of his face, his fine profile was emphasized, as were his soulful, brown, almond-shaped eyes.

At the moment, Elisa was seated next to me, sans Adam, glowing in her turquoise gown.

I asked her the obvious question. Where’s Adam?

She shrugged her small shoulders. He’s here somewhere. You know, we have to be careful around my parents. They’d freak if they saw us together. Adam knows that, but he’s cool with it. He’s used to it by now.

Yeah, you don’t want my mom seeing you with him, either.

She swiveled her head around toward me. Why not?

I’d never told Elisa my mom had put her on a jewel-encrusted pedestal and would have gifted her with flowers everyday if she weren’t so busy being my mom and being my dad’s wife.

Um, I began, ’cause…’cause my mom thinks you deserve the best guy, and she thinks that guy is George. Not Adam. There. I’d said it without planning to. I’d overheard Mom say one evening to Pop that she thought Elisa was the perfect match for my brother—my perfect brother, at least in my mother’s estimation.

Elisa inclined her head toward me. What? George? What do you mean?

Nothing. It’s a bad joke. You know my mom loves you. She wants the best for you.

She nodded. I’m sure she wants the best for you, too, Sole.

That was Elisa, my very own private cheerleader. She’d stand by me and back every effort and boneheaded move or comment I made, always pumping me up. But I didn’t buy it. I had all the self-confidence of a rejected wallflower, though it still made me feel good to know she cared.

She leaned forward and pulled open the fake diamond-studded purse that hung from her wrist. I have something we can share.

I peeked in and saw a silver-plated flask about the size of a wallet. It didn’t surprise me that she’d brought spirits to lift our spirits. Though she didn’t look like a booze-loving teen, Elisa liked to drink. She even occasionally stole a bottle from her parents’ liquor cabinet for us to share in the privacy of my bedroom. I wasn’t much of a drinker, because all booze tasted the same to me: like seasoned piss. But I indulged her desire to get high. It seemed to be her only weakness. We never touched any other drugs. No marijuana, no cocaine, nothing but booze.

Her eyes were twinkling now. You want to take a few swigs with me?

Minutes later we were ensconced in a stall in the restroom, taking turns taking sips from the flask of tequila and whispering about the ugly dress Lucy Alonzo was wearing, laughing at the long hemline and the skirt’s baggy shape that swallowed up Lucy’s skinny body.

Oh, I hate myself, said Elisa, lightly slapping her cheek. I’m being a mean girl. And so are you. She screwed the cap back on the flask. That’s enough. Let’s save some for halftime. She giggled and hiccupped into her hand. Then she took a mint from a roll in her bag and popped it into her mouth. She offered me one, too.

Okay, I said. You go ahead. I have to pee.

Afterward, I washed my hands, left the restroom and began to walk down the long empty corridor that led back to the main room. I stopped when I heard a gasping sound, but when I looked around, I didn’t see anyone. I began to walk again, but then I heard a pounding noise. Again I stopped and looked around. I took note of an alcove a few feet away, the opening draped by a heavy, velvet curtain. I debated whether to continue walking and ignore the pounding sound, but curiosity got the better of me. It could be a helpless victim, in chains, bumping against the wall in a desperate call for help. I watched way too many TV detective shows.

I trotted to the curtain, pulled it open with my thumb and forefinger, and peeped inside. There was a bare, wide, white rump moving rhythmically to and fro, and a nice set of shapely legs flailing beneath the rocking hips. The pounding sound was coming from the guy’s left fist knocking against the wall at each thrust, to which the owner of the shapely legs groaned in ecstasy. I was fascinated. This was the first time I’d ever witnessed the act of coitus between two human beings, not just two neighborhood mutts. As I watched, the guy turned his head. His eyes were closed. I recognized him—Adam. Before he could catch sight of me, I let go of the curtain and fled to the party room.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I scanned the room for Elisa. It hadn’t been her in the alcove with Adam. Though I’d not seen the face of the girl Adam was enjoying, I’d seen her hair. It was as black as mine. The dance floor was filled with dark figures waving arms, kicking feet, and swiveling to the music. I spied Elisa dancing