American Chica_ Two Worlds, One Childhood - Marie Arana [129]
We argued this as we trudged to and from school, dodging the neighborhood boys. “German dolls are prettiest!” she would shout. “German Christmases are fanciest!” “German underwear’s most comfortable!” and a bank of boys’ arms flew up as we passed, in rigid Nazi salutes. George was among them, grinning at me, slicing the air at Erika—a rosy-cheeked American boy.
“Lay off!” I’d bark. “Stop that! She’s my friend!” And they’d laugh themselves red in the face.
But I had my own battles to fight in those early 1960s. I could no sooner stand criticism of the United States than I could stand ill to be said of Peru. The truth was that I was getting it on both sides. Peruvians who came to visit forgot I was also a gringa, launching verbal salvos about Estadounidenses who chanced by on the streets: “They’re gawky, aren’t they! Clowns! And dull-witted! Cross an idiot with a bully and what do you get? Un norteamericano!”
Americans, on the other hand, would forget I was Peruvian, disparaging my roots to my face. “Latin Americans are a poor, indolent people,” my teacher droned to the class, “beset by ignorance and disease.” All I could do was stare at his mouth, at the spittle that danced on his lips.
“I’d rather have a Nih-gro maid than a Mexican,” a suburbanite said to her dashboard. Her daughter and I sat in the backseat, listening to her well-lacquered head. “At least you can trust the black girls. The Mexicans steal you blind.”
If there were other hybrids in Summit, they were too subtle for us. We did not know them. Erika, I discovered eventually, was as different from me as anyone I had ever met. Her foreignness had seemed familiar, but a true sisterhood did not exist for us. She was German. There was no two-ness in her. The British father had given her his face but not a smidgen more. When she came to the United States from Germany, she came as an immigrant, in a straight voyage from A to B. I, on the other hand, was an American twice over; I had the palsy of a double soul.
WE HADN’T HEARD from Papi in such a long time that I began to wonder if I’d been wrong about their marriage being indestructible, if it was possible that he had forgotten us entirely. The checks he usually sent signed in advance to Mother had not come for the third month in a row. The bill drawer was overflowing now, and, at Vassar, Vicki needed to buy books. George was outgrowing his clothes. There was the question of my ballet lessons. Mother went out and got herself a job.
It was work that my father would never have approved of, had he been around to have any say. She walked into a dress shop on Springfield Avenue and asked if any positions were available. The woman behind the counter hired her on the spot. She was to begin the following week as the most junior of three salesladies. On her first day, I strolled by after school to look in the window. She was sweeping the floors.
It was at about this time, when I was thirteen years old, that Abuelita suddenly reappeared in our lives. She flew into New York’s Idlewild Airport on a September day with Tío Víctor and Rosita, his new bride. Abuelita was accompanying them on their honeymoon. They taxied to Manhattan, checked into the Biltmore Hotel. When Tío Víctor called and said they were there, I made my way on a Saturday morning and rapped on her room door, listening for the click of her shoes. When I saw her, I buried my face in her hair.
“Ay, Marisita,” she said, after she’d held me at arm’s length and taken a good, long look. “You’re so big.” She straightened her dress, reached for her gloves. “Come, let’s go and have breakfast together.” We headed downstairs, alone.
We walked several blocks of Forty-eighth Street with our elbows entwined before I realized that I was towering over my grandmother. She ticked down the concrete in her high-polish, sling-back