Walking Together on the Path of Life

By Maria E. Diaz

After settling in New York City, Victoria finds herself in a new role as a single, working mother. Alone with her eight-year-old daughter, Variah, they embark on a journey fraught with emotional, economical, and psychological changes.

Still reeling from the death of her father six months prior, Victoria must learn to overcome the traumas of her childhood and accept the changes that are required in her present. She struggles with her various relationships, and she finds self-acceptance through education, psychotherapy, and even acupuncture.

Walking Together weaves the life in the present with memories from the past to tell the story of the trials and tribulations encountered by a single mother and her path toward happiness and self-fulfillment. It’s about family values, healing through various methods, and the importance of self-love and compassion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532062087

Maria E. Diaz

Maria E. Diaz immigrated to the United States in 1994. She earned bachelor’s degrees in fine arts and psychology and a master’s degree in English. She is a certified Reiki master, Ayurveda nutrition counselor, Sivananda yoga teacher, songwriter, certified Doreen Virtue Angel Card Reader, and she is currently an apprentice in the Peruvian Shamanic Tradition in the community of Beacon, New York. Diaz works as a supervisor in a government agency in New York City.

Book preview

Bedtime Story

Through a wide window, the reflection of the full moon beamed into the dimmed red room. Inside the room was a queen-sized bed with dark green sheets. In front of the bed was an old white dresser without a mirror. The room was clean and odorless. The clothing inside the dresser was neatly folded. The clothes hanging on the hangers were ironed, ordered, and arranged by color. Resting on the bed was Variah, her lips cracked slightly open. She opened her large eyes and scanned the small room searching for her mother, Mom, what are you doing?

"Estoy meditando, Variah."

Why are you meditating, mom?

Because it soothes me, Victoria responded.

Sitting in a lotus pose on the right side of the queen-sized bed, she paused for a moment and took a deep breath to tell her daughter, I need to take at least five minutes of the day for myself and reflect on what’s best for me to do.

"And that really works?"

Yes, in the long term it does, her mother replied.

The eight-year-old girl turned her head back to her mother, mom?

"Yes, Variah?"

Why don’t you get married and give me a father? And maybe even some brothers or sisters?

Why are you asking me this now, Variah?

Because every other time I’ve asked, you say you’re busy.

Well, I’m busy now.

Why don’t you just answer my question and then go back to your meditation?

You’ve never asked me for a father before? Why now?

Variah took a deep breath and turned her head to the wall. In a passive tone of voice, she told her mother, Because I was expecting you to go back to my dad. Now I realize he doesn’t deserve you. You’re a very good person and he just…he has another woman.

Victoria could not help opening her eyes, thinking of how mature Variah was for her age. This kind of information would have never crossed Victoria’s mind. How do you know all this?

I don’t know, I just know things. I’m tired of seeing you by yourself as a working single mom. Why don’t you just try to get married and give our family a chance? I’m tired of playing with toys all by myself.

Well, I’m tired of playing with my toy, too, Victoria said sarcastically.

You have a toy too? Which toy?

No, oh, yes you… Victoria smiled.

Mom, when you finish, can you tell me a bedtime story?

Sure, I can tell you a bedtime story right now.

Oh, before you start, I’ve got something to tell you. I forgot my homework, mom. I’m sorry.

You always forget your homework, Variah. Always! I don’t know what to do with you anymore.

What’s the story called?

I don’t know yet. Why don’t you give it a name after I finish it? Victoria caressed Variah’s rosy cheeks. Her long and delicate fingernails sifted slowly through Variah’s long brown hair. Variah gazed at her mother with eyes full of admiration.

"Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived in a small community with her mother and her father. Every day she woke up happy and enthusiastic to make the bed. After dressing herself with clean clothes, she’d take five pesos from the old square iron table to buy one pound of rice and fifty cents worth of boiled red beans, el arroz, la cebolla, y los tomates frescos. She would go back home, light up the anafe, although at times the brazas would reach her scared little toes."

And she wasn’t afraid of the fire, mom? Variah asked with astonishment.

No, not at all. She was so used to cooking and being exposed to many things, so she was never afraid of anything.

I wish I could be like her.

Maybe you are like her; let’s find out!

Okay, go ahead!

Her mother always yelled, ‘Esperancita, be careful!’

"Her mother was always sick. She used to sit on the edge of the bed and lean forward on the back of one of the old iron chairs in front of her. She was skinny and had long black hair. From the living room to the dining room, which also included the kitchen, her mother would give Esperancita cooking instructions. She taught how to boil the rice, and knowing the right number of slices of red onion to add flavor to the beans. She also knew to keep herself away from the brazas of the fire. This was a chore the little girl enjoyed. And the payment she received for all that work was simply the opportunity to go to school."

"She did all of that and she went to school too?" Variah asked.

Yes, she did. By noon, the food was ready served on the table set for two. Esperancita would take a shower in the bathroom that was available at the time, which was usually the one that was about two houses from her own. She would sing and let the warm water cleanse the grease off her mocha body. She let her long hair come loose to soak in the brisk, streaming water. The residue of cheap soap always remained on her forehead and all over her back. There was always nice clothing for her in her big carton box. At 1pm, Esperancita picked up her navy blue backpack and her most important item, her navy blue wood bamboo chair. She had to carry both of them as she walked to school. The distance took no less than thirty-five minutes to walk. That’s probably equal to about twenty blocks.

Variah said in shock, That much! And how much is twenty blocks anyways?

It’s like from 166th Street to 186th Street.

And she walked that far?

Yes, she walked under the bright and fiery sun. The passing trucks would often fill her eyes with dust. Every five minutes, she would stop walking and rub her dark sunbaked eyes. She alternated the small chair from one arm to the other until she arrived at school. The school was built up of zinc just a few inches larger than her own house. Three blackboards separated the room into three small sections. There was the second grade, which was where Esperancita placed her small chair, the fifth grade, the sixth grade and the seventh grade. The ground was the bare dry soil.

Mom, Esperancita is you, right?

How do you know?

Mom, you are the only person that I know that can do everything you can to accomplish your goal. So go ahead, why was that school so small?

We were poor and this was the only school nearby, and yet it was so far, but my eagerness made it seemed one step away. I prayed many nights wishing to go to school. I always knew I could be greater and beyond of whom I was. The world I lived in was small and limited. I knew there was more than what my eyes could see. I knew that the bridge between that limited world and the vision of who I wanted to become was to gain an education. Yes, Variah there is no limit, only obstacles in your mind. I felt that people around me did not support me, but prevented me for reaching my goals. If I would have half of the mother I am, I would be a famous writer and a dancer, but I wasn’t allowed to dance.

I know mom, you always say that to me. So which grade did you enjoy the most?

"I always liked the seventh grade best. The books were thicker. There were fewer pictures and the fonts were much smaller. The reading was more complex, and sometimes I’d have to wait to come home to ask my father for the meaning of most of the words. After three intense hours, I’d retrace her journey back home. At least by that time of the day the sun was no longer bright enough to burn my forehead or cause the sweat to dampen my long, curly black hair. However I still had to deal with storms of excessive dust swept up by passing cars, and there was the insistent noise of horns. I could hear loud bachata music blaring through the opened doors of almost every house. The air scented with the aroma of delicious fried eggs and mangu coming from every household. I passed by some four-year-old barefoot boys who were running from their mothers and wearing only short dirty pants. Sometimes I would turn my head towards the right side of la carretera, to change my view and make my trip along the dusty road less painful. I walked along the wide, calm Ozama River. From a short distance, I observed the river with its peaceful, murky water surrounded by long green grass. There I walked, holding my chair, alternating sides as I carried it against my hip. I anticipated getting home by 6pm and meeting my beloved mother and tender father who always had a hot dinner waiting for me on the table."

You had a father? You must have loved him as much as he loved you.

Yes, we did love each other very much. So what have you learned from the story so far, Variah?

That you had a lovely father.

"Yes, and what else?"

I don’t know, mom.

Variah, I did more work than any housewife just so I could go to school, and I did it without complaining! So why don’t you try to go to school and do what you’re supposed to do?

Okay, mom, I’ll try. Can you continue the story?

So, I would almost always go straight home from school, but there was one time I did not go straight home.

Where did you go?

"I became friends with a classmate named Lisa. It was a hot and humid summer afternoon, Lisa invited me to her house to drink some water after class. We both walked through a field of lemongrass surrounding the area where Lisa lived. As we walked closer to Lisa’s house, I noticed the Ozama River getting closer and closer.

Do you live inside the river, Lisa? I asked with curiosity.

No, not inside the river. Why, are you afraid?

No, I’m not, I assured. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing the water."

Do you know how to swim? Lisa asked.

No, not yet, but I will learn soon.

Well if you like water so much, you really should learn how to swim, we exchanged a smile.

When we finally arrived at Lisa’s house I was shocked to see that the river was practically her backyard. Oh my God! You actually do live inside the river."

Yes, that means that I’ll never stink for a lack of water.

As I walked to her right, I encountered three two-year-old girls playing with dirt on the ground. Lisa, who are those children?

"Oh, they’re my twin cousins and my small sister. My aunt had to go to la Avenida Duarte to see if she could get a job, so she left them with me."

With you? But you’re in school all of these hours!

Oh don’t worry, my aunt will never know I wasn’t here. I knew it’d take her the whole day to try to find a job.

"I observed the girls sitting on the moist ground, so close to the river. Their faces were dirty from the mud. I could only distinguish their beauty through their light green eyes and their shining golden hair. I immediately felt responsible for the three little girls, even though they weren’t my responsibility, I made a promise. One day I will become a rich and powerful woman and I will have an orphanage to shelter children like these.

As Victoria came back to the present, she whispered the same phrase, children like these.

We need to go to sleep. I’ll continue this story tomorrow, okay?

Okay, mom, Variah responded.

After a slow kiss good night from her mother, Variah laid her head on the soft pillow and closed her eyes, revealing her long eyelashes.

Workplace

The next Monday morning, Victoria got out of bed and helped Variah get dressed. She combed her hair and placed a ganchito on one side of her head while kissing her other rosy cheek. She walked her to school on 168th Street and Amsterdam Avenue, and kissed Variah good-bye. She took the train to ride all the way to Brooklyn, where she worked as a case worker for the City of New York. While riding the overcrowded train, she struggled to keep herself safe from people squeezing and stepping on her. They all rushed to push themselves in, to get through, and even to get out. Each person had a different body odor: some mild and others that made even the strongest stomach wants to vomit.

Her work day always began with the same routine: she would arrive to her cubicle, which was decorated with a bouquet of five fake roses and a small mirror, and said a prayer. Divine Father, allow me to assist these people in need, all according to the laws allowed. She then looked at the future scheduled appointments and reviewed their cases to see if there is anything she needed to address to assist them better. Finding many clients with the same irresolvable conflicts. The Multi Language caseload housed cases belonging to Spanish-speaking families. Many of them were undocumented aliens and mothers of five or more fatherless children trying to survive in the United States.

The job was mainly about listening, assisting, and caring for those requesting assistance. There were families living in utter poverty. Some featured women whose husbands abused them not only physically, but emotionally. There were also men who were abused by their wives. She would see grandmothers being responsible for their fatherless grandchildren. Homeless young mothers with absent parents of their own. Single mothers struggling with their children whose fathers were incarcerated. On some days, Victoria would get calls from drug addicts who would yell at her because their benefits were not available for them to further their addictions. All of these characters would come to Victoria for help. Sometimes, all of this occurred in one day, and Victoria was forced to absorb it all and keep it to herself.

After the long morning, Victoria would walk down the long corridor to greet her co-worker Mrs. Millie Jones. When Victoria first came to the center, she had been assigned to Mrs. Jones to be trained for her new role as a case worker. Mrs. Jones was a respectful, elegant, hard-working, thirty-eight-year-old Guyanese immigrant, who with patience and dedication taught Victoria what she needed to learn in order to conduct a proper interview to determine if the applicants qualified for government benefits.

At lunch, they would take a walk and search for a healthy and organic place to eat before returning to their desk. During their walks, they spoke and laughed about their personal lives. Regardless of how close they had become, Victoria always kept a level of respect and admiration for Mrs. Jones. What do you feel like eating today, Victoria? Mrs. Jones asked, exhausted.

I don’t know. Yesterday Margarita told me about a Spanish restaurant down Third Avenue. Do you want to try it? I’m craving a salad.

"Only a salad?" Mrs. Jones asked in surprise.

Yes, I feel stressed lately. I don’t know what’s going on with me.

I hear you, girl, maybe it’s the summer that makes you feel like this.

Yes, maybe, I still feel sad about my father’s death. It’s been six months and I still have these weird dreams that he’s alive and we go out and talk and laugh… Victoria paused to catch her emotions.

They slowly walked to get to the highly recommended Spanish restaurant. They entered the narrow typical Spanish fast-food restaurant where two men stood at the counter, and a lady was shouting the orders to three people in the kitchen.

How can I help you, Miss? a young waitress with light green-eyes asked Victoria.

"I just want a salad with lettuce, cucumbers, green peppers, and carrots. And can you please put the dressing on the side?"

Armando, a salad, dressing on the side! the waitress yelled to one of the men in the kitchen. And what would you like, madam? the waitress asked Mrs. Jones.

Uh, I want some chicken and salad, only with lettuce and tomatoes.

The place was crowded and both phones rang incessantly. Mrs. Jones turned to talk to her supervisor, who happened to have gone to the same restaurant to order beef stew with rice, beans, and salad. Victoria moved slightly to the side and raised her head to observe the man preparing her salad. She noticed that regardless of how crowded the busy Spanish restaurant was, he remained calm. She looked at the way he cut the round fresh head of lettuce. She observed the thin slices of the reddish tomatoes and the steady motion of his hands as he sliced the green pepper. She admired the effortless way he peeled the carrot and the pace at which he closed the foil container.

Girl, what are you looking at so intently? Mrs. Jones asked Victoria.

I’m looking at the man who’s preparing my salad.

"And?" inquired Mrs. Jones.

I like what I see, Victoria honestly answered.

Victoria, please.

Yes, if he makes something else the way he does my salad, I’d like to marry him.

Girl, you’re too funny, Mrs. Jones added with a smile.

Well, I’d bet my last dollar that he’s a good lover.

And how could you possibly tell? asked Mrs. Jones, curiosity lacing her voice.

Well, it might be a bit difficult for you to understand because you’ve been married for twenty-four years to the same man. But I’ll tell you this from the point of view of a woman who knows about men: there are things men do that speak volumes to women. For instance, a man who talks too fast without listening doesn’t know how to kiss. A man who walks too fast always leaves women sexually unsatisfied. And a man who holds your hands too tightly…

Here is your salad, Miss, Armando interrupted in a low voice with a childish smile. As he handed the take-out box with the salad to Victoria, he added, I hope you enjoy it.

Thank you, I hope I enjoy it, too, Victoria replied with a flirtatious smile. Feeling momentarily brave, she asked, By the way, where do you come from?

I’m from Constanza, he answered with a smile, his pale complexion blushing slightly.

"Oh, are you? They say there is always spring in Constanza."

Yes, it’s very beautiful there. As he raised his head, she noticed that the bill of his white cap shifted to show his light brown eyes and thick eyebrows.

Well, goodbye for now, she said with a quick smile. Victoria and Mrs. Jones walked out of the crowded, busy restaurant.

I can’t believe that, Mrs. Jones chuckled.

Oh, I can bet you the next time I come to this restaurant, he’s going to ask me for my number.

I’m sure he will, especially after that look you gave him.

Yes, but you know something? Besides loving the way he made my salad, I was delighted by his voice and his face with those dimples.

Mrs. Jones chuckled as she listened to her.

Yes…there’s something about his voice that makes me feel at peace. I don’t really like to date Dominicans, but these people from Constanza, they’re very different. They are naïve and quiet and not loud like people from the city, or from San Juan where my mother’s family is from. In Constanza, people are usually professionals, and if they don’t have the chance to go to school, they just become restaurant owners, she said.

Oh, that’s strange. I thought all Dominicans were the same, Mrs. Jones sarcastically told Victoria.

They both smiled. No, although it might sound stereotypical of me some people behave according to the region in which they come from. Like for instance, you know what people think about New Yorkers compared to people from Iowa, which might not be a hundred percent true.

After work, Victoria left the office to take the D train at Atlantic Avenue. As usual, she walked towards the back of the train car where there were two-person seats available. She made sure she did not place herself on the orange double-seat stating, ‘For People with Disabilities.’ She leaned on the silver corner of the noisy, filthy train and took out a small worn New Testament. She pretended to read the torn pages covered with candle wax and missing pieces. She looked at them repeatedly, without actually seeing it at all. The small Bible belonged to her father. Right there on that crowded train in front of everyone, her oval brown eyes reddened and tears came out while she sobbed with deep sadness and despair.

She thought to herself, why did you have to die so far away from me? Why? I would have given half my life if I could have had the chance to see you one more time. I would have been able to endure this grief. I wouldn’t carry this pain with me. I never thought that one mistake would change our life forever. I didn’t know that one mistake would affect not only my life, but everybody around me. Some mistakes in life can be fixed, others take a lifetime. All I wanted in my life was to see you growing old close to me. To have the chance to see your head full of gray hair. Serve your food when you could not stand up for yourself anymore and hear your loud laughter.

She inhaled the heavy atmosphere of the crowded train and stopped for a minute to look at the view of the Manhattan Bridge, trying to push these sad thoughts out of her mind. She looked down at the wide East River. The water looked so close and yet so far. Small waves seemed to offer peace in a rhythmic way. She looked up at the isolated and old buildings that dotted the Manhattan skyline. Once the train entered the dark tunnel heading towards Grand Street, she closed her eyes, feeling the tears slowly drying on her cheeks. She allowed herself to retreat from despair, grief and sadness. She got off at 145th Street and walked two flights of stairs to grab the A train to 181st and Fort Washington.

Minutes later, Victoria arrived at the only place she felt she was the master of her life, her body, and her inner self: the gym. After the constant saludos to her friends and trainers, she got on the treadmill. She ran for so many reasons: she ran to release sweat, she ran to release stress. She ran to free herself of her sadness. She ran nowhere. Sometimes, she ran so fast the treadmill disappeared and the only thing that was left was the beating of her heart. Running was the only way she could show herself that she had some power over her life. She melted in sweat in during the summer. She perspired in the fall. She warmed her body in winter. She embellished her skin during the spring. She ran until she was drained of energy. At the end, she felt she had no more to give and nothing to ask for, just a space and a place to breathe.

After Victoria’s workout, it was still a beautiful, sunny evening in the middle of June. She picked up Variah from her babysitter, Doña Emma, who cared for both of them since Variah’s father, Marcus, left them. Victoria remembered how Doña Emma used to knock on Victoria’s door every time she heard her crying. One morning, she asked Victoria to have breakfast with her. Victoria got up from her humid pillow and walked to the kitchen. She sat at the oval table facing Doña Emma, her eyes swollen from the tears cried the night before. Doña Emma unsuccessfully offered Victoria café con leche and whole-wheat toast with butter. "Mi hija que te pasa? I heard you crying all night. What’s going on with you? You’re too young to live your life in llanto."

Victoria couldn’t respond to the tall lady wearing fine glasses. Victoria moved in on January 1 1995, after leaving her ex boyfriend. It was a second week boarding a room at that apartment and regardless how many times Doña Emma tried to have a conversation with her, Victoria remained detached. Once again, she burst into tears. For months, Victoria did nothing but crying until one morning, she confessed, I’m three months pregnant and don’t know if I should keep this baby or not. My ex wanted me to have an abortion and that’s the reason why I left him. I don’t have any money to pay for the abortion either. I don’t know what to do. I thought about going back to my country, but…

"You are not going anywhere with that barriga, Doña Emma quickly interrupted. You will stay here and Manuel and I will help you with the baby."

But you told me when you rented me the room that you didn’t want any children. I don’t want to have a child without a father, either.

Victoria, I have three children from three different fathers. All of my children are now grown. They never met their fathers, and they never needed one. You can find someone along the way who can be more than a father to your child.

But they say if I have an abortion, then I don’t have to worry about anything else.

"Who is ‘they’?"

Ramona, my baby’s grandmother.

"Ah! Esa vieja babosa. You have your child. You don’t know if this is the one who will be by your side the day you die."

Doña Emma told Victoria that she left her country only days after she had her second child to go to Mexico, Venezuela, or Colombia to work and send money to her family. She traveled from one country to the next hoping to find better opportunities for herself, and for her children who she left behind in the Dominican Republic with her own mother. Along the way, she met an American soldier with whom she had her last child. One weekend in Acapulco, she left him in a five-star hotel after he told her he was not ready to have a family. By this time, she was already four months pregnant with her younger child. She left the soldier without leaving him a trace of her. Months after she had her son, the soldier traveled to the Dominican Republic and published an announcement in the newspaper to get in contact with her and meet his first son. She read it, burned the paper in an anafe, and paid her mother to go to the remote countryside with her children. Days later, she bought herself a ticket to Venezuela. Dany, as she named her child, grew up without knowing his father.

Dany’s father is American? Victoria asked in surprise.

Yes and I left him and now see how handsome and smart my son is. He never needed his father.

Victoria and Dany were classmates at a Catholic school when they were kids. They used to sit close to each other and helped each other with their homework. He was blonde with green eyes. He was a nice and respectful boy who every nun and classmate loved. They met again after eleven years at Liberato’s supermarket and he did not hesitate to give her his home number and invited her over to meet his mom. Victoria waited three weeks to call Dany and when she called him, she asked him if he knew someone who was renting a room so she could move out of her boyfriend’s apartment. Dany invited Victoria to meet Doña Emma and asked her to please rent the available room to her. A year before Dany’s request, Doña Emma had decided never to rent a room to anybody, but thinking that Victoria might be his girlfriend, she agreed in renting the room to Victoria.

Months passed by with Doña Emma taking care of Victoria during her pregnancy. Every time Doña Emma would get her weekly allowance from Don Manuel, she would buy newborn clothes for the baby and store them neatly folded inside a drawer. When Variah was born, Doña Emma became her mother while Victoria was in Allen Pavilion after being diagnosed with post-partum depression. For two weeks Doña Emma acted as Variah’s temporary mother – she held Variah in her arms, bathed her and fed her, until Victoria finally made it back home. Doña Emma went through a maternal phase she had never even experienced with her own children.

As years went by, both Victoria and Variah grew under the umbrella of love and care that Don Manuel, Doña Emma, and Dany as Victoria’s brother provided. Variah grew up calling Doña Emma Grandma, Don Manuel Grandpa and Dany uncle. Victoria would buy gifts for them for their birthdates, holidays, or whenever she saw an object, she thought either Doña Emma or Don Manuel would like. Then, when Variah was seven years old, the building they were living in had to be evacuated for reconstruction. Victoria rented an apartment on 181st and Audubon and Don Manuel and Doña Emma moved to 135th and Broadway, until their building was renovated. Dany got married and moved to the Bronx with his wife.

Some years later, Victoria moved near Don Manuel and Doña Emma’s newly renovated 159th street apartment. As always, Variah was picked up from school by Don Manuel and stayed in their house until Victoria could pick her up after work. On one particular afternoon, Victoria and Variah walked along Riverside Drive looking forward to getting closer to the Hudson River to see the sunset. Victoria watched Variah walking and trying to balance herself in her beige sandals. The one-and-a-half-inch heels were too much for Variah to manage. She walked ahead of her mother with a sense of urgency. She wanted to be sure to reach her destination before the sunset disappeared. She was walking by herself, as if her mother didn’t exist. Victoria kept looking at Variah’s ten-year-old body, so full of grace and with the innocence that comes with the early years of life. She was 5'2, the same height as her mother. Her feet were actually a half-size larger than Victoria’s. At times, the girl seemed uncoordinated, struggling to place one foot in front of the other. It was the first time she was wearing anything other than her black sneakers.

Variah, wait for me! Victoria yelled.

I’m sorry, mom, she answered as she turned toward her mother with her naïve face.

Victoria thought, nothing of me is part of her facial make-up. No reflection of me at all. It’s difficult to look at the one you love the most and see the face of the person that you dislike the most on this planet. She is only my daughter and nothing more. There is no trace of me in her genes. No trace of my looks or personality. No behavior that links us at all. I have lived with her since she was born and nothing of me has been transposed into her. We only share our last name, the last name given to me by my father Juan when I was two years old. Well, at least, she has my last name.

They arrived at 158th Street and Riverside Drive, a little closer to the crowd and the sunset.

Oh mom, look at the sparrows! Eww, they’re drinking dirty water. Why are they drinking that water?

Because they are always in survival mode. They only see water, it doesn’t matter if it is dirty or clean.

I’m so glad I am not a sparrow.

I know, but it would be good if you learn how to be one, Variah.

So I can drink dirty water too? Variah interrupted.

No, that’s not what I meant, but to live your life seeing people as beautiful as they are; without colors or labels and see life as it is, simple.

Some people have different colors, mom.

Only in skin. I never want to hear you saying white people or black people or discriminating against anyone. You see I don’t discriminate anybody or anything, only people’s bad attitudes.

"Okay Siguita."

Okay my little sparrow.

They walked to the benches and saw a gathering of people. Someone is having a birthday celebration! Variah exclaimed.

Okay, give me my sandals and I’ll give you back your sneakers.

While changing shoes, Variah rushed to exchange the footwear, stepping on the green grass carelessly. She placed the sandal on her mother’s foot and put on her sneakers, without lacing them up: Variah, you forgot to lace up your sneakers!

Oh! I’m sorry, mom.

Oh please, Variah, stop being sorry and learn how to do things the right way.

Variah quickly tied her sneakers as she turned her face around. Victoria looked at the passive water, observing its calm, little waves. She lifted her face toward the overwhelming orange hues of the sun and the reddish summer sky, so distinctive from the other seasons of the year.

Victoria started thinking about her childhood: I remember when I was her age how I wanted to have a mother like myself. I don’t recall going to the park as much as I take her. I can only remember one time my sick mother took me to the park. As I look at her, my mind takes me back to that Saturday evening, at about six o’clock on a spring day in Santo Domingo. The reflection of the sunlight shined on every green leaf of the landscape, but not too bright. We walked five blocks to Duarte Square. In the middle of Duarte Square were ten steps leading up to a circle. There was a group of nice girls my age playing in their pastel colored dresses. I wanted to be part of them. I wanted to feel free and play with the same enthusiasm with which they were playing. When I was five, I didn’t have any friends other than my mother and my father. They knew how to split their time to keep me company all day. My mother would start the day giving me leche y pan con mantequilla. White bread with butter was okay, although it was never delightful to my paladar. The milk however, regardless of sugar, chocolate or anything else, would always give me a stomachache. I wished I could find a way to make my mother understand that milk wasn’t for me, that milk was meant for baby cows.

She would sit me on the kitchen table so I could observe her cooking the meal of the day. There I was sitting on a square steel table surrounded by tomatoes, potatoes, raw beets, carrots, romaine lettuce, and cabbage. While the anafe was heating the white rice, Julio Iglesias was playing El Amor en la Billonera. I remember eating many vegetables for lunch and listening to Jose Jose, and Camilo Sesto. Just like those romantic songs, the dark colorful vegetables are still to this day stuck in my memory. After lunch, she would sit at the neighbor’s house for hours. I’d stay home watching I Love Lucy and The Cisco Kid. After hours of black and white TV, I would lower the volume and take a five-foot-long stick and pretend it was a microphone and I was a singer and then I’d act as if I were a very famous actress. I would perform for a whole afternoon without any applause or recognition, but I didn’t care. I was happy to be on my own. In my space and on my own time. In the afternoon my mother would return to make dinner and we will wait for my father to arrive. We would eat dinner together. Sometimes they would talk about things that I did not understand. While listening in on their conversation, I would hear my father asking my mother,

Margo, te tomaste la medicina?

I always wondered why she had to take medicine all the time. There were always a collection of vitamins and pills all over the house. Whenever she left them sitting around, I would confuse them with candies and eat them. The fruity vitamins often tasted good, but then I’d vomit until I would become unconscious. Most nights my father would take me his arms until I fell asleep in his lap. I adored my father. He was the most important person in my life. His presence would always put a smile on my face, especially when he would reach into his bolsillo and hand me a mint candy.

But that afternoon in the park, I wanted to have friends and play with someone other than playing, acting, and singing by myself. My mother read my brown eyes full of desperation and told me, Esperancita, go and play with them.

And you, what are you going to do mom?

I’ll be here, watching you play. Don’t worry, I won’t go anywhere.

I joined the group of girls and we were playing on the carousel and singing. After a few minutes, I searched for my mother and saw her pale face. Her expression gave me the impression that she was in deep sadness, almost giving a farewell. I got the frightening feeling she was leaving me. Not leaving me playing in the park, but leaving me forever.

In spite of Margo’s sickness, she took good care of me. I was raised in an area called The Duarte con Paris, surrounded by some hard working men and dedicated mothers. In the neighborhood of more than twenty families, there were only two single mothers, who often left their children alone to go work washing clothing for pay. One morning, one of them left her seven-year-old daughter, Francesca, to go find a payday job. She asked the next door neighbor, Doña Jacinta, to keep an eye on her and to feed her with some food. The kind-hearted Doña Jacinta agreed, although she knew that Francesca was famous for being a hyperactive child. Doña Jacinta placed a big pot on top of the fire pit to boil red beans outside her door. Her house was higher than the average houses with six stairs leading up. Francesca, being the most hyper child that anybody