Almost a Woman : A Memoir (9780306821110) (51 page)

“Maybe if we get married,” I suggested, pathetic even to myself.

Ulvi shook his head. “No, we cannot get married.”

No explanation followed his refusal, and I didn't seek one. He was somber, patient. His eyes watched me with the same intensity as they had, months ago, when Shoshana and I sat in this room trying to impress him so that he would put us in his movie. This, I knew, was a test of my loyalty. If I refused to follow him to Florida, I would fail.

Over the seven months we'd known each other I'd relinquished my will to his. I'd stopped seeing my friends, stopped dancing, ran from work straight into his arms. But I still went home at night to sleep under Mami's roof. Without saying the words, Ulvi was asking me to give her up too, to choose between them.

In all the time we'd been lovers, it had never once occurred to me that I'd ever have to make such a choice. One day, Ulvi would return to Turkey; or to Germany; or to who knew, who cared where. It would be Ulvi who would leave my life, not Mami. Over the years of watching Mami, La Muda, my aunts and cousins as they loved, lost, loved again, I'd learned that love was something you get over. If Ulvi left, there would be another man, but there would never, ever be another Mami.

“You think about,” Ulvi advised when I didn't respond right away. For the first time since the first time, I left his apartment without taking my clothes off once. I rode the train to Brooklyn. The heavy, dusty air of the subways was suffocating, made it impossible to breathe, muddled my thoughts so that I didn't know where I was, where I was going, or why. The express hurtled between Nostrand Avenue, Utica Avenue, Broadway-East New York. I got off the train and switched to the local for one stop, to Liberty Avenue, a block from Mami's house. It was dark, but earlier than I usually came home. Mami and Tata had cooked a vat of
arroz con pollo
and stewed pinto beans.

“Ay, Negi, you're early, that's good,” Mami said. “Let me serve you some dinner.”

She was cheerful because it was Saturday and she was paid on Friday, which meant there was a big, generous
compra
in the pantry. The sewing machines in the living room were quiet, covered with sheets so that the younger kids knew not to touch them. Hector, Raymond, and Franky were in the cement backyard, throwing a ball around. A little dog snapped at my ankles. Where had it come from? Did we own it? How long had we had it? I changed into my stay-at-home clothes and sat with Mami and Tata in the kitchen, and the three of us ate their good cooking, while in the next room, the television blared a variety show.

My sisters and brothers sprawled on the floor or on the plastic-covered furniture and laughed and pointed at the outlandish costumes and performers. Somewhere one of the babies cried, another screeched, the dog yipped. Tata lit up a cigarette, opened a beer. Mami screamed at Edna to pick up Ciro so he'd stop crying. I stood up, put my dishes in the sink, and burrowed into the room I shared with Delsa, into the bed I shared with Delsa. Covers pulled over my head to block out the noise, the confusion, the drama of my family's life, I knew, just as Ulvi knew when he asked, that I'd already made my choice.

This is what I remember, as I remember it. Memorable statements, compelling confessions, and intriguing questions have contributed to the recreated conversations in some scenes.

The names of members of my immediate family are real, but circumstances have forced me to change others. For example, so far, there have been twelve Franks and five Normas in my life. While I can tell one from the other, it was harder to do that on the page. To avoid confusion, I've nicknamed or renamed some people.

Then there are those people whose names I can't recall. Some might be minor characters in a novel, but in real life, if they're remembered, they're not minor at all. I beg forgiveness from those who recognize themselves but whose names are different in these pages. Please understand that, while I may have forgotten your name, I still remember you.

Several individuals have helped shape this book. I am particularly indebted to my editor Merloyd Lawrence, whose confidence and encouragement are the greatest motivators any writer could ever hope for. Whenever I was overwhelmed by the emotions the writing of this memoir evoked, I called my friend and agent Molly Friedrich, whose reassurances kept me on course. My writing buddies Terry Bazes, Ben Cheever, Joie Davidow, Audrey Glassman, Marilyn Johnson, and Mary Breasted generously put aside their own work to read this manuscript at various stages.
Mil gracias,
dear friends.

The Santiago/Cortéz/Martínez clan has been gracious and supportive, even if they sometimes disagree with my version of events. Individually and collectively, my mother, father, sisters, and brothers manifest what respect and
dignidad
mean to a Puerto Rican.

And finally, my husband, Frank Cantor, and our children, Lucas and Ila, have figured out when I need to be alone and when I need a hug. You make me sing. (But don't worry, I won't do it in public.)

The questions, discussion topics, and suggested reading list that follow are designed to enhance your group's reading of Esmeralda Santiago's
Almost a Woman,
the sequel to her moving and powerful memoir
When I Was Puerto Rican.
We hope they will provide you with a number of ways of looking at—and talking about—this vibrant story of an ambitious, headstrong teenager as she moves slowly out of the loving and safe but constricting grip of her Hispanic family and community and into the large and unimaginably different world of Manhattan.

At the age of thirteen Esmeralda must leave the familiarity, warmth, and vibrancy of Puerto Rico to live in a three-room apartment in Brooklyn shared by ten family members. Challenged by language barriers, cultural stereotypes, and her strict and fiercely protective mother, Esmeralda begins her triumphant struggle for identity and independence. By day she studies acting at Manhattan's Performing Arts High School and interprets for the family at city welfare offices; by night she
accompanies her mother and sister to Latin dance halls, but on such a short leash that she does not have her first date until age twenty. Undaunted, she makes up for lost time in a romantic apprenticeship at once hilarious and heartbreaking. Filled with wisdom and humor, Esmeralda Santiago's story is both universal and personal: the immigrant's search for belonging, the adolescent's search for identity, and the daughter's fight, often at a great cost to herself, for independence from a beloved but too powerful parent.