A Flashback

House on Mango Street and Julia Alvarez-books filled the shelves, and these things are only noticeable to me now because no one around me, these days, knows what these books might represent--except for maybe those who were Spanish majors or who, by some accidental encounter, found out about this author or that book. 

I remember Maria Gonzalez's classroom, filled with bright colors and many books about who we were then.  Us. 

This memory of my childhood may be tainted by wishful thinking--wishful thinking of a world in which I am understood and do not have to constantly explain who I am, let alone wonder why I am this way; e.g. why I talk with my hands, why I'm a little loud, why I always have to talk about my experience and raise it as an important point in conversation.  But it may also be true that I was a part of something then; that my experiences were similar to those next to me even while the random scatterings of American children whose parents wanted them to learn Spanish partook in our classroom.

I remember dancing to Moviendo La Cadera in 4th grade, a dancing act that was led by Ms. Matos, our Puerto Rican teacher's assistant and confidant. She sewed colorful headbands for us and matching skirts. She taught us to cook locrio de pollo  in what used to be the home-making class at the Kennedy School. We partook in a play in which we were Puerto Rican, and Melissa, instead of saying Jayuya, shouted proudly, "Juyaya!" despite all of the practicing. 

I remember these mothers, who provide counter-examples for me when I am tempted to say that no one understands my particular family situation. I remember the Pentecostal Puerto Rican, parent of the class heart-throb, who did not necessarily fulfill the cool Latin-mom persona and looked more like my mother than Salma Hayek's character in Spanglish.

We learned about immigration in 8th grade and Emma Lazarus' poem inviting the "sedientos" (the thirsty) to the land of the free. And the history book became alive with our parents' respective journeys. We lost ourselves in stories of who we could be, female heros with last names that sounded like our own--Perez, Gonzalez, Miranda, Vasquez, Mirabal. We dreamed of possibilities. 

We were understood then. Maybe.