Las Mamis: Favorite Latino Authors Remember Their Mothers - Softcover

Softcover

ISBN 10: 037572687X ISBN 13: 9780375726873

Verlag: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2001

Inhaltsangabe

A marvelous anthology from the editors of Las Christmas—the bestselling author of When I Was Puerto Rican and the founder of L.A. Weekly—in which our most acclaimed Latino authors share unforgettable memories of their mothers.

The women lovingly portrayed in Las Mamis represent a cross section of Latino life and culture. They come from rich families in the big cities of Latin America, from rural immigrant families, and from the worlds in between—and they share an extraordinary inner strength, often maintained against incredible odds. Pressed by conflicting cultural expectations, circumstance, and religion, they have managed the challenges of motherhood, leaving enduring legacies for their children. Now, in these vivid, poignant, and sometimes hilarious reminiscences—all of them infused with distinct sabor latino—Las Mamis celebrates the universality of family love and the special bond between mothers and children.

Contributors include: Esmeralda Santiago, Piri Thomas, Marjorie Agosin, Junot Diaz, Alba Ambert, Liz Balmaseda, Mandalit del Barco, Gioconda Belli, Maria Escandon, Dagoberto Gilb, Francisco Goldman, Jaime Manrique, Gustavo Perez-Firmat, Ilan Stavans.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

ESMERALDA SANTIAGO is the author of the memoirs When I Was Puerto Rican and Almost a Woman, and of the novel América's Dream. She lives in Westchester County, New York. JOIE DAVIDOW founded L.A. Style, L.A. Weekly, and Sí, a national Latino lifestyle publication. The author of Infusions of Healing: A Treasury of Mexican-American Herbal Remedies, she lives in Los Angeles.

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A marvelous new anthology from the editors of Las Christmas in which our most admired Latino authors share memories of their mothers.
The women lovingly portrayed in Las Mamis represent a cross section of Latino life and culture. They come from rich families in the big cities of Latin America, from rural immigrant families, and from the worlds in between-and they share an extraordinary inner strength, often maintained against incredible odds. Pressed by conflicting cultural expectations, circumstance, and religion, they have managed the challenges of motherhood, leaving enduring legacies for their children. Now, in these vivid, poignant, and sometimes hilarious reminiscences-all of them infused with distinct "sabor latino-Las Mamis celebrates the universality of family love and the special bond between mothers and children.
Contributors include: Esmeralda Santiago, Piri Thomas, Marjorie Agosin, Junot Diaz, Alba Ambert, Liz Balmaseda, Mandalit del Barco, Gioconda Belli, Maria Escandon, Dagoberto Gilb, Francisco Goldman, Jaime Manrique, Gustavo Perez-Firmat, Ilan Stavans

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Las Mamis

Favorite Latino Authors Remember Their MothersBy Esmeralda Santiago

Vintage Books USA

Copyright ©2001 Esmeralda Santiago
All right reserved.
ISBN: 037572687X

Chapter One

From First Born by Esmeralda Santiago

I was her first child, born feetfirst, the umbilical cord snug around my neck. My father's mother delivered her of me. I fell into Abuela's hands, a blue baby, and Mami thought I was dead. Abuela slapped me hard, and when I wailed, she returned me to my mother's body, to the full, soft warmth of her breast. Maybe it was that perilous beginning that bound me to her at the moment when she sent me forth. Since that rainy Monday morning, whenever I'm breathless and abused, I return to her bosom, hungry.

She was sixteen when I was conceived. My father was twenty-eight and already had a child with another woman. I've never asked her how they met, how he seduced her, how she managed to evade her mother and brother and the house full of aunts and uncles with whom she lived so she could be with him. Whenever I ask personal questions, she says she doesn't remember, but a few days later she'll volunteer what she wants me to know. That's how I found out that, around the time they met, she worked as a clerk in her uncle's pastry shop in Santurce. Was it there that Papi first saw her, dark-eyed, fresh-faced, eager for adventure?

It was August when they made me, the middle of hurricane season. I imagine a hot, dry day. Or had the sky rumbled and cracked in one of those unexpectedly violent summer storms that break over Puerto Rico with no warning? She's afraid of lightning and thunder. Perhaps he held her in his arms to calm the trembling that accompanies her fears.

I was a fussy, sleepless infant, dark and hairy, given to fits of rage that ended as suddenly and inexplicably as they began.

I slept in a hammock that Mami swung rhythmically in an attempt to soothe the colic, heat rash, mosquito bites: the irritants I couldn't name but that made her life miserable. Years later she'd wish for my children to give me as much trouble as I had given her, and the possibility kept me childless into my thirties.

Before I was two, I had a baby sister. We lived in a one-room house on stilts over muddy water. Wobbly planks led to the street. When we walked across them, Mami clutched my hand and held Delsa against her bosom.

"Don't let go," she warned. "Be careful, or you'll fall and drown." As we reached the street, her grip eased and my fears melted, to be renewed again on the way back over the long, splintery boards that creaked and groaned with every step.

"But you can't possibly remember that," Mami challenges, and I ask, did we live in a house over muddy water? Were there planks leading to the road? She admits that yes, both things are true, but refuses to believe I can remember that far back. "I must have told you about it when you were older," she claims.

On a sleepy afternoon, Mami and I sat at a table near a window, listening to the water slap against the pilings that held up the house. I sucked my thumb while, with my other hand inside my panties, I bothered the place where pee came from. When she saw what I was doing, Mami flew off her chair, grabbed my arm, and spanked me, screaming that I was never to do that, it was dirty, girls shouldn't touch themselves down there.

That's the first beating I remember, the sting of her hand against my buttocks, the strong fist around my wrist, the flat sound of her fingers against my skin.

She was not the only mother to hit her children. Una pela was a common threat by parents then - still is - and it was not unusual for parents to peel skin off with a nubby guava switch or with a stiff leather belt. Papi used his belt on us. Mami used her hands, a rope, a shoe, a frying pan, whatever was closest.

In spite of the many pelas I endured, I don't think of myself as a battered child. That term didn't enter my vocabulary until I was in my twenties and newspapers and television broadcasts were filled with stories of children burned with lit cigarettes, tied up to bedsteads, clubbed with broomsticks, locked up in closets, left to starve. I remembered my mother's rage, her violence, and was ashamed that she'd ever raised her hand to me and my siblings. I couldn't excuse it, but I forgave it. I forced myself to look beyond resentment to who she was when she, and we, were growing up. And in looking at her life I found lessons. Chief among them: don't dwell in the past or you will drown in sorrow.




Norma was born when I was four, and while she was still a toddler we moved to Macún, a barrio in the municipality of Toa Baja, where Papi owned a parcela, a plot of land which boasted eleven avocado and five mango trees, pigeon pea and annatto bushes, wild oregano, and a spiny lemon tree. The ramshackle house on the parcela had no electricity or running water. Barrels under the corner eaves collected rain. There was a pond down the road, the scummy, green surface broken by bubbles that Mami imagined were the breath of creatures in its depths. Pregnant with her fourth child, Mami stayed home while Papi spent most of the week building or renovating houses in San Juan.

In the last weeks of her pregnancy, the barrels were empty and the sky cloudless. Delsa, Norma, and I whimpered from hunger, but there was no water to cook the rice. The louder we cried the more desperate Mami became, until finally, she walked to the pond and drew a bucket of water.

"I strained it through cotton, then let the water boil a long time." Her face twisted into disgust as she told me the story years later. "The white rice still came out green. I sobbed as we ate it. I figured if it was poisonous, we would at least die together." As she spoke, I was filled with compassion for her as she was then, twenty-one years old, with three toddlers and another baby on the way, a city girl stranded in the wilderness of a barrio in el campo, alone.


After my brother, Héctor, was born, Mami and Papi seemed to fight more. She accused, he defended himself. She cried, he sulked. She told him to leave her alone, he disappeared, to return days later as if nothing had happened. My sisters and brother and I cowered in our hammocks, or stayed clear of them when Papi was home. We watched her face for signs that a fight was coming, listened to her tone of voice and whether she set the pots down gently or banged them upon the cooking stones. If she was in a dark mood, we were silent and watchful, subservient to her whims.

When they were getting along, they worked at opposite ends of the parcela. As she collected gandules for dinner, he built sturdier walls. His hammer kept time to the Mexican rancheras he sang in a clear baritone, she moved her hips back and forth as she hummed boleros and dropped the fat pigeon pea pods into a metal bowl. I've always thought that words belonged to him, but music has always been hers - the wordless hum of effort rewarded.

With four young children to take care of, Mami had little time for socializing. But when the public water fountain was installed about a mile from our house, she met some of the neighbor women. Several times a week, we walked over to collect fresh water. While Mami and the vecinas stood around the fountain filling their buckets and jabbering, we stomped on the mud from the spillover. From time to time, one of them looked in our direction and yelled at us to stop. But as soon as she turned around, we went back to smearing ourselves, and each other, with mud.

After her visit with the...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2001
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 037572687X
• ISBN 13: 9780375726873
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 208
• Herausgeber: Santiago Esmeralda, Davidow Joie
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: gpsr@libri.de; gpsr@libri.de; ; Europaallee 1; Bad Hersfeld; 36244; Deutschland