By Victoria Blanco
To my father’s dismay, he had three daughters. He wanted at least one son to help him watch the farm. I remember after my youngest sister was born, he threw his hat on the ground and walked out of the bedroom as my mother laughed.
One of my favorite memories is of my mother making potato soup in a time before my other sisters were born. Potato soup was the dish that saved the family from total hunger. My mother picked potatoes from our field, peeled them smoothly, and chopped them into smaller bite sized pieces to make it look plentiful. She diced onions and carrots and a stalk of celery to add flavor to the broth. She hardly smiled, but she’d smile at me every time she’d make potato soup. After a hot plate of potato soup, I’d go to my room to draw with my box of broken half crayons.
I’d draw family portraits, my mom and dad holding my hands, our two cows, Cantinflas and Tin-Tan and our old goat, Trevi in the back with the fields of potatoes behind us. One night as I was coming down the stairs, my shoelaces were untied so I tripped and fell halfway down the stairs. The family portrait never slipped from my hand even when I hit the floor. Pain slowly penetrated my right arm and hips, my legs and feet burned from the punches the salmon colored stairs threw at me. My mother rushed to me as I started to wail from the pain that was settling throughout my body. “FEDERICO!,” she yelled while she carried me into the kitchen. She knew exactly where he was, inside his shed where he spent most of his evenings until he came inside, drenched in alcohol. My father grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a clean cloth while my mother kissed my forehead and said, “Everything was going to be alright.” I winced at the pain but felt warmth coming from her tender hands.
Orchid was born when I turned three, both of my parents were a wreck. My mother was so stumped by Orchid’s restlessness that she lost track of her feeding times and diaper changes. A year later came Margarita and I can’t remember my childhood after her. It’s just a series of moments like I had woken up from a nap and then went back to sleep. I remembered seeing my mother dip her index finger into a bottle of alcohol my father kept on the top shelf of our kitchen cabinet and made Orchid suck on it to stop crying for a moment. I remembered turning four and seeing Orchid on daddy’s lap, he had finally accepted his fate as the only man in the household. I was sitting on the floor next to my mother who was holding Margarita. “My beautiful flowers,” my father called us when we were all together.
Orchid and Margarita were always yelling around the house. Orchid would scream at the top of her lungs for Margarita to push her on the swing our father built for us. My parents grew tired of us, mainly with Orchid and Margarita. My father would let them ride Cantinflas and Tin-Tan while I waited my turn. After their ride would be over, they’d run inside the house while I rode on our family cows alone.
A week after I turned twelve, my mother called me to come down to the kitchen. I was going to pick cherries with my father. Before I could’ve said anything, she told me to go change into one of daddy’s shirts and a pair of the oldest pants I had. Once I came downstairs again with the baggy clothes on, I watched my mother spread beans on two pieces of bolillo cut open. I sat there drawing on my notebook as my mother scrambled eggs together and added pickled jalapenos to our tortas. I heard Orchid and Margarita laughing somewhere outside. Daddy came downstairs as soon as my mother was done packing our lunches.
“Be home by supper,” my mother told us while daddy opened the door to his truck for me. “What does she know, eh?” He smiled at me. His favorite Los Hermanos Carrión cassette was rewinding before we took off. The sun began to warm the buildings, and the valley. I worked on my multiplications table until we had made it. I was the youngest there, they all stared at me curiously. Daddy picked a spot for us to work, he slowly showed me how to hold the cherry stalk. He’d say, “Girasol, hold this part in between your thumb and this (index) finger okay? Then when you have a firm hold, start twisting it and then pull.” If they were ripe, they’d come off easily, he would yell at me when I’d throw them into the container quickly. Once I knew how to pick cherries, it became tedious. I daydreamed a lot as I picked every stalk in a perfect, monotonous manner. Jealousy started to unfurl when I’d come home covered in dirt and sweat while my sisters helped mother cook a meal or were in the living room learning to sew.
Time had passed, I was seventeen and my hands had lost the softness they once had. Rough and filled with blisters as I was the only one that helped daddy work. T-shirts were my comfort while my sisters would wear their pretty colorful dresses our mother made for them with beautiful bows bought from the bouquet store in town that held their hair up. They would always set up the table when we’d get back home from the field, I’d go straight to the bathroom to wash the dirt off my hands and face. I’d change my oversized shirt for a clean oversized shirt. I was overly thin due to the work I did, my mother was not happy with the way I had turned out, she’d argue with me every chance she got to scold me for not acting like a woman. “You’re a woman, not a man! All you wear are clothes that are not for women,” she’d start. She would come to me when I was home with a dress and asked if it was pretty, and I’d say yes. “Would you like to wear it?” she’d ask me hoping I’d take the bait. “I think it’s pretty but not for me,” I responded and went back to my drawing. My mother and I grew apart ever since my sisters were born, she would only reach out to me to scold me or ask for money. She would always buy my sisters nice things, shoes, dresses, even a box set of fine point markers one Christmas. Boys and girls were always around them at school like hummingbirds to nectar. They wore makeup, just enough to drive all the boys mad, and dresses that other girls wore the week after. My sisters would always stay out longer while I walked home after school. They’d tell our parents that they were attending tutoring sessions, but really they were always hanging around the local diner.
People made fun of me, I wore big shirts, large jackets during winter and jeans that I barely hung to my hips with a belt. I was a disgrace to my parents, to the boys, and to my sisters. I eventually had my first crush on a boy who loved to run. He’d race whoever wanted to after school. I’d watch him outrun everyone at the last stretch when everyone thought they had it until they heard him coming from behind them at full speed. I couldn’t stop thinking about him so I decided to do something about it. One morning, I found a denim skirt and a tight pink shirt from my sister’s closet. On my way to school, I stopped by the store and bought a stainless steel water bottle as well as a box of white chocolates. The first bell rang, and I looked over to the open field and there he was, catching his breath. I smiled to myself and enthusiastically hurried to my first class.
The after school bell rang, I hurried out to the field with the box of chocolates and a water bottle. I searched for him out in the open green. Groups of kids gathered together before heading home, sharing baseball cards, some boys were seen with girls in the farthest area of the field, this was where many would get their first kiss, and there was my runner walking away with my sister, Orchid. They were talking, laughing, they became smaller and smaller until they stopped behind a large oak tree, and that’s all I remember. I walked home fast, ready to take my sister’s clothes off my back.
The night of my birthday, I was washing plates from my small birthday party. My mother grabbed a dry rag and wiped the clean dishes. “Rosa, there’s a man who wants your hand in marriage,” she said softly without looking at me. “Who is it?” It was a boy I knew from school, he’d call me names when we passed each other in the hallway and always hung around the school tables, far away from the open field.
My sisters were my bridesmaids and their boyfriends, the runner and another boy from school sat in the bleachers looking at their former classmate and I getting married. Nothing could hurt me, I got married to a man I didn’t know and certainly didn’t love. We moved to Oregon with another couple my new husband knew. We looked for jobs everywhere that were within walking distance but they were almost always at capacity or said they’d give us a call when we did not have a phone at the time. One day while I sat down on a bench to smoke a cigarette, my husband came back to report that he got us jobs at a baking factory. Sanitation work, that’s what we were going to do and I couldn’t care less what the job was.
Months had gone by, and it turned out that I was good at my job, even better than my husband. He grew hot and jealous that he quit and searched for another job. He became bitter and full of hatred towards me once he grew comfortable enough to disrespect me. To avoid him berating or hitting me, I followed a routine he set in place for me, cooked him two scrambled eggs, five slices of bacon, two pieces of toast smeared with strawberry jelly, and black coffee. I’d pack a lunch for him as he ate, dinner was also on the list regardless of how tired I was from working a full time job as well. This was my life for three years, I’d call my family every few months. It would be a very brief call, I’d ask how daddy was first and then my sisters. They were both engaged to their high school sweethearts.
One day while I was doing laundry, I found a red thong inside my husband’s denim jacket. They were always red weren’t they? I stopped looking him in the eye when we were together, whether that was in the kitchen or in our bedroom, and thankfully he did not do anything about it. He knew what a terrible husband he was, so the only gift he gave me was that.
A few months later after saving some money inside a cigarette box that I kept in my purse, I was able to rent a studio out. I packed all of my clothes while he was in the shower. For some reason he wanted me that night even though I smelled the other woman on him. I made him his breakfast and then he dropped me off work. One of my coworkers who had just turned sixty and called me honey drove me back to the apartment to grab my stuff and leave. I left my apartment keys and wedding ring on the kitchen table and left for my new home that was on the other side of town. I wondered how he took it when he waited long enough in the parking lot outside the bakery, only to realize that I had enough of his bullshit.
Two weeks had gone by, and I bought a twin mattress with frames for twenty dollars and a small television. For the first time in a long time, I smiled as I ate my TV dinner and watched Home Improvement. Flowers bloomed throughout the patches of green as I waited for the bus every morning. I saved some money to buy acrylic paint and canvases and take them on a date every night after work. I bought a portable radio that kept me company when I’d cook a meal for myself. I gave my family a call and my mother screamed at me for what I had done. “You’re an embarrassment to me, your father, and your sisters.” I hung up right after, my throat constricted and I became nauseous. A month after gaining my life back, my independence and my happiness, I purchased a pregnancy test. It was positive, I was pregnant with my husband’s child.
I woke up the next day without turning the radio on, I packed a lunch and made my way to the bus stop. As I stood there I couldn’t help but be angry at life, it seemed like I did something so wicked, so despicable that I was not allowed to be happy. Tears streamed every night for two weeks. I’d lay in bed thinking about my sisters, my parents, my loving husband, the runner who I still thought about every so often. They were fine without me, always had been. I thought about jumping off the old bridge I always passed by to get to the bus stop. I wondered if it would ever get better, if I would ever learn to love life. I prepared myself for the baby I was going to have, I did not bother to let my husband know, or my family for that matter. Eight and a half months went by, and my water broke while painting a dragonfly I had dreamed about. It was one of the most vivid dreams I had in years. I was walking inside a forest that was touched by the sun, light shunned all over the trees and dirt. I came across a large pool of water and without thinking, I went inside. Deep underwater, I grabbed hold of something large, something that seemed familiar yet unknown. Something safe. The water lit up and I was able to see that I was holding onto a leg of a white dove. I woke up after feeling like someone or something was trying to tell me something. So my water broke, and the same coworker that helped me move away from my husband took me to the hospital.
She was so small when the nurses handed her to me. She was shy and cold, I’d just look at her until she finally opened her eyes. And that’s when I knew what my dream meant, my Paloma was coming to me. I fell in love with her, she was nothing like my husband or my family, she was mine to protect, mine to teach, mine to love. Luckily with just the two of us, I was able to support her on my own. She made my life so colorful, like a beautiful dove that softly coos in the morning. I’d wake up everyday with such joy and dedication to the love of my life who came so unexpectedly. My paintings of trees and birds turned into my little dove on the ground with her own paper and crayons. I ended up selling several of my paintings to an art show where an investor grew very interested in the story that I owned, the story that I painted. A few years had gone by, and I received three separate calls, from Orchid, Margarita, and my mother. They asked how I was, I said fine in a surprised voice, they never asked me for anything other than money, and there they were again, congratulating me on my small success and my daughter. Ever since that dream and my daughter, I felt a weight off me, a weight that wouldn’t let me say anything that only favored me. I was the breadwinner of my family, alongside my father who was the only one that knew of my pregnancy and the newfound money I had gained. I wasn’t upset with him for telling the others that I was finally living my life, he tried his best to protect me with what he could until he no longer could. So I told my sisters and my mother, “Do you know how to make that potato soup I loved?” They said yes. “Come see me and make it for me and my daughter.”
My family traveled up the state to my studio apartment to meet my wonderful daughter and I. We all got into my small kitchen and started cutting potatoes and boiled the broth. It was the first time in a long time that I had felt part of a family, where my sisters weren’t better than me, where my mother didn’t scold me for not doing things her way. Paloma played with her grandfather while we made the soup that brought me happiness years ago. A year later, I sold another painting of a sunflower and a dove that was worth more than anything I had ever experienced. That painting was the one that made me grateful for all I had endured, all the cherries I picked, the name calling, the disappointment, and the punches that went straight to my chest. I titled it, “Everything was Going to be Alright”.
Victoria Blanco is a hot mess of a writer in Sacramento, CA. She reeks of love for her loved ones and feeds a furry little boy with a crooked smile and curly tail. She teaches kids authenticity and English from time to time.