Las Gitanitas de Sacromonte

Childish faces with ancient eyes

Laughing as their bodies dance in the sunlight

Infants, stealing hearts and consuming them like candy

Behold them all, las gitanitas de Sacromonte.

Sway to the music your grandfathers sang

While rocking their gypsy children.

Crooning in the shadows of their cave homes

Such wild children, las gitanitas de Sacromonte.

Laugh and play for me small roguish ones.

Let me swirl and dance with you.

Take my soul, but keep it safe.

Small laughing girls, las gitanitas de Sacromonte.

Butterfly Dreams

                “Audition today!”  She set the book on the coffee table and mocked up the will to enter the real world of noise and motion.  One step, two; she turned her head for a last glance at the cozy living room.  The blanket on the couch retained the impression of her body.  She felt its call.  “Come back to me.” “Let me caress you once again.”           

                “No,” she bellowed and then looked around to see if anyone had heard the outburst.  The siren call tempted her, but resolve pushed her on.  One two; move the shoe.  Three four; shut the door.  Free!  Well, maybe.                 

                Once inside the elevator she sighed both in relief and panic.  For a week, she had only vacated the sofa to collect food and use the toilet.  Even when she forced herself to shower and dress this morning, she didn’t know if she would actually go.  Ever since he left that pathetic farewell text message; “Need space-moving on”, she had burrowed into the cocoon.    He didn’t even care enough to use proper punctuation.  “I deserve good grammar and punctuation!”                                                               

                The elevator door groaned as if reluctant to release its passenger to the streets of Manhattan.   She stepped into the lobby and nearly walked into the remnants of someone’s upset stomach.  She held her breath to avoid taking in the lingering stench.  “Ah yes, the real world!  Now why is this preferable to my cocoon?”

                Even before she reached the lobby door, city sounds assaulted her; a cacophony of horns, sirens and shouts.   Still, she moved on reaching for the door.  She opened it while a sense of triumph over apathy energized her cells.  Then, she merged into the aggressive world of New York streets. 

                Every New Yorker knows how to push through crowds instinctively maneuvering through the spaces at near marathon pace.  One could spot the tourists and new comers.  They identified themselves by their slow lumbering steps and soft expressions.  Residents acquired hardened ruthless “get out of my way” faces or returned to their safe little homes elsewhere.  Our heroine gave an obscene gesture to a taxi driver who nearly ran her down; never mind that he had the right-of-way; this was New York.  The right-of-way belonged to the daring.  He gestured back and screamed something she didn’t hear as she descended into the street cave that housed a metro station.

                She thought about the audition.  A jilted angry young woman; perfect.  She could nail this one.  She lived the part.  She would play it subtly feeling the anger but only letting it reflect in her eyes while she calmly voiced the words.  She cloaked herself in anticipated victory as she approached the casting agency.  This part belonged to her.  The universe owed it to her.  It would serve as the catharsis she needed to move on.  She approached the door and unconsciously arranged her hair with one hand as the other reached out for the doorknob.  The door opened with a squeak.  “Don’t any doors in this city open quietly?  But then, New York isn’t about quiet after all.  Is it?”

                Other young women with similar features and coloring looked up at her before reburying their faces into the scripts that each clutched with clenched fingers.  Some murmured their lines while others merely looked downward lost in their private thoughts.  The young woman announced herself to the receptionist.  Then she took a seat with the others.  She didn’t glance at the script that lay inside her handbag; no need to.  It was her life printed on the pages; her tragedy.  She looked around and smiled at the pinched worried faces that surrounded her.  Finally she heard her name.

                She stood confidently before the directors and entered into the anger she felt after her own rejection.  She breathed fury into her character.  Then she executed the lines with understated passion.

                “Thank you; next!”

                “What?  Just thank you, next?”

                “Yes.  Please leave.  Next!”

                She walked into a bakery.  Sweet seduction filled her nostrils and activated a flow of saliva.  She chose an array of gooey chocolate confections.  The expressionless sales girl filled a pink bakery box with the baked goods which she traded for cash.  Perhaps she dreamt of flying out of her own cocoon.  “Don’t do it!” the twice rejected woman wanted to tell her, but of course, didn’t.  She carried the box into the subway, up her street, into her lobby, sidestepped the vomit, and finally, collapsed back onto her sofa.  After she opened the box of cakes, she reached for her book on the coffee table.  She wrapped the blanket about her body while burrowing into the overstuffed sofa cushions.  Outside, the city shouted, pushed and cursed; a world now far beyond her sensibilities.

               

We say "Pan". What do you Say?

            “Now that you’re half way through third grade, there’s no more ‘catchies’ in handball.”  The class groaned.  Jorge Molina raised his hand and complained that then they’d always get out.  Mrs. Jimenez smiled.  “That’s the idea, Jorge.  You hit the ball so the others will miss and get out.  You all need to learn strategies for hitting whatever comes.  We’ll practice during PE”.  The boys and girls looked at each other and groaned again.

            Pratima Patell raised her hand.  “But not Hana right?  She can still catch the ball first, can’t she?”  The teacher nodded.  She saw a shy smile spread on Hana’s face.  Of course she would allow Hana to catch the ball first.  Cecilia Perez patted her friend’s back softly.

            Late October Hana Park walked into Mrs. Jimenez’s classroom third grade ESL class clutching a Korean/English Dictionary in her left hand.  She held her right hand behind her back.  “Class, please welcome Hana Park.  “The children all said, “Hello, Hana.”  The small girl held her head down, and her cheeks turned bright red.  Mrs. Jimenez found an empty seat for Hana, and gave the girl a collection of books and supplies.  When she looked about her new classroom, Hanna found the Korean word for welcome, 환영, among many other words under a photo of multi-ethnic children holding hands. On the colorful walls the she saw international flags and other artifacts filled all spaces not covered with children’s work.   The environment felt welcoming, yet at first, Hana kept to herself on the playground and ate alone always hiding her deformed hand which resembled a claw.  The other children tried to encourage her to play, but Hanna politely declined.

            A few weeks later, Cecelia entered the class and sat in the empty seat next to Hanna.  That first day, Cecelia put her head on the desk and cried.  Hana looked at her desk mate.  She drew something on paper and handed it to Cecilia.  It was a drawing of a blue flower and a red heart.  Cecilia took the drawing and smiled.   She looked up a word in her Spanish/English dictionary.  Then she pointed to Hana’s hand.  “What?” she wrote on the same paper.

            Hana covered her hand, lowered her eyes, cleared her throat, and said in a hoarse voice, “Born”.  When Cecilia saw the tears roll down Hana’s face, she looked for another word in her dictionary.  Cecilia wrote “friends” on the paper and pointed to herself and Hana.  After that, she hugged Hanna. 

            The girls became inseparable.  They used their dictionaries to help each other with English and soon began giggling together over shared jokes.  Mrs. Jimenez sometimes had to remind them to work quietly.

            At first, Cecilia offered to help Hana with difficult tasks, but Hana actually demonstrated a great deal of proficiency in using her afflicted appendage once she felt more comfortable exposing her hand to others.  She could do almost anything that the other children did.  She could pass papers, hold a pencil and even play handball if allowed to catch the ball first.  Before long Hana and Cecilia joined their classmates at play but always remained special friends.  No one ever mentioned Hana’s hand, but when some playground bully made fun of her, Hana’s classmates screamed, “Get out of here!”

            Sometimes the two friends stayed in at recess always whispering and writing in notebooks.  They seemed to be engaged in a secret project.  Overcome with curiosity, Mrs.  Jimenez asked what the girls spent so much time doing.  “You will see,” smiled Cecelia.

            Finally, after several weeks, Hana shyly handed some stapled pieces of paper to the teacher saying only, “You read?”  On the pages in carefully crafted English, the girls had written story of their growing friendship called, “We Say Pan.  What do You Say?  It began, “My friend and I come from different places in the world.  In America, We learn English, but we also speak our mother languages.  We teach each other our languages while we help ourselves learn English….”  The story went on to speak about how sharing their home cultures with each other made them feel less sad about having left family and friends behind. 

            Mrs.  Jimenez read the story.  She smiled at the two friends.   “In a few weeks, our school will celebrate “International Day.”  Would you girls like to read your story at the assembly?” 

            Three weeks later, Hana and Cecilia walked up to the stage of the school auditorium holding hands.  They alternated reading from the paper they held together.  Hana didn’t hide her hand.  They finished reading their story to thunderous applause.  In the audience, one beaming teacher whispered, “Welcome to America.”