First Lesson

My grandma raised me when my mom decided to immigrate to the United States and couldn’t get my sister and me papers. It sounds more horrible than what it really was. To be honest, I didn’t know any of this until I became older. When I was little, all I knew was Mamá, and she was my world.

She was more than my world. She was a living goddess with swollen feet, liver spots, hair that bobby pins couldn’t hold, and a wealth of wisdom. She would divulge that wisdom at opportune times. It was as if she knew the perfect time to grab a seven-year-old’s attention.

It would happen during our walks to a from school or el colmado (the Dominican version of a grocery store). It would happen when she would rock me in our old creaky metal rocking chair on our front porch, as we would watch the sun drop. The sun will splash all its colors onto my tiny island. Pink, yellows, blues would collide over the metal roofs and houses in my street. As if by magic, the cars’ headlights would turn on. The honks of the motorists would become more impatient, but in my ear would be Mama’s voice. I forget about most things, but I still remember her words.

…She sent me to my room to give the devil time to come out of me.

Mamá was my first venting partner. She was the first person I trusted with my thoughts, and the thing about Mamá was that she wouldn’t judge me for what I said; instead, she would listen and then dish out some advice. The most judgment I’ve ever received was when I was so mad I said I hated my sister that she told me she would pray for me while I stayed in the room to cool off. Even that was not much judgment at all. She deflected that to Jesus, the chubby white cherub with pink cheeks that looked nothing like us, yet we worshipped. He judged me, not her. She was better than that.

Mamá would wait me out. She knew my anger would boil over, and she knew just how long to wait for whatever reason. In this instance, after I had said I hated my sister, she sent me to my room to give the devil time to come out of me. A while passed before she returned and sat on my bed. I remember I was hot, so angry, and I was shaky.

Another thing about Mamá was that she didn’t raise her voice, and it was rare she ever did, and she didn’t need it. Her words will always find their destination and puncture people in the ear. Mamá had no problem being heard. While I was lying on my bed, shaking with anger and eyes closed, it was no different.

“You only have one sister,” she said.

Mamá was great at creating suspense with these short one-sentence zingers.

“She only has one sister,” she said.

Dominican moms love to remind their children of their untimely demise.

I remember my lips beginning to tremble and my sharp tiny nails digging into my palm. I was always so wound up as a kid. For whatever reason, I always felt like anger was about to boil out of my skin any time someone would push just the right button. I was always so angry.

But my lips trembled because I knew she was right. While I could burn many bridges, I shouldn’t burn this one. You see, my sister was a sneaky one, and I dare say, still is. Laura would throw the rock and hide her hand and let me take the fall for it. That happened a few times.

While I don’t remember exactly what made me hate her that day. I have an inkling it had to do with her tricking me into taking the used toy instead of the new one. I knew that I was required to forgive in that instance. But, that was such an insurmountable mountain for me to climb.

Forgiveness? What was that? I wanted to be petty, pay her back. You see, I knew Laura was tricking me when she was doing it but didn’t say anything. Then when everything was done, and I got stuck with the old toy, that seething anger that was always boiling inside me tipped over. I was angrier at myself than I was at her. But at the age of seven, that’s a hard lesson to learn, and Mamá knew it when she talked to me. Still, she didn’t judge me. She did, guilt-tripped me.

Dominican moms love to remind their children of their untimely demise. When all else fails, they pull this card out of their pocket. Mamá was a typical Dominican mom.

“When I’m gone, all you will have is one another, and you have no one else.”
To me, she was a superwoman. At seven, I could never fathom my grandma dying and leaving me. She was such a rock, such an undying star.

Nevertheless, when she said this, I felt it in my gut. It was like digesting tostones fried in old oil. That’s how my guilt felt.

I forgave my sister then, and we played as if I was not mad I had the old toy. Life went on. But I didn’t get it then.

I didn’t understand that my grandma was older than most parents and therefore had a shorter lifespan to be with me. I didn’t realize that when our parents left, it deteriorated the bond children have with their parents. I didn’t understand that I would have to remember these lessons and action them after she’s gone. In my mind, I had Mamá, she would live forever, and everything will be alright.

Nevertheless, whether I believed Mamá or not, she was right. As always, she was right. Laura and I would only have each other, and that bit of wisdom came to the forefront right after we became adults.

“¿Con que cara?”

My sister and I stopped talking to one another over a financial situation. I felt betrayed by her actions, and betrayal is an unforgivable sin for me. This was much like the toy fiasco where I was not upfront and direct and let my anger simmer inside me so long that it turned into resentment. I let years pass with that grudge. After five years, we started to talk again, but it was superficial. How’s my nephew and such conversations was all we had. I kept her at arm’s length so I wouldn’t be hurt again and so I wouldn’t have to face my part in the situation. Then I met my husband, and we decided to get married.

At that moment, I realized I had no one to call, ask for advice, or sit on my side except for work friends. Yet this was something special — my wedding — and it felt hollowed sharing that with others I don’t have a close bond with. So I called Laura.

I was nervous. Of course, I was nervous. I felt like a fraud. ¿Con que cara? Is phrase often used which means with what face? With what face do I ask my sister to do something for me when I have stopped talking to her and kept her at arm’s length.

As it happened, the answer to that question was, with the same face I have on.

Laura dropped everything to come to my wedding. She did my hair, cooked for me, and made sure that day was the most special day for me. I told her I loved her, talked, and was more honest with one another than we had been. As it turns out, I betrayed her too and said some things that I shouldn’t have, and I needed to be forgiven too. Afterward, it was as if we never stopped talking to one another. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her until she was right in front of me.

She was my sister again, my protector, my trickster, the one who knows me so well and still loves me. That’s what Mamá was trying to tell me that one day in San Isidro. I am here for my sister, and my sister is here for me. We have each other’s backs.

About Johanny ‘Joa’ Ortega

Johanny is an ESL short story author, podcaster and sometimes sensitivity/authenticity reader. She’s currently on the final editing stages for her upcoming middle-grade novel, Mrs. Franchy’s Evil Ring and the Six Months that Changed Everything.