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↓ Zero dollar ⇱ A Cup of Water Under My Bed: A Memoir ← ePUB By Daisy Hernandez ✰

↓ Zero dollar ⇱ A Cup of Water Under My Bed: A Memoir  ← ePUB By Daisy Hernandez ✰ ↓ Zero dollar ⇱ A Cup of Water Under My Bed: A Memoir ← ePUB By Daisy Hernandez ✰ Before Love, Memory They come for me in a station wagon My mother already has me dressed in a navy blue plaid jumper and a white blouse She has yanked my dark hair into pigtails and now makes the sign of the cross on my forehead before turning me over to a skinny lady, who ushers me into the backseat of the station wagon I join a small group of children, mostly Cuban, all of us dressed alike, our eyes bright and nervous The station wagon lady drops us off at the steps of a gloomy castle in Union City, New Jersey Holy Family Catholic School The yard is hemmed in with black iron bars and the front doors are made of steel Women in dress pants roam the cement grounds like fat hens with their wings clipped, their beaks pointing and gesturing I huddle with the other children in packs of three and five like scared chicks Miss Reynolds is the kindergarten teacher She has glasses that make her eyes look like oversized buttons on her face, and she speaks the funny language that comes out of the television set at home when we are not watching telenovelas or the noticias, which is to say that she talks like the cartoon character Mighty Mouse It is English, a language that sounds like marbles in the mouth It is fun to hear, but mostly because the mouse on the TV screen is flying Sitting in the classroom, I wait for Miss Reynolds to start talking like my mother In Spanish Surely it wont be long now An hour passes Two hours An entire day it feels, and still it is all Mighty Mouse I am familiar with the language I even speak a few words of it But I have never heard so much of it all at once Its like being forced to watch the same cartoon all day long I dont know if this is what actually happened on my first day of kindergarten, but it is what I remember of my first two years in school A few memories can be confirmed by research and on site inspection Mighty Mouse on television, the schools black iron bars My mother verifies the station wagon lady and the ethnicity of the other children, and school photographs offer details of the uniform and my teachers face There are, however, missteps in memory, places where emotion has distorted people, sights, even cuerpos In a school photograph, for example, my teacher is a skinny, androgynous white woman with thick glasses But I remember her as a fat hen, a flying mouse, and kindergarten as the beginning of the end.A teacher comes for us one day Just two of us Me and my friend, a thin, pixie faced girl I dont know why we are being taken from class, but in the darkened hallway as we find ourselves farther from our classroom, my friend starts crying, and hers are not baby tears They are full blast, llorona wails She roots herself to the ground and refuses to take one step The teacher begins dragging her by the arm, but the harder the woman pulls, the my friend yells and twists, and for an instant, it looks as if her left arm is threatening to rip from her body, as if she will choose self mutilation over what is to come at the hands of white women As for myself, I dont fight I follow In an empty classroom, the white woman pulls out a deck of cards with pictures and words She spreads the cards on a broad table, one by one The sun is pouring through the window and coating us in a yellow liquid, but I can decipher the cards Each one holds a picture and a word dog, cat, house I am to repeat each word after the teacher In Spanish, we have cartas Ta Rosas husband uses them to talk with the spirit world The cards tell us about jobs that are about to arrive, ancestors who are unhappy, a case pending with immigration The cards are paper doors only special people can open I look at the white womans cards and listen to her bold English words dog, cat, houseand there is all the evidence of what is to come in my life I am not to go the way of the two people I long for in the thick terror of the night The first man I love and the first woman I adore, my father and my mother with their Spanish words, are not in these cards The road before me is English and the next part too awful to ask aloud or even silently What is so wrong with my parents that I am not to mimic their hands, theirneeds, not even their words Before language, there is love Before love, memory.What I know of the world before kindergarten is the uneven sidewalks of Union City, New Jersey The shop with its fat chickens hollering at us and nipping at the wire cages The sharp smell of chicken blood when the little beasts are killed in back and brought in white plastic bags to my mother The fabric store with its bins carrying spools of thread like a Cubana holding up the ends of her apron The buses that snake up and down Bergenline Avenue The store jammed with cigars and wrinkled men and women folding the ends of the thick brown leaves Our national language is Spanish and there are many kinds Mostly it is the firecracker Spanish of my Cuban father and his friends It smacks the air and the back of my head and the inside of my ears There is also the Spanish of the Puertorriqueo Ta Rosa has married His words mimic popcorn when it first begins popping Finally, there is Colombian Spanish My mothers language does not crack or bounce It stays close to the earth, to thick hands and the smooth sides of stones English has a place here It is the language of minorities, and you hear it every now and then, mostly from Mighty Mouse on television or the older kids on the block English is a game of marbles The words shoot after each other They bump and plod and leave tracks on the ground, and it is a decent game, English that is, but everything real happens in Spanish the way women complain about the fbricas where they work, how they yell at you to not play in the street, how they drag you into the house when the sky turns a velvet black, lying to you Ahorita sales otra vez Terrible things happen in Spanish My father and his friend get drunk, slur their words, and turn into screeching birds Rage is an awful habit in any language, I suppose, but on our street, in our home, in Spanish, it takes on awful proportions, and the mothers complain to each other in shorthand Qu se va cer The reply is always the same As son los hombres Women are different Union City is filled with virgins La Caridad, La Altagracia, La Virgen de Chiquinquir They come from Cuba, the Dominican Republic, and Colombia Like us, they are a matter of multiplicity There is never one of anything in this world There are many virgins, many women, many sounds in Spanish Dollars, though, are a constant In the kitchen, my mother folds aluminum foil over dollar bills and packs them into envelopes The dollars are to be mailed with letters to her mother in Colombia We send dollars because of the wars It is the eighties and there are two wars The one in Colombia is about land and poor people The other one, the Cold War, means my mother and I cannot travel to Cuba It isnt safe, my father says in between puffs of his thick cigar We travel instead to Hialeah, Florida, and Mami and I go together by plane to Bogot and Boyac, and by train to Queens and Manhattan By the time I start kindergarten, I feel these places and New Jersey are part of the same country Everyone lives within its borders, speaks Spanish, and eats a lot of fried pork In the evening, my mother turns on the television for the noticias The stories arrive from Latin America Women with missing teeth cry into microphones Men with brown faces scream Los nios carry younger children Sometimes, it is only the image of mens feet in their shoes and the white sheets covering the rest of their bodies The women wail behind the reporter, who talks about the number of dead and those left behind Ay, los pobres, my mother whispers, before turning her eyes and her pregnant belly away from the television screen But I dont look away I want to see what it is all about, because my mother comes from that place in the television set and so does my father Those places where the floor is a thick brown soil and mens bodies disappear save for their shoes.Warm and thoughtful, Hernndez writes with cleareyed compassion about living, and redefining success, at the intersection of social, ethnic and racial difference Personal storytelling at its most authentic and heartfelt Kirkus ReviewsGorgeously written from start to finish Boston GlobeJournalist, feminist, and first time memoirist Hernndez presents a coming of age story that dives into the complexities of language, sexuality, and class An accessible, honest look at the often heart wrenching effects of intergenerational tension on family ties BooklistThis book is a compelling glimpse into the life of a young Latina struggling to hold onto her background and make her way in a world she often finds difficult to embrace Hernandez s use of language is often poetic, especially when intermingling Spanish and English, with the cultural tones of each Windy City TimesBy the end of this beautiful book, Daisy Hernndez, a queer American Latina, has threaded Spanish and English together to create an inimitable new language in a brave and brilliant negotiation of a multilingual world Los Angeles Review of BooksWith wit and respectful grace, Hernndez shares stories of love for family, of strong despite herself roots, and of assimilation and claiming who you are without losing who you were Dallas VoiceDuring a time in history when so much is said about women of color, working class folks, immigrants, Latinas, poor people, and los depreciados but seldom from them, Hernndez writes with honesty, intelligence, tenderness, and love I bow deeply in admiration and gratitude.Sandra Cisneros, author of The House on Mango Street A striking and illuminating memoir of stark beauty that challenges our notions of identity and feminine power absolutely riveting and unforgettable.Patricia Engel, author of Its Not Love, Its Just Paris Hernndez writes with grace and clarity about the singular joys and unique pains of growing up in two worlds A marriage of power and poetry.Laila Lalami, author of Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits Hernndez is a stone cold truth teller, and her talent is eclipsed only by her fearlessness If this debut is a sign of whats to come, plan to have your heart and head broken wide open Again and again.JohnMurillo, author of Up Jump the Boogie Second Cup % Canadian Owned Operated The Second Cup Ltd All rights reserved FIFA Women s World France FIFA Please sign in to your FIFA user account below This will allow you make the most of with personalization, plus get access commenting tools, exclusive games, chance Russia Rugby Rugby Japanese star records anthem Union With less than a year go before kicks off Japan, tournament organisers have announced artist Kiyoe Yoshioka version as official Cupcake Bakeshop by Chockylit These 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    • A Cup of Water Under My Bed: A Memoir
    • 4.2
    • 411
    • Format Kindle
    • 201 pages
    • Daisy Hernandez
    • Anglais
    • 05 February 2016

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