Cosette Garcia’s Universe

“What does it mean to be African American?”

“Why do you ask that question?”

“At school, Sister Gracilda had me fill out a form and she told me to put a check mark next to the word ‘African American.’ Am I African American? What is an African American?”

“It means persons with African blood. Or better put, someone with African genes. Sometimes they’re also called Black.”

“Am I Black?” .

”Well, I suppose you and I are both part Black. Mami Mercedes’ mother Mai was what you could call Black, except that in Puerto Rico the races are so mixed up that sometimes it’s hard to tell what race anybody belongs to. There is an old Puerto Rican saying: ‘And where is your grandmother?’ Which suggests that most Puerto Ricans have some Black blood, even those who are fair skinned like Mami Mercedes. But I wouldn’t think too much about it. God loves you the same whether you’re Black, white, yellow or polka dot.”

“Is Saint Martin de Porres also an African American? He sure looks Black.”

“Not exactly,” Carolina responds. “He was Black but he wasn’t born in the United States. He was born in Peru like Papi Francisco. So I suppose you could say Saint Martin de Porres was Afro-Peruvian.”

“Is Papi Francisco African Peruvian too?”

“No,” Carolina answers. “He’s just Peruvian, and he would certainly be considered white in Peru. And Saint Martin de Porres himself was a mixture of two different races. His mother was a freed ex-slave from Panama, but his father was a Spanish nobleman.”

“Why is Saint Martin de Porres so special? Why does Papi Francisco always make me pray to him?”

“Because he’s a saint. That means he’s especially close to God. So you can pray to him for something you want and he can get it for you through his intercession.”

“What is intercession?” I ask Carolina. I had never heard that word before.

“That means he can ask God directly for whatever you need. He’s sort of like a messenger who can take your messages to God.”

Carolina is the best sister! Whenever I have a question, she always has just the right answer. And she’s so smart too! She always helps me with my homework, especially math, which is so hard, even though she is very busy. She’s already a senior in high school and Papi Francisco says he’s so proud of her because she’s going to a really good college, in a place called New York City. Papi Francisco has told me New York City is the biggest city in the world, with so many tall buildings. I hope Carolina doesn’t get lost in that big city! When I pray to Saint Martin de Porres with my Papi Francisco, I always ask that Carolina not get lost in that big city. It is funny because at first my father did not want Carolina to study so far from California, especially since she would not be going to a Catholic college. But Carolina would not budge. She told my father she was almost an adult and had made her own decision.

My Papi Francisco always prays with me at night. We pray to Jesus, to the Virgin of Guadalupe, to Saint Martin de Porres and to Saint Rose of Lima. My father has told me that when Saint Rose of Lima was born, a servant saw her face transformed into a rose, and when she died, the whole city smelled like roses and roses kept falling from the sky. I wish that I could see a miracle myself! Even just a little one. But my Papi Francisco tells me life is full of small miracles. Things that are quite simple, but they are the will of God. Our family is together, Mami Mercedes and Papi Francisco love each other so much, and there is always food on the table and a roof over our heads. Papi Francisco says everything is a miracle because everything comes from God.

At school this morning, before classes start, we get in line to say the Pledge of Allegiance, as we always do. As usual, when Sandy Rockford gets into the line, the other students run from him, not wanting to stand next to him because they say he has the “cooties.” Sandy is a little older than the rest of us and my Papi Francisco has told me he suffers from a sickness called down disease. According to my father, Sandy is a special kind of boy. When he dies, he will go straight to heaven because he cannot do anything wrong on earth. But still I think he suffers a lot. As soon as he joins the line, the boy or girl next to him runs away and says “not next to the retard! not next to the retard!” And I think Sandy doesn’t really understand what is going on, though I think sometimes he realizes it because he starts to cry.

I used to join in the game, but then I thought it was being mean. It must be terrible to have down disease and to have everyone make fun of you because of it. So now whenever we say the Pledge of Allegiance, I stand right next to Sandy to make the insults stop. I don’t care if some of the other kids say I have the “cooties” because I stand next to him. All I know is that it makes him feel a little bit better, and that is enough for me. It takes so little to make Sandy happy, just a smile or a pat on the back, even a friendly word.

I also sometimes sit with him at the cafeteria during lunch. Jennifer and Paula, my best friends, have asked me why I sit with him since he is so gross. But I don’t think he is gross. Sure, he looks a little different, his face is large and round and his eyes are a little slanted, his body is squat like a box, his arms are thick and chubby. And Sandy tends to repeat himself and say weird things out of the blue. But my Papi Francisco tells me it is all because of his down disease, that I should be kind to him and treat him as a friend. So, every so often when he is sitting alone at a corner, I ask him if I can sit with him. And he always says the same thing, “Yes, Cosette, yes, you have such a beautiful name! The name of a princess or a fairy…” I tell him it is a French name, but that I am not French. I am Peruvian and Puerto Rican. And perhaps also African American.  I had never realized I was the only Black girl in a class full of white students until Sister Gracilda pointed it out to me.

Sandy is always delighted when I sit with him. His eyes just light up and he always offers to share his lunch with me. His mother always fills his lunch pail with sandwiches – ham and cheese or sometimes roast beef – as well as some fruit and a little apple juice. Sandy has told me that his father is a carpenter and that his mother is a “banker,” but Papi Francisco has explained to me that she works as a teller at a Bank of America. Somehow Sandy thinks his mother owns the bank.

As I approach him, Sandy pulls the chair next to him so that I can sit and then pushes it forward to help me sit. He is what Mami Mercedes calls a perfect gentleman despite his down disease.

“Are you going to Mass after school?” he asks me, as I begin to eat. My mother has prepared a pastel, a food from where she was born, a beautiful island she calls Borinken.

“Yes,” I tell Sandy.

Father Ricci says Mass for the students every Thursday and I never miss it.

“I love God!” Sandy tells me, as he beams.

“I do too,” I say to him. “My whole family goes to Mass every Sunday. We are especially devoted to the Virgin of Guadalupe and Saint Martin de Porres.”

“Devoted?” he repeats, with a quizzical expression on his face. “I’ve never heard that word. You use such very big words.”

“Oh, it’s a word my Papi Francisco uses. It means that you believe really strongly in a saint or in God.”

Then Sandy answers with a big smile on his face, now that he’s understood. “Well, then, I am devoted to Jesus.”

On Saturday I wake up early, eager to go to the park. We are going to play soccer against the girls from Holy Trinity, and they are quite a team. Usually my sister Carolina takes me, but this morning it’s already eleven and she’s still in bed. So I knock on the door to her bedroom, and since she doesn’t answer, I gently push it open to go inside. I tap her on the shoulder to wake her but find she is already wide awake. And she is sobbing. Crying hard. As if something terrible had happened. As if someone had died.

“O Cosette, my Cosette!” she exclaims as she turns to hug me. “How I wish I could talk to you! How I wish there was someone I could talk to!”

“What is wrong, my Carolina? Did something happen at school? Did you get a bad mark?”

“I wish,” she says, pulling me closer to her. “I have to make a great decision, and I don’t know what to do.” She rubs her hands across her face to wipe off the tears.

“What decision do you have to make?” I ask. “Why does it make you cry?”

“You would never understand. Will you do me a favor?”

“Maybe if you tell me what’s wrong I will understand. I am not a baby. And I love you so much, Carolina. I hate to see you so sad.”

“Then pray like you always do to your little Black saint. Ask Saint Martin de Porres to help me, to guide me, to tell me what I must do.”

“I will, I promise, but if you tell me what’s wrong I will know what to ask for.”

“Just pray for me in this difficult time, this time of great tribulation.”

I do not understand the word, but I get the sense that she means great suffering. So even before I leave her room, I say a small prayer to Saint Martin de Porres. I remember that one time when my Mami Mercedes was at the hospital, my Papi Francisco promised to give up cigarettes if she got well. And so I tell Saint Martin de Porres if you help Carolina in this terrible moment, I shall give up soda pop forever. Just help her, I pray to you, with whatever is wrong with her. Then I make the sign of the cross and leave my sister’s room, since I have the sense she wants to be alone.

In any case, my sister Carolina gets out of bed and drives me to the park in my father’s SUV. I remember how happy she was when she first got her driver’s license. So different from today. Now as she drives I can tell she is worried, she barely responds to me when I talk to her. I know it is because of the great decision she has to make, but I have no idea what it is. When we arrive at the park, the first person we see, sitting on the bleachers with his mother, is Sandy Rockford. As soon as he notices me, he starts waving his right arm in the air excitedly, crying out my name with great joy.

“Hi Sandy,” I say to him when I approach. “You know my sister Carolina.”

“Yes,” he says. “And this is my mom.”

“Hello,” I say.

“This is Cosette,” he says to his mother. “She is my girlfriend.”

“I am his friend,” I say to correct him. “And I’ve met your mother before.”

“When we are grownups, we are going to get married,” he says with a smile to his mother. He looks like a cat who has just swallowed a mouse.

“No, we’re not,” I say. “That is creepy, Sandy.”

“Don’t mind him,” his mother pleads. “He’s just so fond of you, Cosette. God knows he has so very few friends at school.”

“Well, all right, so long as it’s clear we are not going to get married. And I am not his girlfriend.”

“But we are best friends anyway, right, Cosette?”

“Yes, we are good friends,” I tell him.

“Cosette is a very good soccer player,” Sandy says to his mother. “When I grow up, I am going to play baseball. Or maybe be a teacher or a writer.”

“Yes,” his mother says. “That is great, my son.” Sandy’s mother is a lot older than Mami Mercedes. My father told me that is why Sandy was born with the down disease, because she was so old when he was born. But I do not really understand what one thing has to do with the other. My father told me that despite his down disease, Sandy was a blessing to his parents.

Carolina is standing next to me, but it is clear she hasn’t really listened to anything that we’ve been saying. Her mind is elsewhere. During the match, I look at her from time to time, but she is obviously not interested in soccer at the moment. She doesn’t even clap when I score two goals after Cassandra makes two brilliant passes of the ball to me. In the end, the game is a bust, we lose six to two, but I really don’t care. I am worried about Carolina.

As we drive home, she says nothing, only sighs in silence from time to time. When we approach the house, she clutches my hand and says to me, “I don’t want to tell Mami Mercedes or Papi Francisco, but at some point I’m going to have to.”

“Tell them what?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she answers as she steers the SUV into the driveway.

We sit for dinner at six, as we do every day, and as usual, my Papi Francisco begins everything by saying grace. And then, all of a sudden, Carolina starts to bawl. Both my parents ask the question at the same time: “What is wrong, Carolina?” But my sister does not stop crying and does not tell them what’s wrong. She looks at her dish of asopao¹ as if it could give her the answer. Finally, she glances towards them and cries out, as if she were angry, “I am crying because I am pregnant! If you want to know, I am expecting a baby.”

My father begins to speak in Spanish, which he always does when he is angry or excited. “How can that be?” he asks. “Haven’t you learned anything your mother and I have taught you?”

Carolina does not answer. She just continues to sob.

My father hurls out his words like a knife. “Do you at least know who the father is? I hope at least you know that.”

My Mami Mercedes speaks to my father in a soft voice. “Please, Francisco, take that back. You know it is Richard. Don’t insult your daughter.”

Then my sister stops crying and looks at my father straight into the eyes. “I am thinking perhaps, I don’t know, perhaps I should terminate it.” She turns to my mother, as if she were seeking reassurance, and I cannot understand anything. I know what the word pregnant means and know what it means to terminate. It means to finish. But I have no idea what it means to finish a child.

“It!” my father exclaims. “You will not be terminating ‘it.’ You will be terminating a he or a she. You will be killing a child.”

Now I am really confused. Who has said anything about killing? Is that what it means to finish a baby?

“Please, Francisco,” my mother says. “This is a decision Carolina has to make for herself. You have to give her time to process the enormity of her choice. And if she’s recently pregnant, we’re not really talking about a baby any way, just a few developing cells.”

“Life begins at conception,” my Papi Francisco states. I have no idea what he means.

“I know that!” Carolina yells. “Don’t you think I know that?” And she starts crying once again.

During the following week, we continue to eat dinner at six, but nobody mentions anything about Carolina’s pregnancy. I know at night they talk about it, but my father makes sure the door to my bedroom is shut and I can hear nothing. At some point, however, my Mami Mercedes comes to my room at night and we have a little talk. She explains to me how babies are formed in their mother’s stomach after the father impregnates the mother. Then she tells me about abortion.

“In some cases, the woman is not ready to have a child. So the woman goes to a doctor and he uses his special medical equipment to extract the fetus from the womb. And then the woman is no longer pregnant.”

“Is that what it means to finish a child?” I ask her.

“You are not finishing a child. You are terminating a pregnancy.”

“But my Papi Francisco says that it is a killing. A killing of the child.”

“Your father is a staunch Catholic, and the Catholic faith does prohibit abortions. Catholics believe that as soon as the sperm cell joins the ovary, that is a human life.”

“Isn’t Carolina a Catholic? I thought we were all Catholics.”

“Yes, she is, Cosette. And that is what makes her decision so difficult. That is why she cries at night. Because she thinks she cannot raise a baby alone at this time in her life and yet believes that terminating her pregnancy would be a great sin. She believes that it would be, as your father puts it, the killing of a child.”

“What do you think, Mami Mercedes?”

“I do not think God would punish a child for not wanting to bear a child.”

“And how would my father react if she – if she – does decide to get – what is the word? – if she decides to get an abortion?”

“He would be very unhappy. But he has already said that no matter what she does he will not throw her out of the house.”

“Throw her out of the house?”

“Carolina was afraid of that, since it happened to one of her friends. But your Papi Francisco loves her so much he would never do it. Still, it would pain him enormously if she terminates the pregnancy.”

“I see,” I say. But I do not understand everything my mother is telling me. If babies are sent by God, as Papi Francisco says, why would anyone get an abortion?

The next day I go to Saint Francis School and Sandy Rockford does something gross. As soon as the lunch bell rings, I go to the cafeteria and Sandy is waiting for me. But rather than offering to shake my hand, as he usually does, this time he hugs me so tight that I cannot escape him. “Let me go!” I cry out to him, but he just holds me more tightly. And then he starts to kiss me, trying to get his tongue into my mouth. I do not understand what is going on. Has Sandy Rockford gone crazy? Then all of a sudden Sister Gracilda is pulling hard at Sandy by his shoulders. “Let her go,” she orders. “You are going to suffocate her!” And then Sandy lets me go and says he meant no harm.

“Cosette is my girlfriend. I just wanted to kiss her because I love her so much!”

But the next day, Sister Gracilda announces that Sandy has left the school. And he will never return. When I ask Sister Gracilda why he is gone, she tells me it is because he was too “affectionate.” I feel so bad because I feel it is somehow my fault. After all, he meant no harm when he hugged me and tried to kiss me. I’m sure it was because of his down disease, and I tell Sister Gracilda that he should be allowed back to the school, that it wasn’t a big deal. But she snaps back almost angrily, “No, Cosette, he had to go. He was just too affectionate. He will be put in a special school, with other kids just like him.”

After a week passes, I am very curious to know what my sister’s decision will be. While she is studying at her desk in her bedroom one afternoon, beneath a poster of the U.S. Women’s Soccer Team, I approach her and ask her point blank, “What do you plan to do, Carolina?”

“I still don’t know, Cosette. I don’t know how I can raise a child. I am thinking perhaps the best thing to do is to procure an abortion. You already know what that means. And then again maybe not. Maybe I will keep the baby. I still have a lot of thinking to do. Our parents have such different views. But both seem somehow to overthink it. I think maybe it’s a gut thing. You just have to trust your gut.”

“I was speaking to my best friend Jennifer. She is very advanced about these things and her parents talk to her about everything. She explained to me that her parents have her older sister on birth control.”

“That would have been a good idea,” Carolina responds. “A very good idea. But Papi Francisco would never have consented.”

“Anyway Jennifer’s parents explained everything to her about this stuff in a very cool way. Jennifer told me that when Richard injected his semen into you, it was like a seed, and your uterus – I don’t know — is that the right word?”

“Yes, go on, Cosette.”

“Your uterus is like the soil where the seed got planted. And over time that seed will grow into a beautiful flower, a brand new baby more beautiful than a rose.”

“That is a lovely thought, Cosette.”

“So, I was thinking why finish the baby? Why clip the rose before it blooms?”

“I wish it were so easy.”

“It is easy. You just have to make the decision. I remember our grandmother Mai used to say in Spanish every child is born with a loaf of bread under his arm. And I can help you take care of the baby. And I’m sure Papi Francisco and Mami Mercedes would too. Maybe you won’t be able to go to Barnard College, but you could study in L.A. I’m even thinking of names, Joaquin if it is a boy and Odette for a girl. What do you think?”

My sister says nothing and returns to her homework. In my mind I am thinking of Saint Rose of Lima, how as a newborn her face looked like a rose.

On Saturday, Carolina and I visit the house of Sandy Rockford. I bear no ill feelings toward him. My best friend Jennifer told me that his parents could have aborted him, that most babies with down disease are aborted. But I am glad they didn’t do so. He is so sweet and loving, even though sometimes he can be a little gross.  I just wanted to tell him that I am still his friend even though he is now going to a special school and that he can call me on the phone whenever he wants. When he saw me at the door, he was overjoyed. “Don’t worry, Cosette,” he blurted. “I will never try to kiss you again. It’s just that I love you so much!”

“How are you liking your new school?” I ask him.

“Oh, it is a very good school. It’s in a very big building. It even has an elevator. And all the kids are special. I’m probably one of the smartest.”

“That’s good, Sandy. Your mother is probably proud of you.”

“And I even met a girl named Marianne. I’m going to ask her if I could be her boyfriend. She’s special too and she is very pretty, her skin looks dark like chocolate. My mother says it is funny because she is Black like you. She says for some reason I always fall in love with girls that are Black.”

His mother stops looking at me and Carolina and starts looking at the floor. I think she is somehow embarrassed, since I know Sandy would never have realized I am Black on his own. All this stuff about race is hard for me to understand. Everyone thinks my father and mother are white, that Carolina is white, and yet they say I am Black, Black like Saint Martin de Porres. But if you look at my skin, it is not really Black, like that of the saint. It is just a little bit brown, the same color as the outside of a coconut. And my hair is only a little more curly than that of Carolina, which she always holds in a barrette. But my best friend Jennifer told me that is a dead giveaway, that my kinky hair which is like wool but dark-colored proves that I am not white. It is something my parents have never discussed with me. Race has never been an issue in my family. But I am slowly beginning to figure out that it matters to other people. And that somehow some of them think being white is better than being Black. My friend Jennifer pointed it out to me recently, how many innocent Black men and women are beaten and killed like animals by white policemen.  Jennifer told me that never happens to white men. Sister Leonarda, teaching us about slavery and Jim Crow, told us the history of the Black man was one of “relentless oppression.” Please, Saint Martin de Porres, let that no longer be true, for my sake and that of all your people!

In the afternoon, after leaving Sandy, we sit for dinner at our home. Carolina announces that she has made a decision. My father says, “Cosette, please go to your room.” But my sister says, “No, Cosette is part of the family. I want her to hear this too.”

“All right,” says Papi Francisco. “What do you have to say, Carolina?”

“This is not an easy decision. But I want you to know it is my decision and not anybody else’s. That it is my body we’re talking about, not yours or that of Mami Mercedes. Were I to have the child, it would turn my universe upside down. I would have to give up my college plans and find a job to support a child. I would not be able to go out with my friends on weekends, since I would be breastfeeding a baby. And Richard has made it pretty clear that if I give birth, he will not be a father to my child. I loved him so much that I made love with him and now all he thinks about is himself. Were I to give birth, I would be all alone. It would be extremely difficult.”

Carolina pauses to drink some water.

“So you have decided to abort the baby?” my father asks looking at her directly with his steel blue eyes. He looks as if he had just swallowed something bitter, like a lemon. “Is that what you’re telling us?”

“Let me say my peace,” my sister flashes back. “I did it because I love him, and that justifies the act. Although I should have been on birth control a long time ago, to avoid this situation. And that is a lesson I want Cosette to learn.”

“So what is your decision?” my Papi Francisco interrupts her. “Never mind Cosette.”

“Cosette was talking to me and told me a child is like a rose. And that is what I think. A special rose that I am to take care of. A rose sent to me by God. I firmly believe that children are sent with a special mission for their parents. A mission to nurture the child, to help her grow, to educate her and show her how to live the best life possible. So I have decided to dar a luz, to give the light of birth to my child. That is the decision I wanted to share with you.”

My father weeps, my mother smiles, and I take my sister by the hand and say out loud that I will be the Godmother. Saint Martin de Porres, my little Black saint, has just obtained for me the small miracle I had asked for, through his intercession.