There must be a long, long list of relatives who haven’t gone to church. The awful grandmother knits the names of the dead and t
he living into one long prayer fringed with the grandchildren born in that barbaric country with its barbaric ways.
I put my weight on one knee, then the other, and when they both grow fat as a mattress of pins, I slap them each awake. Micaela, you may wait outside with Alfredito and Enrique. The awful grandmother says it all in Spanish, which I understand when I’m paying attention. “What?” I say, though it’s neither proper nor polite. “What?” which the awful grandmother hears as “¿Güat?” But she only gives me a look and shoves me toward the door.
After all the dust and dark, the light from the plaza makes me squinch my eyes like if I just came out of the movies. My brother Keeks is drawing squiggly lines on the concrete with a wedge of glass and the heel of his shoe. My brother Junior squatting against the entrance, talking to a lady and man.
They’re not from here. Ladies don’t come to church dressed in pants. And everybody knows men aren’t supposed to wear shorts.
“¿Quieres chicle?” the lady asks in a Spanish too big for her mouth.
“Gracias.” The lady gives him a whole handful of gum for free, little cellophane cubes of Chiclets, cinnamon and aqua and the white ones that don’t taste like anything but are good for pretend buck teeth.
“Por favor,” says the lady. “¿Un foto?” pointing to her camera.
“Si.”
She’s so busy taking Junior’s picture, she doesn’t notice me and Keeks.
“Hey, Michele, Keeks. You guys want gum?”
“But you speak English!”
“Yeah,” my bother says, “we’re Mericans.”
We’re Mericans, we’re Mericans, and inside the awful grandmother prays.
As you finish the story, record any details that relate to the topic of American identity.
