the minnesota review n.s. 47 (1997)

Jo Ann Yolanda Hernández

Bleached Wheat

My mom smiles a lot. People are always saying what a happy mom I got. At home, alone, it's different.

She has a wall in her bedroom lined with 60s videos. Beach Party Movies. Gidget movies. Sweet-innocent-girls-always-win movies. Sweet, innocent, blonde girls, that is. I always rooted for dark-haired Annette to win.

Every weekend when I was younger, my mom would make a big bowl of popcorn and buy several liter-bottles of Big Red soda, and we would watch two or three videos. Mom would point out all the different ways good girls acted.

The closet in my bedroom was cut into the wall. Made special for me. So I'd have one just like the girls did in the videos we watched.

Now when she gets on that kick again, wanting me to watch those videos with her, I just sit there, arms folded, a bored look on my face. Or I tell her I have homework. That works better. "Education is the way to success," is my mother's favorite line. Next to "Good Girls keep their knees together at all times."

These videos from the 60s don't have anything in them that's me or about my life, so why waste my time? But then I went and saw Mi Vida Loca—a movie about Chicana homegirls. I knew nothing about their lives, either. So where does that leave me?

Sitting in front of the dresser, with make-up lights surrounding the mirror, I brush my hair back into a ponytail like the girls in the video wear their hair. My mom wants me to wear it that way. If I don't, she'll comb my hair. She yanks and pulls when she does my hair, so I'd rather do it myself. I can't see why she wants me to comb my hair like them. I don't see any resemblance to them.

The phone rings; Sofia sounds breathless on the other end. "My mom's gonna be gone for awhile. What if I come over and we can do our math homework together?"

She's sweet. She knows I can't add two plus two, but she'd never say so. "Sure."

I run into the kitchen. My mom's busy making food for the church bake sale after Mass tomorrow. I take a deep breath, filling my nose with the smells of cupcakes and brownies. My mom has dried cookie dough on the side of her arm. She's not much taller than I am, and she lightens her short brown hair. She says she's not bleaching it. But each time she does it her hair gets lighter and sticks out like a broom.

"Mom, Sofia's coming over." She slaps my hand away as I reach for a cookie.

"Again? Wasn't she just here yesterday?"

"So?"

"So? Is that all you can think of to say?"

"I guess."

"Guess? You have to sound confident. People will never put their trust in you if you don't sound confident."

My mom is always saying stuff like that. I haven't been able to figure why she thinks I want people to put their trust in me. "So?"

"I hope you don't talk to your teachers like that. You have to think about getting into college and they're the ones who are going to write your letters of recommendation. You have to impress them now for what you want later."

This is also something else I heard a lot that I don't understand. Most times my teachers talk to me about secretarial courses or factory work. I believe I am going to college more than they do. "So?"

My mother waves the spatula in the air. I dodge a splatter of cookie dough. "Doesn't Sofia have any place else to go?"

"She wants to help me with...."

"You're so gullible. In time you'll understand that these girls are not your friends. They're jealous of you and like hanging out with you because of all the pretty things you have."

Gripping the door tightly, I open the refrigerator and grab a soda. "Sofia's coming over to help me with my homework because I'm so stupid about math." There, I said it. See if she can make anything about that.

"Sofia's a nice girl, but she's so dark. You have to start thinking about those kind of things. You're going to go far. On to college. Probably get a Ph.D. in something major. Only five percent of people with Ph.D.s are Latinos. And you have to know that most of that five percent are men."

Yes, I knew that. It is burned in my brain along with all the other sayings she repeats to me each day. My mother wants me to do well in this world. It makes me feel good that she believes that I can. But sometimes, I get scared that I'm going to disappoint her. "Sofia's been my friend for a long time."

"For when you were a child, that was nice. Now you have to think of your future. People as dark as Sofia are a hindrance. God made light-skinned people so we could get ahead in the world."

Sometimes I wonder, if I did disappoint my mom, would she still love me? "Sofia is smarter than me in school."

"You don't see the teachers praising her at open house, no? I'm sure she will do very fine for her type of people. I don't hold anything against Sofia. It must be hard with a mother like Manela. You know, she's causing a commotion over this Luz thing."

"Luz won the spelling bee fair and square." I sat up, gripping the soda in my hand. "She didn't steal no words."

"And whose word do we have for that? I have serious doubts."

"But mom...." Sometimes, it was harder when my mother took aim at my friends. "Sofia's mom goes it's just the loser being jealous."

"I went to grade school with Sofia's mother. She was trouble then and now. She is always mouthing off about something at the PTA meetings. Rocking the boat only makes people believe we're all troublemakers. That's why you have to start thinking about who you're seen with and things like that." She turns away to lift another tray of cookies, then continues. "The whites rule this world and to get ahead in it, you have to play by their rules. People like poor Sofia, who are so dark, don't have a chance." My mother is shaking her head in sympathy as she pulls out another tray of cookies from the oven.

I hear a soft cough and turn around. Sofia is standing just outside the screen door. Her outfit is a bright spot of color.

"I like her, but it's just so sad that with a mother like...."

"Mom, look who's here already," I say loudly as I jump up to hold the screen door open for Sofia.

My mother looks up and smiles. I can see her judging the embroidered smock tucked into a gathered multi-colored skirt that Sofia is wearing. "Ah, see how nice you look in that outfit. Just like what the old women wear in Mexico. Very traditional. Is this something your mother thought of?"

Sofia takes the soda I hand her. "No ma'am. My grandmother gave it to me. It was what she wore when she visited the President of Mexico."

We race to my bedroom.

On my canopy bed, the style straight out of a Sandra Dee movie, we lay flat on our backs, our butts against the headboard, our feet on the wall. Ruffled toss pillows share the bed with stuffed teddy bears, pandas and a giraffe. None of them has a name. They're my mother's addition. They're identical to the ones the stars in the videos had on their beds.

I ask, "You want to hear some music?"

"What you got?"

"I got the New Kids on the Block tape yesterday."

"Hijo, they're so pansy. All the white girls think they're so cute." She sticks her finger in her mouth, and pretends to gag. "You got any Dr. Loco's Rockin' JalapeÑo Band tapes?"

I choke on my laughter when she asks, "How come your mother doesn't like me?"

We each grab a stuffed animal and wrap our arms around it. "She likes you. A lot. It's just that she wants me to go far. She's got lots of plans for me."

"My mom makes plans for me, too. Do you ever think...."

"If I can be what she wants?" I look at Sofia, hoping she has an answer. "I think about it all the time."

"Do you want to do your homework?"

"I guess." Neither of us moves. We bat the stuffed toys in the air. "Have you ever thought about what you're going to do after high school?" I hold on to my stuffed critter and wait for a response.

"College, probably. Except we probably won't have the money to send both me and my brother. My mom is really furious that my brother is going and I'm not. She's looking for another job to get the money for me." Sofia sighs. "Nothing comes easy." She turns on her side and rests her head on her hand. "Is being lighter really nicer?"

"Why're you asking me?"

"Because you are the lightest of Justina, Diana, me and you."

"You heard my mom, didn't you?"

Sofia shakes her head. "Nope."

I know she is being nice. Not the kind of nice my mom means, but the kind of nice that makes good girlfriends. "Sometimes, I guess. I get help at department stores without too much hassle."

Both of us remember when Sofia was followed by security the whole time she was in the store.

I say, "The teachers don't raz on me like they do the others."

Sofia nods. She always sits in the back of the room.

"But they expect more. I'm always hearing that I have to live up to my potential. I've got much more to prove."

Sofia lies back down, and tosses the animal she's holding into the air over to me. "Sounds hard in a different way. No one expects anything from me and when I do good, they wonder if I cheated."

I bat the panda over to her, keeping it in the air. "It's so unfair. You're smarter than me most times."

She catches the stuffed panda and hits me on the head, laughing. "We're both smart, just in different ways."

I grab one of the teddy bears and swing back. She hits me back and soon, we are slugging it out. We're standing on the bed, laughing so hard we keep missing each other. When we get tired of swinging, we collapse back on to the bed, sitting cross-legged, facing each other. After we catch our breath, I ask her, "What's it like being so beautiful?"

Sofia blushes, tingeing her dark skin with the kind of red you see in a sunset. "I'm not beautiful."

"Baloney. When we walk down the hallway at school, all the boys do is stare at you. I heard one say that you're so beautiful, he's afraid to talk to you."

Sofia bows her head.

I look at her for a moment.

Sofia looks up.

"Oh. That's the hard part," I say, getting the idea.

Sofia nods. "Most people think I am either stuck up or stupid because of how I look. I don't see how I'm so different from any one of you."

"Cheez, Sofia! Just look in the mirror."

Her long black hair, the color of lava, flows down her back. "But I don't want to be beautiful if it's going to make it hard for other people to talk with me."

"Maybe so. But it seems to me that God saved all the special parts just to make you. Can I touch your face?"

Sofia drew back. "¿Por qué?"

"I don't know. Because your face is like those paintings we see when we go to the museum." I put my thumbs together with my hands spread out like a picture frame and squint through the opening at her face. "Maybe so I can tell myself that you're just like me."

We stare at each other for a moment, then she smiles. "Sure." She leans forward, sticking out her tongue and crossing her eyes.

I giggle and lean forward. With both my hands, I touch her dark skin, stretched across broad cheekbones. She feels like smooth polished mahogany, throbbing with hidden energy. I put one finger on each eyebrow and follow the perfect arch of her thick, dark brows and run the back of my fingers across her fan-like curly eyelashes. Her nose is thin and I trace her full lips with my fingertip, making a full circle around her mouth. Even the groove between her mouth and her chin feels warm and soft. I run a fingertip down one side of her jaw and up the other side. I drop my hands and stare at her eyes, a mix of brown and gold that flickers like a satin dress.

She laughs. "Am I real?"

I can tell she's uncomfortable with my inspection, so I sniff and say, "Except you smell so much like rice and beans."

She jumps on me and we tumble to the floor, wrestling.

"Take it back."

"No I won't." We roll across the floor.

From the end of the hallway, we hear, "Are you girls doing your homework?"

We answer in harmony. "Yes ma'am."

We giggle as we pull our books down onto the floor with us.

A couple of hours later, we are in the kitchen eating the cookies my mom lets us have when the phone rings. I answer it. "Mom, it's Mrs. Thatcher. For you," I yell down the hallway.

My mom jets out of the bathroom and scowls at me. She mouths the words, "Don't yell into the phone." She rushes into her bedroom and picks up the phone. I hear, "Emily, how nice of you to call." I hang up the extension in the kitchen.

Sofia nods at the phone. "Isn't that Tiffany's mother?"

"Yeah." I stuff another cookie into my mouth.

"I didn't know you knew her." Sofia pushes the plate of cookies away.

"I don't. Mom does volunteer work with her mother."

Sofia puts her glass in the sink. "I better get home."

"But didn't you say your mom was going to be gone all afternoon?"

"Yeah, but I don't want to be here if Tiffany's coming over."

I stand up. "Why you acting pendeja? I told you, I don't hang with Tiffany."

Sofia hangs her head, looking at the floor as she swings one foot in a semi-circle in front of her.

"When have you ever seen her talk to me at school?"

Sofia brightens. "We better get to the rest of the homework before everybody finds out how dumb you really are."

"You're saving my butt, amiga."

We slap palms in the air and go down the hallway.

My mom pops out of her bedroom. "Mija, get something nice on. Tiffany and her mother are coming over. We're going to work on letters petitioning the school board to give Luz Ros another chance." She is zipping up a pink knit dress she usually wears to church.

Sofia bobs her head. "Oh yeah, my mom's doing a bunch of stuff, too. Luz never would've cheated. Can I help lick envelopes or something? Justina feels bad enough that her sister is being accused of stealing the words from the spelling bee. She would've won no matter what." Sofia is almost standing on her tiptoes ready to run into action.

"Sofia, I'm sorry, you'll have to go home now. Maybe you can help your mother with whatever she's doing. I can imagine it's quite interesting." She points at me, "Put on that ruffled green dress I got you last week. I want you looking nice."

Sofia sits on my bed and watches me dress. I change the ribbon on my ponytail to match the green dress. "Hijo, I hate this. I absolutely hate having to wear this outfit on a Saturday when this is my day to hang out in jeans. I don't know why I have to do this."

My mother sticks her head in the door. "Be sure to put on your black patent-leather pumps."

I roll my eyes to Sofia. "Yes, ma'am."

Sofia is packing her books into her knapsack.

"Hey, you not talking to me?"

Sofia turns around, tossing her knapsack over her shoulder. "I thought you said you didn't know Tiffany."

"I don't. This is my mother's idea. Remember?"

Sofia heads toward the door.

I grab her by the arm. "Hey, I can't help it if my mom's all stupid when it comes to white people."

Sofia laughs. "You shouldn't talk about your mom like that."

"Yeah, but it's true. Now we can't spend the rest of the day together."

My mother comes in. "Mija, we have things to get ready. Oh, Sofia, you're still here. You are leaving?"

"Mom. Please."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm going."

From my bedroom window, I wave to Sofia as she reaches the curb. She doesn't wave back. She commands all the space around her, her head high, her black hair flowing behind her like a cloak. I watch as she disappears down the street.

As I open the door to let them in, I groan. Tiffany has on a lime-green T-shirt, jeans and sneakers with fluorescent green laces. Her blond hair hangs loose around her shoulders. She takes in my outfit and lifts her blue eyes to her mother.

Mrs. Thatcher smiles. "Is your mother home?"

I eat my giggle up on the threat of death from my mother. Mrs. Thatcher has on a canary-colored jumper with a saffron-colored blouse that pinches shut at her neck. Her lemon-colored hair shags down pass her shoulders. But the black oxfords reveal the preacher's wife.

My mom comes into the foyer, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. "Emily, it's so good to see you. I'm glad you thought of asking me to help." Mom shepherds us into the kitchen. "I was thinking we could set up the girls here in the kitchen with a typewriter. One of them could stamp the return address and the other type in people's addresses."

"Sounds like an excellent idea. You're always so organized, Helen." Mrs. Thatcher smiles, a you're-a-good-child-of-God smile.

"You and I can work on the letter on my computer in the den." Mom points down the hallway.

Mrs. Thatcher puts her hand to her throat. "Oh, you understand all that technological stuff. Computers just leave me baffled."

Mom laughs softly. "Oh Emily, I'm sure you're underestimating your talents." Turning to us, she orders, "You girls go into Sally Jane's bedroom until we have everything set up."

I'm wondering what I can talk to Tiffany about, and I'm worried that Sofia won't understand why I had to do this, so I'm not sure what to say. I don't say anything.

In my bedroom, Tiffany walks around and around the room, looking at everything, touching the music box sitting on the dresser with the ballerina on top that spins. She stops at the closet and stares. She swings her head around, seeing the soft under-the-panel lighting, the ceiling painted a robin's-egg blue, the trim an off-white. The floors are covered with a beige sculptured carpet. Mirrors cover the sliding doors on both sides of the room. When she walks in, she has a reflection of the reflection of the reflection of herself. "Gosh, I didn't know y'all lived this nice."

I don't say anything. I can't. I'd have poked her. For sure, my mom would really be mad at me.

Tiffany straightens the comforter, then sits beside me on the bed. "Can I ask you something?"

Uh, oh, I thought. Whenever they start a question like that, it means bad news. "What?"

"How does it feel to work in the fields all the time?"

I hang onto the bedpost tight. "Tiffany, I've never worked in any fields in my whole life."

"Really?" She looks at me, surprised. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

I stare back at her.

"Well, then how is it having your parents work in the fields?"

I think about all the time my mom donates to the charities that Tiffany's mother sponsors. I guess their idea of charity is different. "Look, me or my family have never worked in the fields. I don't even know anyone who does or has ever worked in the fields."

"Really! That's so amazing."

Before I let go of the bedpost and get myself into real trouble, I ask, "What do you want to do?"

She spies the tape I had shown Sofia on top of my stereo cabinet. "Oh, you've got the new Kids On the Block tape. I just think they're so max. The lead singer is so totally cute. Makes my heart just go." She flaps her hand over the area of her heart.

I laugh really hard, then swallow it down when she looks at me funny.

My mom comes into the room. "Everything's ready. Come on into the kitchen."

We trail behind her with about as much enthusiasm as if we are going to a funeral. The typewriter is sitting on the kitchen table and about a million, trillion envelopes are stacked on the table against the wall.

"You," she points at me, "can stamp the envelopes with the return address. Tiffany can type the address from this list." She holds up a sheaf of papers an inch thick.

Tiffany and I trade looks that have been used by children since the times of cave-dwellers telling each other what we think of grown-ups.

"How come Tiffany gets to do the typing?"

I could tell by the look on my mother's face that I had set myself up for a lecture. "Because she is using her education to prepare herself for a better future. Typing is the next step to computers."

I give a loud martyred sigh as my mom leaves the room.

After a half an hour, my mom and Mrs. Thatcher return with the letter ready. "While Emily takes the letter to be copied and runs to the post office to buy postage, I thought you girls would enjoy watching a video."

"Yeah, that'd be great." Anything to keep me from being alone with Tiffany.

"Video?"

I nod, vigorously. "They're beach party movies. They're loads of fun."

"You mean the ones with Sandra Dee and Frankie Avalon?"

"Yeah. They're great. C'mon. Let's watch them." I signal her to follow me out into the living room. She follows.

After my mom waves Mrs. Thatcher off, she comes in carrying platters of brownies and cookies, the ones she cooked for the church bake sale, the ones she wouldn't let me and Sofia touch. "I thought you would want something to drink." She hands Tiffany a Coke and looks at me with a Coke in her other hand.

I stare. She's been forcing us to drink the grocery store brand of soda for so long, I started liking the taste of it. Now she's handing Tiffany a Coke and she wants me to drink one, too. "I'm not thirsty."

"Oh, we're going to be a poop today. Well, Tiffany and I can enjoy ourselves just as well." Mom punches the remote.

The credits fill the screen with all that funky music that goes with these movies. I slump into the corner of the sofa, putting my feet on the coffee table.

"Honey," my mother's voice drips with warning, "you know that's not allowed."

I let my feet drop to the floor with a thud.

If someone had told me, I never would have believed it. I would have told them that they were lying. But sure enough, there are Tiffany and my mother watching this movie and laughing together. Except my mother is laughing with Tiffany at all the parts that my mother had told me are clear examples of stupidity. At all the parts she had told me never, never to do.

Well, at least, it keeps me from having to talk with Tiffany.

The doorbell rings. We were at the part when the girl with black hair is shown up for being a liar and it's revealed that all the rumors she had made up about the blonde girl are just because she's jealous.

My mom looks at the door with disgust, then at me. I ignore her, but she looks harder and motions with her head for me to go get the door.

I open the door to find Mrs. Thatcher standing there, her hands full of boxes. "Mom," I yell, "it's Mrs. Thatcher."

My mom has never moved that fast. "Honey, you know we don't yell like that in this household." She frowns at me while turning her head to smile at the woman walking in.

"Emily, how did it go? Were you able to get everything?" She relieves Mrs. Thatcher of the boxes in her arms and sets them on the table near the door. "Your daughter and I were just having a wonderful time, weren't we, Tiffany?"

Tiffany had walked into the foyer to stand with all of us. "We're watching a really old movie. It's pretty dumb."

Mrs. Thatcher smiles over her head at my mother. "Tiffany, that's not nice to say." She reaches inside of her handbag. "Here is all the postage. I'm truly sorry but I completely forgot. I have another meeting I just have to attend. I won't be able to stay any longer."

My mother's face changes from uh-oh, to unhappy, to happy smiles in a matter of a shift of a wrinkle that only this daughter could see. "Of course, I understand. If you have some time later maybe you could come by and help me finish stuffing these envelopes."

Mrs. Thatcher nods. "I'll try. But I know what a reliable hard worker you are, and I'm sure that it will all be in the mail by tonight. The special PTA meeting is day after tomorrow, so the letters have to get out quickly." She smiles an I'm-so-proud-of-you smile.

Mrs. Thatcher guides Tiffany by the shoulders to stand in front of her facing us. "Tiffany, tell Mrs. Mendoza 'thank you' and that you had a nice time."

Tiffany's lips respond to the command. "Thank you Mrs. Mendoza. I had a delightful time."

Mrs. Thatcher squeezes Tiffany's shoulders.

"Thanks, Sally Jane. I'll see you in school Monday."

Her bubbly words say something different from what I see in her eyes. I know it would be death if I mention to anyone at school, in her group or mine, that she had spent time here. I didn't say anything.

My mom kicks me on the heels of my shoes.

"Sure, Tiffany. See you Monday," I said with my bubbling, Sandra Dee smile.

As Mom follows them out the door, she delivers an expression over her shoulder that, as her veteran daughter, I knows it means no milk and cookies for me tonight. She walks them to their car. "Drive carefully." My mom waves at the disappearing car.

From the doorway, I see Tiffany slump down in the front passenger seat. Mrs. Thatcher turns toward her daughter, her head bobs one or two times, and a moment later Tiffany sits up. I smile. Tiffany just got the "sit-up-straight-or-you'll-grow-up-with-a-crooked-back" lecture. I guess there are something that are the same no matter what culture you grow up in.

Inside, in the kitchen, my mom is opening the boxes. I grab a brownie. "Put those back. They're for tomorrow at church."

"But mom, you let Tiffany...."

"Put it back. You just don't appreciate what I do for you."

"What do you do for me? You let Tiffany eat these brownies, but I can't. You let Tiffany drink Coke, but I have to drink storebrand. You let Tiffany hang out here, but you send my girlfriend home."

"That's enough. Watch your step or I'll tell your father."

"And Mrs. Thatcher's way too busy to spend any time with you. You don't even get it."

My mother turns on me. "I get it. Don't make any mistake about that. I do get it. But I know what I want. I know where we're heading. And someday, you'll see, she'll be wanting to spend time with me. You just wait and see."

She stomps off down the hallway, saying, "You just don't appreciate what you have. The nice clothes, the Catholic education, all of that. I never had anything like that when I was your age. I made a promise that it would be different for you. You would have chances and opportunities I never had. And maybe, for now, you can't understand enough to appreciate how I have sacrificed for you, but you will. Then maybe you'll realize how much I've done for you." She slams her bedroom door behind her.

I grab a brownie and stuff the whole square into my mouth. I choke, spit it out and throw it into the trash. I slip down the wall and sit on the floor.

I'm not sure I know what my mother wants from me. Sometimes I think she wants me to be the best. Other times, I think, she wants me to be the best light-skinned person there is. Except in Tiffany's world, I'll never be light enough. It's with my girlfriends that I feel okay and they let me be just fine. Isn't that what counts?

I reach up and take the phone off the hook and slide back down the wall. I dial and let it ring. "Are you still mad at me?"

"Mad? At what?"

I press the receiver closer against my ear. "Because my mom made you go home. Because of Tiffany." I cross my fingers.

Sofia pauses then answers, "Nah. I told my mom about it and she said that your mom's been acting like that since they were kids. It's got nothing to do with me."

"We're still friends?" I hold my breath.

"Como no? Unless that Tiffany bleached all the Mexican out of you."

"No way, man." I eye the boxes on the kitchen table with all the envelopes. "Hey, you get Diana and come over. I'll call Justina. We're going to send out some letters tonight." A grin spreads across my face. "You can do the typing."