Our first year in New York we rented a small apartment with
a Catholic school nearby, taught by the Sisters of Charity, hefty women in long
black gowns and bonnets that made them look peculiar, like dolls in mourning.
I liked them a lot, especially my grandmotherly fourth grade teacher, Sister
Zoe. I had a lovely name, she said, and she had me teach the whole class how
to pronounce it. Yo-lan-da. As the only immigrant in my class, I was
put in a special seat in the first row by the window, apart from the other children
so that Sister Zoe could tutor me without disturbing them. Slowly, she enunciated
the new words I was to repeat: laundromat, cornflakes, subway, snow.
Soon I picked up enough English to understand holocaust was
in the air. Sister Zoe explained to a wide eyed classroom what was happening
in Cuba. Russian missiles were being assembled, trained supposedly on New York
City. President Kennedy, looking worried too, was on the television at home,
explaining we might have to go to war against the Communists. At school, we
had air raid drills: an ominous bell would go off and we'd file into the hall,
fall to the floor, cover our heads with our coats, and imagine our hair falling
out, the bones in our arms going soft. At home, Mami and my sisters and I said
a rosary for world peace. I heard new vocabulary: nuclear bomb, radioactive
fallout, bomb shelter. Sister Zoe explained how it would happen. She drew
a picture of a mushroom on the blackboard and dotted a flurry of chalk marks
for the dusty fallout that would kill us all.
The months grew cold, November, December. It was dark when I
got up in the morning, frosty when I followed my breath to school. One morning
as I sat at my desk daydreaming out the window, I saw dots in the air like the
ones Sister Zoe had drawn random at first, then lots and lots. I shrieked, "Bomb!
Bomb!" Sister Zoe jerked around, her full black skirt ballooning as she
hurried to my side. A few girls began to cry.
But then Sister Zoe's shocked look faded. "Why, Yolanda
dear, that's snow!" She laughed. "Snow."
"Snow," I repeated. I looked out the window warily.
All my life I had heard about the white crystals that fell out of American skies
in the winter. From my desk I watched the fine powder dust the sidewalk and
parked cars below. Each flake was different, Sister Zoe had said, like a person,
irreplaceable and beautiful.
Women's Voices From the Borderlands, ed. Lillian Castillo-Speed (New York: Touchstone, 1995), 126-128.