After the big splash, there was nothing but silence. I felt as if Papi was a rock falling down from the hills and into our river. Wash day had never been a day of sharp words and slaps. I swallowed my tears and beat the clothes harder. I felt the pain on my cheek before I realized what had happened. Mami’s hand shot out faster than a lizard under a rock. How can you say that, Mami? All Papi does is sit on the porch and drink rum. "Your papi says funny things sometimes, cariño, she said. But I could tell the laugh was only in her throat and not in her heart. When I told Mami this on our next wash day, she laughed. He said, " Muchacha, your head is getting bigger than your hat." Like when I asked him if I could have a notebook just for writing my poems in. Papi might sound as if he is talking in a puzzle, but I always know exactly what he means. Sooner or later I figure out the dance, but sometimes I wish she would just say what she means straight out. I have to spin them around and around in my head as if I am doing a mental merengue. Either that or she was hinting that I should run for President, and then if I won I could write what I wanted.
I think Mami was telling me that there was no reason why I couldn’t try and be the first writer who wasn’t President of our Island. Finally she looked up and said, Ana Rosa, there always has to be a first person to do something. She just kept turning her sheet over and over as she pounded away. We were pounding the clothes with rocks, and I gripped mine hard as I beat the dirt out of Papi’s overalls and my brother Guario’s waiter uniforms. I went to the librería and I saw a lot of books by President Balaguer. In fact, Papi told me that in the República Dominicana, only the President could write books. I knew it was a strange thing to want to do, because we sure didn’t know any writers around here. Mami was the only person who knew I wanted to write books when I grew up.
If I wrote a new poem, I would recite it to her while we dipped our hands into the cool water. Mami had no time to pat her hair down, let alone share private thoughts the way we did on wash day.Īt the river’s edge, I’d tell Mami all the special things I had thought about during the week. Then I’d have to keep on sharing Mami with everyone, especially Papi, who sat on the porch and never moved. WASH DAY WAS the day I’d get Mami all to myself. Mami and me smooth the wrinkled clothes right. To dry in the sun and flap in the breeze.
Then WHACK! I smack the clothes on the rocks Where sun rays glimmer on a whisper of shade.Īnd Mami and me tie our hair up in braids. Our friends wave hola as we slippery-slide We juggle the soap, the scrub board, and clips.
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