father, Abuelito Gertrudis, had also been left-handed. Because he died a week before I was born, Mami said he had given this gift to me. And that is how I had always seen it, as a gift, until we came to Abuela Evila’s house. She didn’t agree. She said that the left hand was the hand of the devil and I was evil for using it. Sometimes during meals, she would hit my hand with a wooden spoon and tell me to eat with my right hand.
“Don’t you know that the right side is the side of God?” she asked. “The left side is the side of evil. You don’t want to be evil, do you?” Since I didn’t want anything to do with the devil, I would pick up my spoon with my right hand and try to eat with it. But I could only manage a few bites before my spoon found its way back to my left hand.
Measles crippled my grandmother’s left arm when the open sores got so infected they were crawling with maggots, but she would tell me that if I kept using my left hand it would shrivel up, just like hers. Even though it was a disease that crippled her, I lived with the constant fear of waking up one day with a shriveled left hand. It was ironic that it was Abuela Evila who ended up shriveling when osteoporosis set in several years later. And it would be Tía Emperatriz who had to change her diapers, who continued to tend to her because nobody else would.
“Don’t listen to her, Nena,” Mago would sometimes tell me. “There’s nothing wrong with being left-handed.” But just as Mago couldn’t ignore Élida’s taunts about her scars, I couldn’t ignore Abuela Evila’s or my teacher’s. He didn’t understand that my pencil obeyed my left hand, but not the right one. I tried once again to write my name, but the letters came out all twisted and ugly. When Mago taught me to write my name, she wrote it with beautiful letters and made the tail of the Y long and curly. It looked so pretty it made mefinally start liking my name. I used to hate my name because sometimes when Mami and I were on our way to el mercado, men would whistle at Mami from across the street and yell “¡Mi reina!”—my queen—and the way they said “mi reina” made me want to throw a rock at them and make them bleed. Then I would ask Mami why she gave me a name that sounds so foul in a man’s mouth. I asked why she couldn’t have just named me Regina, as Abuela Evila had wanted. I wished she had chosen another time to rebel against my grandmother’s bossy ways. “Reyna is a very nice name,” Mami would say. “Those men are just not saying it the right way. And it wasn’t your grandmother’s place to name you. You aren’t her daughter!”
I looked at my name on the notebook. I had never hated it as much as I did at that moment. And I didn’t stop hating my name until many years later, when I realized that it wasn’t a name to be ashamed of, but one to live up to.
I met Mago and Carlos during recess by the jacaranda tree in the courtyard. By the entrance of the school, women were selling food. They had brought baskets filled with enchiladas, taquitos, and potato picaditas. The smell of the chile guajillo sauce, fresh cheese, and onion wafted toward us, and I asked my brother and sister why we weren’t getting in line to buy food.
Mago laughed.
“Our grandmother never gives us money,” Carlos said. “You better get used to it.”
We watched the women put the food on paper plates and hand it to the students who did bring lunch money. We weren’t the only ones drooling over the enchiladas. At least half of the children in the school were leaning against classroom walls, grabbing their empty bellies while looking at the food stands.
For the second time that day, I felt my eyes stinging with tears. “I hate school,” I said.
“Why, because you’re hungry?” Carlos asked. “I like it. At least it gets us out of our grandmother’s house. Imagine if we had to be there all day long?”
“I’ve been there all day long all this time,” I
“Don’t you know that the right side is the side of God?” she asked. “The left side is the side of evil. You don’t want to be evil, do you?” Since I didn’t want anything to do with the devil, I would pick up my spoon with my right hand and try to eat with it. But I could only manage a few bites before my spoon found its way back to my left hand.
Measles crippled my grandmother’s left arm when the open sores got so infected they were crawling with maggots, but she would tell me that if I kept using my left hand it would shrivel up, just like hers. Even though it was a disease that crippled her, I lived with the constant fear of waking up one day with a shriveled left hand. It was ironic that it was Abuela Evila who ended up shriveling when osteoporosis set in several years later. And it would be Tía Emperatriz who had to change her diapers, who continued to tend to her because nobody else would.
“Don’t listen to her, Nena,” Mago would sometimes tell me. “There’s nothing wrong with being left-handed.” But just as Mago couldn’t ignore Élida’s taunts about her scars, I couldn’t ignore Abuela Evila’s or my teacher’s. He didn’t understand that my pencil obeyed my left hand, but not the right one. I tried once again to write my name, but the letters came out all twisted and ugly. When Mago taught me to write my name, she wrote it with beautiful letters and made the tail of the Y long and curly. It looked so pretty it made mefinally start liking my name. I used to hate my name because sometimes when Mami and I were on our way to el mercado, men would whistle at Mami from across the street and yell “¡Mi reina!”—my queen—and the way they said “mi reina” made me want to throw a rock at them and make them bleed. Then I would ask Mami why she gave me a name that sounds so foul in a man’s mouth. I asked why she couldn’t have just named me Regina, as Abuela Evila had wanted. I wished she had chosen another time to rebel against my grandmother’s bossy ways. “Reyna is a very nice name,” Mami would say. “Those men are just not saying it the right way. And it wasn’t your grandmother’s place to name you. You aren’t her daughter!”
I looked at my name on the notebook. I had never hated it as much as I did at that moment. And I didn’t stop hating my name until many years later, when I realized that it wasn’t a name to be ashamed of, but one to live up to.
I met Mago and Carlos during recess by the jacaranda tree in the courtyard. By the entrance of the school, women were selling food. They had brought baskets filled with enchiladas, taquitos, and potato picaditas. The smell of the chile guajillo sauce, fresh cheese, and onion wafted toward us, and I asked my brother and sister why we weren’t getting in line to buy food.
Mago laughed.
“Our grandmother never gives us money,” Carlos said. “You better get used to it.”
We watched the women put the food on paper plates and hand it to the students who did bring lunch money. We weren’t the only ones drooling over the enchiladas. At least half of the children in the school were leaning against classroom walls, grabbing their empty bellies while looking at the food stands.
For the second time that day, I felt my eyes stinging with tears. “I hate school,” I said.
“Why, because you’re hungry?” Carlos asked. “I like it. At least it gets us out of our grandmother’s house. Imagine if we had to be there all day long?”
“I’ve been there all day long all this time,” I
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