“Oh, Angelita Garcia!” by Jason Magabo Perez

“Anak,” says Nay, her cheekbones the disconnected hemispheres of a heart, “Would you not be so very truly sad if I died?” She turns onto Mission. Her skeletal hands choke the steering wheel. “Talagang tragic, ano, anak? What would you do? What would you possibly do if I were to sleep and never ever wake? Never again. Could you imagine? Dying. Dying. Dead. Wala na. Like that. Dios ko! God help you, di ba, anak?”

Nay can barely see over the steering wheel. She adjusts the couch pillow underneath her. This tan interior smells of sourdough and nail polish.

Nay always drives me to school in this Buick drive-by mobile. When we hit bumps like this, potholes like that, and fractures in the road, the Buick bounces up and down as if it’s traversing turbulent waters.

“Anak, What in the world would Dad do? Could you imagine the devastation? Ang lonely lonely talaga. Devastated and so very lonely. His body would quit.”

The sunshine is gangrenous. We pass El Mega Foods, its faded blue Grand Opening pennants still up after a year. Soon after, we pass the drive-in movie theater, the Oceanside Swap Meet on the weekends. The edges of the giant screens are blackening. And the half-paved driveway leading to the entrance is crowded with brown laborers, sunburned, looking like Father, awaiting today’s work.

“Anak, do you have nice classmates? Are they raised well? What do they do? Mabait ba sila? O hindi? How are they, anak?”

“Oh,” I say, slouching in my seat, barely able to see over the dashboard myself. “Uh, um, quiet, nice, talkative, mean.” I continue to list adjectives so the prying stops: “Hyper, sad, stupid, able, mean, ugly, stupid, really mean, lonely, running, pretty, poor, White, chalky, Mexican, Samoan, White, Mexican.”

“Wala kang Pilipino friends?”

Third Grade is all about warfare, the impermanency of friendship, the arithmetic of mad-dogging. Mad-dogging so hard you feel your skeleton dust.

“No,” I say, “not yet.”

Red light.

San Diego Avenue.

Fuck this intersection.

Turn right and you enter el barrio de Los Locos De La Luna. Up ahead: frail palm trees, the 5 and the Pacific Ocean. Directly to the right, in the bicycle lane, stand los peewees, the apprentices who have nothing better to do than ditch and flash signs at passing traffic. These not-quite eses, in their shaved heads, creased Dickies and Cortezes, risk carpal tunnel syndrome in order to spell the acronyms of the most elaborately-named gangs. It is their God-given purpose to assure that Rancho Del Oeste 1 & 2 Bedroom Apartments Posse does not go unnoticed in this cruel cruel world.

Green light. Nay steps on the gas, but the Buick stutters, belches, gulps, pants, coughs, and dies midway through the intersection. Helixes of smoke escape the hood.

“I-help mo,” says Nay as she swings open the door.

Los peewees pay us no mind. Not even the slightest bit of mockery.

Through the windshield, through the slit between the hood and the engine bay, I see Nay hover over smoke.

Barehanded, Nay tightens bolts and clamps, bangs on the carburetor, and checks fluid levels.

Nay has mastered the breakdown[1].

“Sige,” she says, “I-try mo na.”

I scoot across the bench, the pleather dikit-dikit on the backs of my thighs. I wiggle the key slightly out of the ignition as I turn it, the way Nay taught me, and the engine chugs. I turn it again and thanks be to the Lord the engine roars!

Nay shuts the hood and returns.

“Anak,” she says as she continues toward school, “Huwag kang mag-occupy your brain with such fear, okay? Bakit ang embarrassed mo, ha? Humiliation is not real. Those boys are nothing but sadness, ano? Purong sadness. No school. No job. They do not know poverty. My God, anak, they are kids.”

Nay, I wish to remind her, they look like Tomás. Just like Tomás. Same shaved head. Same hard stare to remind you of your smallness. What then of Nay’s own son? What then of my own scary brother?

“If you think about such troubles,” says Nay, “the troubles of the world, you will go crazy, very very crazy, anak.”

Nay’s hair is short, permed and fro-like, dyed the blackest black. I wonder if wisdom grows right there in the curls. And if so, might she be less and less wise and less and less sane and less and less alive after every haircut?

We pull up to school and park. Today is Show & Tell.

* * * *

Now it’s not true that I’m trying to impress Angelita Garcia[2] at Show & Tell. That’s not it at all. Everyone knows I outdo anyone. None of these chumps can step to someone who brings in shards of broken windshield that have been plucked from his paralyzed brother’s back. Tell me one third-grader to do so. Tell me. I want to show Nay that I am normal. I want to prove that in Señora Seth’s second and third grade combination classroom, in all of McKinley, in all of Oceanside, I’m the smartest pupil. Not Angelita Garcia, Little Miss I Speak German, Spanish, English and Chipmunk, Little Miss Mathematics is Boring Though I Excel At All Subjects, Especially Reading Aloud, Little Miss Too Many Friendships to Count. No, not that social butterfly chica seated across the room in her roja-brown Indio skin, in her pretty yellow sunflower dress, in her mustard Mary Janes. No, not that budding artista over there crayoning self portraits, not that Frida Khalita, but yo, ako, I. I am the smartest. And I, Nay’s bunso, show the best Show and tell the best Tell. EVER.

“This is my mother,” I tell the class as Nay and I stand upfront. “She’s a nurse.”

Señora Seth’s classroom is a prison. The brick walls are white. Windowless. The room smells of pencil shavings and milk-breath. And the carpet is balding.

“Some say,” I continue, “my mother murdered many many people before.”[3]

“Oooooh!”

“How many?”

“Who?”

“Ahhhhh!”

“Liar.”

“Really?”

“My mommy killed a thief!”

“My daddy killed himself!”

“So?” I say, “Some called Nay a SERIAL KILLER.”

“Okay,” says Señora Seth, “Okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay.” She smiles a huge smile at Nay, the kind that means she’s signaling with her eyelashes.

Poor Señora Seth the Savior, who often, like today, wears turquoise jewelry and smelly leather sandals, who proudly denounces her whiteladyness, who must recreate herself as Señora every single day, has no wrench to wrench us out of this moment. All she says is, “Okay now.”

Nay, unfazed, straightens her scrubs and says, “Now listen, students.”

Everyone shuts up.

I wonder if Nay is remembering. Nay was a convict at one point in her life. A real one. At this point, all I know is that she’s been one. That’s all. Every now and then Tomás fucks around and says, Mom’s a killer. Though on any given day such as this you couldn’t possibly believe so because Nay, the lovely nurse in that lovely blue blusa, composes herself like the smartest person alive.

“Now students,” Nay continues, “Never ponder the troubles of this world, okay? You will go very truly crazy. Trust me.”

The rest of Show and Tell, as predicted, shall not go down in history. This day, however, Angelita Garcia shall.

* * * *

Before Nay leaves for work, I tour her around the classroom.

“That one,” giggles Nay, pointing to Angelita Garcia, “Talagang dramatic, di ba?”

Just yesterday, Angelita Garcia’s hair was long and straight and black and nice. Now it’s a crimped koosh ball, short with highlights the color of dead grass. If I knew short hair to be a radical statement of femininity I could dig it. But I don’t know, so I don’t dig. Now Angelita Garcia’s hair makes even more visible those pearly white teeth and that perfectly aligned bite. Nay claims I inherited my obvious overbite from her family.

Nay asks me about Angelita Garcia’s parents.

“Hard laborers,” I laugh. “They put her haircut on layaway.”

Nay seems offended. Both the black suit I’m wearing and the bed sheets used for her blusa were purchased on layaway. In fact, she even purchased my socks and briefs on layaway. Layaway, I’ll come to learn, is not a laughing matter. Layaway, I’ll come to learn, is not necessary for every family.

I show Nay my desk. Unlike the flip-open desks of others, full of dried meal worms, lima beans, repeatedly chewed gum and baggies of Kool Aid powder, mine is minimalist: Three neatly folded pieces of cardboard. I set them up as if I were taking a test. I demonstrate that I keep my head close to the paper, as close as Father keeps his lips to the plate. And I whisper, “They know I have answers.”

Andy Kim interrupts.

“Hello,” he says to Nay, his big fat head the shape of a rugby ball, his skin peachy yellow. “Miss Mug-uh-BOO!”

Stupid kids like Andy the Korean Bully Kim never say missus because they’re confused about the r in the abbreviation.

“Hello,” Nay replies. “Are you my Hasón’s best friend?”

“Nay!”

“No way in H-E-double hockey stick,” says Andy Kim, grinning in disgust. “What the H-E-double hockey stick is neigh?”

Yesterday, Andy Kim laughed at my middle name: Magabo.

“What kinda name is Mug-uh-boo?” he giggled as he handed back my spelling test. “A ghost’s name?”[4]

“The kind of name,” I said under my breath, “for the kind of person. That gets perfect scores. Fathead Korean.”

“Fuck you, wetback chink nigger bitch!”

Nay traveled here via airplane. As did Father. I just let the bully bully me. I let him conflate histories because he, like I, will get used to being named.

What I should do is yank the bangs of his bowl-cut. Or suplex him! But today isn’t about bravado; today is about my genius. My Outstanding Citizenship. Ignoring Andy Kim and the limp collar of his polo, I seat Nay at my desk.

Señora Seth is indeed an impassioned (yet a failure of a) pedagogue. She rarely structures lessons. Instead, she advises us to learn as we please. Thus, upfront, beatboxing his little heart out, is Ronny Wallace, the light-skinned Gary Coleman, the only one able to pull off an authentic Gumby Cut and pink pleated parachute pants. He speeds up his bah boom bap clack. Though still perplexed about rap and about my brothers’ sudden transition from Pink Floyd to Public Enemy, I join Ronny Wallace. As I hum metal melodies, I cannot for the asthma in me keep up. Ronny Wallace and I stare at each other. My wheezing sounds like a kazoo. Before returning to our desks, Ronny Wallace and I, certain that he will still come out as cool as ever and that I will forever house a lifetime’s worth of shame, fade our noise abruptly. Nay, and only Nay, applauds.

Class usually turns out like this: Never in my favor. Whenever we popcorn read, I read so slowly that others finish sentences for me. And I mispronounce words like a lot. I wish every vowel to be even longer. Then I could pedal my bicycle far away, along the vowel, into the vowel, through the vowel, to someplace where I wouldn’t need a voice.

Miss Angelita Garcia, on the other hand, reads so rapidly and so theatrically it’s as if this language can’t wait to burst out of her. She probably ridicules me behind my back.

Last week, in mid-mispronunciation, I sprinted to the restroom and relieved myself too soon. Señora Seth believed me when I told her the water fountain had malfunctioned. Later that day, Ewing, the same brother who mocks me for moving my lips when I read to myself, asked me if I pissed my pants to which Nay replied, No, the hallway was flooded. Angelita Garcia claimed the same had happened to her and then said to me: Don’t worry, it’s normal.

Now, as I lose more and more points with Nay, Angelita Garcia decides to perform the grand finale of Nay’s visit. Angelita Garcia has changed into gold ballerina slippers. Ronny Wallace, Andy Kim, and the other boys and girls wrapped around Angelita Garcia’s precious little finger use desks to build a stage. Angelita Garcia tiptoes onto a chair and then onto the stage.

“I study ballet,” she says, her arms forming a C resting on its back.

“The Mexican hat dance?” says Andy Kim. “Alright Angelita Taqueria Garcia!”

Señora Seth shushes Andy Kim.

I tug at Nay’s blusa and grab her forearm but she keeps her attention on Angelita Garcia.

And suddenly…just like that…Angelita Garcia spins and spins and spins, executing the first set of pirouettes I’ve ever witnessed in my entire life. So delicate. So balanced. Her yellow dress flares out.

She’s like a coin spun by God!

A blur…then her little self again…then a blur…self…blur…again…again…again.

She curtsies, her hair-sprayed perm perfectly in-place. The class cheers, hollering learned noises like the rolled r’s of a machinegun. While I offer a mere golf clap, Nay gives a standing ovation.

“Anak,” says Nay. “Time to go to work.”

Offbeat, I keep my head down, unclip my tie and start to usher Nay to the door.

“Matalas ang utak mo,” says Nay. “You’re smart, anak.”

Before I can thank Nay, before I can assure her that her bunso is brilliant, that I don’t just cry all day, Angelita Garcia skips over to us and up to Nay.

“Hi-ya! I’m Angelita Garcia.” She extends her furry arm to Nay. “No middle name.”

“You’re an excellent ballerina,” says Nay, shaking Angelita Garcia’s hand.

“Hasón’s a talented musician,” replies Angelita Garcia.

Everyday at recess, Angelita Garcia destroys me at tetherball. She’s shorter than me. Skinnier than me. But she consistently and effortlessly powers the ball past me. Even in flats she has more hops than I do. I never even touch the ball unless it’s accidentally with my face or the back of my head. And she’s always so annoyingly sweet and says, I just got lucky, You have great footwork.

Tetherball has nothing to do with my feet.

“Work na,” I mumble as I urge Nay away from Angelita Garcia and toward the door.

“Wait,” I say. “Wait, Nay.” I point to my last chance: my Women’s History Month drawing.

Through the beautiful brown sky fly several birds, various-sized black McDonald’s M’s[5]. And gazing out into the Pasig River, with a mountainous nose and harsh dots for eyes, stands The Rachel Carson, the nature writer. Because Rachel Carson is known for exposing the dangers of pesticides the Pasig River is full of Jesus fish. Suffering. A lot. And Rachel Carson’s skin is light orange not because of cancerous chemicals but because even white-people complexion is difficult to capture with crayons. Señora Seth awarded this Second Place[6]. First Place, of course, was honored to Angelita Garcia’s rendition of Frida Khalo. I didn’t even choose Rachel Carson. I wanted to portray Nay. Nay is a woman. Nay has lived historically. But when Señora Seth asked me what contributions Nay had made to the advancement of women I simply answered: She’s a good mother.

This wasn’t enough.

“Ang ganda ganda,” Nay now says, pushing in the clear thumbtacks and continuing her way out.

“One more,” I whisper and stop Nay one last time. “One more one more.”

This will do it: Hanging just beside the drawings is a neon red poster, the brightest sheet in all of the room. It is the Who’s Who in Reading & Writing Chart. We all signed our own names. I point to my signature, the neatest. Others lack control of their penmanship, some of their letters appear to be collapsing, some letters bleed into each other, and like my recently immigrated relatives that stay in a tiny studio apartment, some letters crowd and suffocate each other.

The fact that I’ve earned the most green and gold stars (87 total) certifies me as the most avid reader and the most prolific writer. I submit my reading logs, signed and dated by Father, more frequently than anyone, even Miss All-Star Angelita Garcia herself, who has received a mere 63 stars.

Angelita Garcia finds us at the door and yaps on. “Hasón must be extra intelligent!” She grabs my right hand to show Nay how dark the side of it has become from smudged pencil lead. “You write hard,” says Angelita Garcia, and with her thumbnail outlines the bump on my middle finger.

I retract my hand. Nay snickers. My heart beats once. Twice. Thrice. My ankles and soles now warm and prickly. Oh no, I think, oh fuck, Nay must know that I ask Father to sign the yellow slips because he never pays attention when it comes to school. Nay must know I’m cheating. Nay knows I watch television and ride my bicycle and do not read and do not write and do not pray the Holy Rosary.

Damn.

The ballerina will win again. She’ll discover that I’m nothing more than a counterfeit intellectual. Then she’ll call Father a liar and call Nay a serial killer and then Angelita Garcia will join the bandwagon of Andy Kims and laugh and laugh at everything little thing I do, every little thing that I am. Then I’ll cry. And cry.

“Aalis na ako, anak,” Nay says and kisses the top of my head. She turns to Angelita Garcia and says, “Very nice to meet you, hija.”

“You too,” agrees Angelita Garcia, her smile now wider than ever.

I remain in the hallway until Nay disappears.

“You know what?” says Angelita Garcia, joining me.

I turn around. “What?”

Is she going to dance? Is she going to sing me into oblivion? I wait. I wait for her to talk trash. I wait for her to breathe mess, to take back her pleasantness and remind me that I soiled my black Gotcha shorts. I’m a mumbler of polysyllabic words. She most definitely has deduced that I am the most cheatingest cheater to ever cheat before.

She’ll expose me. She: Número Uno. At Everything. Perhaps at knowing me.

Staring at her mouth, I anticipate Angelita Garcia to dart her tongue out, to slap me, pinch my eyelid, wet-willy me, or to laugh and laugh until I cry cry cry. But this ballerina has something else to say, a something I’ll surely chase to hear again the rest of my life. And I hope to marry an Angelita Garcia, one who will utter these marvelous words in the exact same marvelous way, with her long eyelashes fluttering, her smile glimmering, that red red tongue, those rolled r’s, accented vowels, and all: “Tu mamá,” she says, “Your mommy, Hasón Pérez…İQué bonita! İQué bonita! Your mamá is so so beautiful.”

---

[1] At the age of seven, the narrator has yet to discover the practice of resentment.

[2] Angelita Garcia is indeed nonfictional. If you are reading, Angelita Garcia, the author narrator wonders.

[3] Social Studies: In 1976, Two Filipina nurses (one of them being the author’s narrator’s mother) were framed for the murders of several patients at the Ann Arbor Veteran’s Administration Hospital: U.S. v. Narciso-Perez. Fuck the Federal Bureau of Investigation, says the narrator.

[4] This one, o Korean Kasama, still hurts the narrator’s feelings. Especially the invisibility.

[5] Yes, at such a tender age, the narrator is already an adept semiotician.

[6] This masterpiece also won 2^nd place at a real-life museum that honors all that white feminists adore. Like the work of Frida K.