Читать книгу Stolen Identity - Carmen María Montiel - Страница 12

When I woke up, there were a lot of people in the house putting everything into boxes. They worked like termites. They were fast. It felt like an invasion.

I looked for my mami. I did not understand what was going on. Who are these people? I was only eight years old. Mami was in the kitchen with the maids also packing and giving instructions. María Eugenia was having breakfast, so I sat next to her quietly and asked Mami what was happening.

“We are moving to Caracas,” she said.

The boys were already in Caracas for what I thought was their summer vacation.

That day after everything was packed, we stayed at my aunt Norah’s, my dad’s older sister and my favorite person in the world. She was so full of life and had an incredibly funny story for every event in her life. She made me feel that a life like that was worth living. Aunt Norah played the castanets like she was a native Spanish woman. Funny thing, because she was married to a man from the Basque Country and they hated flamenco and everything Spanish like, even though that is part of Spain.

But my aunt did not care. When she put on the castanets and started to sing and dance, everything came to life. I think uncle Manolo forgave her because of that. She was naturally elegant, and I always viewed her with wonder and admiring eyes hoping to be like her when I grew up.

Many times, when my parents traveled, they left me at her house. It was my favorite thing. They did not have children so they spoiled me rotten. I was so spoiled by them that I started to think of ways I could stay with her forever. I think I was probably five years old when I decided that I could help in her house. One of her maids, Rita, used to work for my grandparents, and aunt Norah “inherited” her when they died. It is customary in Venezuela for the help to stay with the family.

I started helping Rita, and one day I dared to wash the dishes. Rita was not around, so I pulled a chair up to the sink so I could reach it and started washing everything. I did not break a thing and felt so accomplished. When my aunt came into the kitchen, I was just finishing. She sounded worried when she said in that wonderful maracucho accent of hers: “Niña, ¿qué haces? (Baby, what are you doing?).”

“See, tía, you don’t need Rita. I can do all of her work!”

She just started to laugh at my childish idea with a look of love.

Uncle Manolo, whom I adored, called me “Frijolillo,” which in the Basque language means “little, pretty thing.” Years later, when I was full grown at 5’9,” he still called me Frijolillo, but would add: “¡Frijolillo! De Frijolillo lo que te queda es lo de bonita, porque de chiquita ya no tenéis na’” (Frijolillo, the only thing you have as Frijolillo is the pretty, because little you are no longer).

They always took us with them to the Basque Club, where I experienced their culture, food and sports. I loved it there. We were treated like family. They played jai alai, which was so different for me, but I loved the game and the passion they had for it.

I was sure going to miss them all and the life we had in Maracaibo. Not been able to see them as often as we did was definitely going to hurt.

Caracas for me was the place where my grandmother and the rest of my mother’s family lived, even though they were from Barinas.

We do have fun memories of our times together there or when they came from Caracas to visit us in Maracaibo. When we went to Caracas, we always stayed at my grandmother’s house. She spoiled us rotten, cooking our favorite dishes and just being that lovable abuelita.

One summer while driving to Caracas, my father found out that both María Eugenia and I had lice. My mother was already in Caracas. They were terrorized by that because lice were not that common in Caracas back then due to the cooler weather.

“Girls,” he said, “don’t you dare tell anyone that you have lice. And if anybody asks to borrow your brush, do not let them have it.”

As luck would have it, sure enough Grandma could not find her hairbrush and asked us to lend her one of ours.

We were terrified, whispering to each other, and did not answer her. My mother was not there. She and my father were out searching all over Caracas for that magic lice shampoo.

“Girls!” she repeated later. “Really! Please let me use your hairbrush.” Once again, we whispered and giggled but still did not answer her.

“Come on! What is your problem that you cannot lend your grandmother your brush?”

We had actually ran and hid our brushes. We did not want our abuelita to get lice. Finally, she said: “I do not have lice if that is what you are worried about.”

We could no longer hold it in and broke out in laughter: “Abuelita, it is us who have lice!” We were crying, laughing and embarrassed at the same time.

In the meantime, Mami and Papi went from pet store to pet store all over Caracas. In one store, the salesperson was too nice and replied to my parents’ question about the shampoo with: “Help me to help you. What do you need?”

My embarrassed parents said: “We have a couple of dogs with fleas.”

The gentleman replied: “Oh, well I have the solution for you. We have these collars that are wonderful for that. It will kill all fleas. Guaranteed!”

My parents looked at each other, just managing to contain their laughter until they left the store. “Can you imagine the girls with those collars?” my father asked my mom.

In the summers, my mother’s sister always visited us from Caracas with our cousins, two boys our ages and a baby girl. We love each other to pieces. It was the best time when they came over. We played all day long.

One summer, our generosity was tested. We were playing in the backyard when we heard someone on the front porch. Little and full of energy, we ran to the front and found an old man, a guajiro, asking for something. Guajiros, an indigenous people from the area of Venezuela that we share with Colombia, have their own language. When they speak Spanish, it is difficult to understand them.

We tried our best, asking him again and again what he wanted. Finally, we came to the conclusion that he wanted “lemons.”

“Oh, lemons!” We all said at the same time looking at each other.” “¡Claro, señor! (Yes, sir!)” we all screamed. “We can do that!”

After all, we had a lemon tree in the house. So, we told him to wait and we would be back. We went into action with a purpose: we needed to get enough lemons for this old man. We felt like warriors.

Armed with a chair and a bat, we started getting lemons from the tree like monkeys hanging there. We filled up a bag, laughing, giggling and loving it. We were so proud of ourselves because we were helping an old man who needed a cane to walk. Once the bag was full, we run to the front porch and handed it to the old man with a smile.

Instead of the praise and thanks that we had expected, he was furious and started hitting the iron fence hard with his cane as he screamed, “¡Limona, limona!” We were like, “Yes! Here you go, a bag full of lemons (limones).” But he kept screaming limona.

Scared, we ran back into the house screaming, finally understanding he wanted limosna (alms). My mother and aunt came running, then went outside and gave him alms. To this day, we laugh when we remember that story.

I was sure I was going to miss my Maracaibo. But I knew we would go back because it is our hometown.

Caracas meant a new neighborhood, new friends, and seeing more of the family we had there. Of course, it was nice that we could enjoy the Caracas weather, open our windows, and wear a sweater in the morning and in the evening. Maracaibo is so hot that we keep the doors closed and use air conditioning all the time.

But the biggest challenge was starting a new school with girls we did not know. My mother took us to get the uniforms —a gray jumper with a white shirt underneath worn with black shoes and white socks. We got our books, and the first day of school finally arrived.

I was starting second grade. For some reason, my sister was off to her classroom but I was held at the principal’s office, along with another girl who also was starting second grade and attending that school for the first time. She was a redhead. We sat together.

The school is a magnificent building that looks more like a castle than a convent. I felt ever so small inside it. The ceilings are so high that I feel minuscule sitting there. Rumor has it that the last right-wing dictator, Marcos Pérez Jiménez, built the school because his daughters attended it. Like anything he did, this was perfect, beautiful and magnificent. The time of Pérez Jiménez was a time of building. Most of the freeways and buildings in Caracas were erected during his dictatorship.

I looked at the girl sitting next to me, but we did not talk. We kept looking at each other timidly and somewhat mischievously. My eyes showed I was scared; she must have been scared also. We were new and inside this spectacular building. We might get eaten by it! My childish brain was spinning.

At Santa Rosa de Lima School, the sisters belonged to the Dominican Order. Their white habits were so well pressed they were almost shining. Some had black veils and some had white. It was the way hierarchy was determined.

Finally, a nun came to the office to get us. As we started to walk together behind her, we held hands. Although we had just been introduced, she was the first person I met at the school and that created a bond. The nun opened the door of the classroom where they had already started to introduce themselves. She said to the teacher, “These girls —Carmen María Montiel and Amarilis— belong to this classroom and they are both new.”

Life would prove that was not the only day we would walk together. Our lives mirrored each other for many years.

The following days proved to be the first challenge of my life. I had a heavy maracucho accent, something that was the butt of jokes made by the rest of the girls. There is nothing more cruel than children, not because they are naturally cruel, but because they have no filter. Children always tell the truth and say what they feel. They made fun of every word I said, my natural expressions, everything!

It got to the point where I hated to go to school. I missed my friends in Maracaibo. Until one day I decided this accent of mine had to go! And in no time, I was talking like a caraqueña and the jokes ended.

What I did not know at the time, there was another possibility of embarrassment. I am dyslexic. Back then, there was no knowledge of it. I was able to get good grades in all subjects, but I was not able to read. At the time, everybody just thought I was lazy or dumb.

I had all types of tutors in Maracaibo to teach me how to read and my father tried. They all failed. When my mother signed us up at the school, she wanted to put me in first grade because of this, instead of second grade where I was supposed to be, but I was too tall for my age. The nuns told my mother that it would not be a good idea for my self-esteem. La Madre Superiora (Chief Nun) assured my mother that their teachers were specialized and if I was not able to read by December, they would put me in first grade then.

My God! What could have been worse? But sure enough, I was reading by December, not perfectly but much improved.

It was not until I was in college when reading an article waiting to see an ophthalmologist that I learned what my problem was… I am dyslexic! That article described me. Every word, every symptom was talking about me.

However, I went on to graduate magna cum laude from college and worked as a news anchor reading a teleprompter. Who would have ever thought I could accomplish that? I think the move to Caracas, with all the changes and challenges that came with it, made me more aware and secure in myself.

Once my accent became more like the other girls, school life was normal, learning, studying, playing kickball, learning ballet and being with friends. However, the girl that sat behind me did not like me or my hair, which was long, down to my waist, and honey colored. My mother took care of us, and the three girls had beautiful long manes. My sisters had golden hair.

But this girl had black short hair barely to her shoulders. She always pulled my hair, but acted like she did nothing when I would look at her. It started when we were sitting in class, but progressed to her pulling my hair whenever she passed by me.

I asked her to stop, but her answer was: “What? What did I do?”

My dad was the problem solver for all of us. I told him what was happening and he suggested that I tell my teacher and then the principal, if the problem persisted. I did as he told me. But the problem continued. I went to the principal. The hair pulling got worse. So, I told my dad that I had done as he had said, but the problem was worse.

“Well, honey, you did the right thing,” he said. “The teacher and principal know what is going on, you also talked to her and nothing has happened. Now you have to take things into your own hands. The next time she pulls your hair, you pull hers but even harder than she has ever done to you.”

So, I did! A few days later, at dismissal time, while talking to friends, this girl passed me running and pulled my hair. This was the hardest of all. I dropped my backpack and followed her. She was running up the stairs. I caught up with her right in the middle of the staircase and pulled her hair so hard her head bent backwards. I turned around and picked up my backpack. That day was the last time she ever pulled my hair. Bullies have to be stopped.

Two years later, I faced another challenge when I started suffering from asthma. I missed a lot of days at school, and the teacher had already advised that if I missed another day, I could lose the year. By then I was in fourth grade. I was really worried because I did not want to get behind in school.

One morning right before we left for school, I was sitting in the living room arranging my books, when I heard my mother’s high heels coming down the stairs. “Oh no!” I thought. The routine was that when my mother came down, we were supposed to be having breakfast and I had not even started. I got up and ran to the kitchen when my feet got entangled and I fell, hitting the wall with my face. It was a matter of seconds but I saw how I was going to hit the wall. In a split second, I decided to turn my face sideways so I would not get disfigured since our walls were made of concrete. I turned to the right and heard my face crack when I hit the wall.

My father was in his study and came running when he heard the noise. That is how loud it was. My mother came running down the stairs and found me on the floor crying. My face was as red as a tomato and it hurt so badly.

My dad could had been a doctor. He examined me, touching my face to make sure no bones were broken.

“Your bones are good, but you had a good hit and cannot go to school,” he said.

“No! I cannot miss another day of school or I will lose the year. I have to go!”

“You cannot, plus I have to take you to have an x-ray.”

“No!” I cried harder. “I will lose the year. I have to go.”

My dad called one of his best friends, Filiberto. They grew up together and Daddy spent a lot of time with Filiberto while he was in med school. My father responded to his questions and when they finished talking, he said: “Okay, I am taking you to school, but this afternoon Filiberto is going to check you out.”

He took me to school with a bag of ice and instructed the nuns to make sure they got fresh ice every so often. By the time I got there, I had missed Mass and the classroom was locked. I sat down outside and waited for the class to come back. I could only imagine how bad I looked when I saw the faces of my friends as soon as they spotted me.

“What happened?” the teacher asked while all the girls stared at me with horror.

“I fell and hit the wall.”

“Why are you here? You should not be here.”

“You said if I missed another day, I would miss the year.”

“No, no. This is bad. You need to go back home. If you are well tomorrow, come, but you are not going to miss the year for today.”

I was taken to the principal’s office and my mother took me for x-rays later. No broken bones but my face turned purple, so ugly to the eye.

For a year or so I had a clot of blood inside my cheek that felt like a rock. It dissolved by itself over time.

Years later, my face would be almost disfigured again when my husband ran a red light in Tennessee. Nearly wintertime, we were driving to have dinner on a Saturday night in the icy rain when he ran the red light. He thought he could make it, but suddenly a pickup truck appeared in front of us. With the weather conditions, the brakes did not stop the car and we hit the truck. I hit the windshield. It did not hurt at the moment, but an iron-like smell started immediately and a hot liquid was coming down my face. I looked down and saw blood was everywhere. I started to scream.

Alejandro pushed me back in the seat and touched my forehead. I later learned he had put his fingers inside the wound.

“It is okay, Carmen. You do not have a fracture.”

Within seconds, fire trucks, police cars and ambulances surrounded us. I could not see much because I could not move as per instructions from my husband and the paramedics who arrived so fast. The blood flowed nonstop like it was coming from a water faucet. The smell was unbearable.

I was taken by ambulance to the hospital. Once we got there, Alejandro asked me if I wanted to have Theresa, my best friend, called. I was at the emergency room for hours, having x-rays, exams and eight stitches on my brow where my hairline starts.

Theresa got both of us home. The car was a total loss. The pain was killing me. I went to bed and Theresa put my sweater in water. It was full of blood. Alejandro was going to trash it, but she said that if we wash it now, the blood will be gone. I had a sedative and slept, but when I woke up the next day and saw my face in the mirror, I was scared. I was completely disfigured.

The accident was mentioned on the news that night. My friends informed me on Monday when I showed up for class with a beret to cover my now disfigured forehead. Once again, I had a bruise coming down my head but now on the left side. Funny how bruises on faces roll down!

I was the director of the news station at East Tennessee State University and many times was out filming. One day while looking in the lens of a TV camera, a fellow student realized I had a terrible bruise on my left side. The forehead bruise was now on the lower part of my cheek and neck.

“My God, girl! Who is hitting you?” she said.

Little did I know that possibility was going to become reality later in my life.

The bruise kept on coming down at the same time it was disappearing to the point that it looked like a “hickey” on my neck. Everybody, people at school and the gym—the only places I frequented in that college town—commented that I had a “hickey”! It was embarrassing but what could I do? After all, I was married.

Thank God the pageant taught me to deal with false accusations, something I had to endure later to a greater magnitude while protecting my children.