Mericans by sandra cisneros short story

“Mericans” (1991)

By Sandra Cisneros

We're waiting for the awful grandmother who is inside dropping pesos into la ofrenda box before

the alter to La Divina Providencia. Lighting votive candles and genuflecting. Blessing herself

and kissing her thumb. Running a crystal rosary between her fingers. Mumbling, mumbling,

mumbling.

There are so many prayers and promises and thanks-be-to-God to be given in the name of the

husband and the sons and the only daughter who never attend mass. It doesn't matter. Like La

Virgin de Guadalupe, the awful grandmother intercedes on their behalf. For the grandfather who

hasn't believed in anything since the first PRI elections. For my father, el Periquin, so skinny he

needs his sleep. For Auntie Light-skin, who only a few hours before was breakfasting on brain

and goat tacos after dancing all night in the pink zone. For Uncle Fat-face, the blackest of the

black sheep - Always remember your Uncle Fat-face in your prayers. And Uncle Baby - You go

for me, Mamá - God listens to you.

The awful grandmother has been gone a long time. She disappeared behind the heavy leather

outer curtain and the dusty velvet inner. We must stay near the church entrance. We must not

wander over to the balloon and punch-ball vendors. We cannot spend our allowance on fried

cookies or Familia Burron comic books or those clear cone-shaped suckers that make everything

look like a rainbow when you look through them. We cannot run off and have our picture taken

on the wooden ponies. We must not climb the steps up the hill behind the church and chase each

other through the cemetery. We have promised to stay right where the awful grandmother left us

until she returns.

There are those walking to church on their knees. Some with fat rags tied around their legs and

others with pillows, one to kneel on, and one to flop ahead. There are women with black shawls

crossing and uncrossing themselves. There are armies of penitents carrying banners and flowered

arches while musicians play tinny trumpets and tinny drums.

La Virgen de Guadalupe is waiting inside behind a plate of thick glass. There's also a gold

crucifix bent crooked as a mesquite tree when someone once threw a bomb. La Virgin de

Guadalupe on the main alter because she's a big miracle, the crooked crucifix on a side alter

because that's a little miracle.

But we're outside in the sun. My big brother Junior hunkered against the wall with his eyes shut.

My little brother Keeks running around in circles.

Maybe and most probably my little brother is imagining he's a flying feather dancer, like the

ones we saw swinging high up from a pole on the Virgin's birthday. I want to be a flying feather

dancer too, but when he circles past me he shouts, "I'm a B-Fifty-two bomber, you're a German,"

and shoots me with an invisible machine gun. I'd rather play flying feather dancers, but if I tell

my brother this, he might not play with me at all.

"Girl. We can't play with a girl." Girl. It's my brothers' favorite insult now instead of "sissy."

"You girl," they'll yell at each other. "You throw the ball like a girl."

I've already made up my mind to be a German when Keeks swoops past again, this time yelling,

"I'm Flash Gordon. You're Ming the Merciless and the Mud People." I don't mind being Ming

the Merciless, but I don't like being the Mud People. Something wants to come out of the corners

of my eyes, but I don't let it. Crying is what girls do.

I leave Keeks running around in circles - "I'm the Lone Ranger, you're Tonto." I leave Junior

squatting on his ankles and go look for the awful grandmother.

Why do churches smell like the inside of an ear? Like incense and the dark and candles in blue

glass? And why does holy water smell of tears? The awful grandmother makes me kneel and fold

my hands. The ceiling is high and everyone's prayers bumping up there like balloons.

If I stare at the eyes of the saints long enough, they move and wink at me, which makes me a sort

of saint too. When I get tired of winking saints, I count the awful grandmother's mustache hairs

while she prays for Uncle Old, sick from the worm, and Auntie Cuca, suffering from a life of

troubles that left half her face crooked and the other half sad.