Family Resources

By Maria D. Lerma

Sitting around the wooden, cracked kitchen table as the midday sun suddenly splathered through the window, my younger brother and I gleefully absorbed the reading, writing, and math lessons my mother imparted during the rare moments of quiet when my father was at work and we were not running around with the boisterous neighborhood kids. Being younger, my brother just said “ah” to all things new and mysterious. My mother did not want to yield us to Head Start, possessively possessing us for just a bit longer — before the urgent siren call of kindergarten and 12 years of schooling beckoned. At least that was what my mother thought. Later, when I decided that I loved school, I asked her how long it would last. She counted from 1st grade to 12th grade; I was disappointed. Much, much later, I learned I could go to college — and beyond.

My mother would get La Opinion, which my father bought every morning from the corner newsstand. She went to the comics section and had us spell and sound out the words from “La Periquita” (The Parakeet).  Afterwards, we would do arithmetic, using dried pinto beans to add and subtract the numbers my mother had written on the smelly paper with the yellow backing she would get from the egg market we would frequent on Saturdays. She was our first teacher — despite not finishing elementary school.  Then, she would give us crayons to draw on that stinky paper.

When I went to kindergarten, I was placed in a bilingual classroom, where I could be a periquita myself, chattering about the latest telenovela episodes with my new friends. When my teacher realized that I could read and write in Spanish, she placed me in a monolingual English class. My world became a sad, silent one. My mother could not help me with homework.  Resourceful, she took out a Sears catalog to look up words that matched the pictures in my assignments. Regrettably, there were no pictures of a cat or a rat. A teacher’s aide suggested that my mother take us to the public library, where I found books with pictures of cats, rats, hats —and dogs, dinosaurs, and ducks.

At two, my daughter responded “ah” to everything, which her older brother translated for my husband and me. The words were apparently “gracias” and “de nada.” My mother and father were worried. She, however, sang the “Rebelde” telenovela songs — she sang before she spoke.  I got her a CD.  Resourceful. At four, she decided she had to prepare herself for kindergarten —despite being in preschool. She got a clean notebook and continuously wrote down the whole text from a book about a mouse in a house. Then, she wanted to write down other words. She found a book she had gotten as a birthday present and would look at the pictures to decide how to write the word. Resourceful. Family is a chain of events where every beginning is a middle and never an end.

Hold Me

By Runlin Liu

They hold me —
my mother’s hand wrapped tight around mine,
steadying my first uncertain steps,
pulling me forward into a world I did not choose.
They hold me —
when I leap from the rusted slide in kindergarten,
gravity tugging me down,
my father’s arms catching me before the ground can bruise.
They hold me —
with flour that had been kneaded into a dough，
with fish bones picked clean,
even when the taste of duty lingers longer than the salt.
They hold me —
in the trembling hands of a beloved one fading,
warmth seeping into coldness,
a grip that softens, then disappears,
leaving silence heavier than flesh.
They hold me —
in expectations pressed onto my shoulders,
the watchful eyes that do not blink,
measuring, weighing,
a balance I can never tip in my favor.
They hold me —
in raised voices that scrape my throat raw,
in arguments that end not with resolution
but with the sting of tears unshed,
the ache of words swallowed back.
They hold me —
through the thin wires of ocean-crossing calls,
static humming like an old prayer,
their questions following me
into time zones they do not inhabit.
They hold me —
so tightly I cannot tell
where their grasp ends
and where I begin.
They hold me —
not perfectly, not always softly,
but with a persistence that endures,
a love still learning its shape.

And still —
they hold me.