The Time I Took Communion

January 27, 2010

The first day of school after Christmas vacation, I got on the bus with my new chai. I made my way towards the back to sit with Gisella, who lived nearby. Our moms were friends and, together, they named our neighborhood: “Ghetto.”

The kids I knew from school lived in neighborhoods with signs that had names like “Robin Lane” and “Emerald Woods.” Always two words that brought to mind a pretty picture, like the type you’d see on the wall in the dentist’s office.

I asked my mom once, “How come our neighborhood doesn’t have a sign that says ‘Ghetto’?”

“Because poor people live in ghettos.”

“So?” I said. “We could still have a sign. It could say the ‘Green Ghetto.’” I imagined yards filled with grass instead of sand and cactuses, like ours had.

“Alma, we don’t have a sign because no one wants to live here. And we live here because we don’t have a choice.”

I sort of felt the same way about sitting next to Gisella. We weren’t really friends. She was a year ahead of me in school and, like Jesus Sanchez, her English wasn’t great.

But we sat together because no one else on the bus wanted to sit with us. The other kids called us “The White Girls.” When I asked my mom about this, she told me that I wasn’t really white because I’m Jewish and Gisella wasn’t really white, either, because she’s Hispanic.

I didn’t get it. Gisella looked pretty white to me. Her skin was fairer than mine—it was so light that the kids on the bus called her Casper. Her face glowed like the moon and it was as round, too. She had blunt-cut brown hair with bangs that made a thick, straight line over her big blue eyes.

As I sat down, I said hi to Gisella and unzipped my puffy purple coat.

“What is that?” she asked me, pointing to my new necklace.

“It’s a chai,” I said, doing my best to imitate the throaty sound my mom made when she gave it to me. “It’s Hebrew for alive. You should have one, too, I guess, because you’re also alive.”

Gisella showed me her necklace then. It was a gold “t” with a rose in the center. “I got it for my primera communion,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“It’s like a party. I wore a white dress and we went to church and the padre put a cracker in my mouth. Then we went home and our family and friends came to our house and we had a lot of food.”

“Sounds fun. What does padre mean?”

“Father.”

A primera communion seemed like a good idea. Everyone would want to come. Even my dad.

That night, when Mom was making tofu stir-fry—which I hated but I ate anyways because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings—I asked her if I could have a primera comunion, like Gisella.

“No. That’s something for Catholics.”

“What’s a Catholic?”

“Catholics are Christians.”

“Like Stacy?”

“Like Stacy, but different.”

“So if it’s different from Stacy, then why can’t I be one?”

“Because it’s still not the same as being Jewish.”

“But Mom, Gisella got to have a party for her primera communion. And her father came.”

“Alma, I’m sorry to tell you this, but even if you had a communion, I don’t think your father would come.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because Israel is a long way away from Florida.”

“But what if we made an invitation?” Mom and I made invitations together for all my birthday parties. And, afterwards, we made thank you cards, too.

“I don’t think he’ll come.”

“How do you know? Have you asked him?”

Mom’s wooden spoon hit the pan a little harder. She didn’t answer. When she was quiet like that, I knew it was time to stop asking questions. So I did.

In the morning, I sat next to Gisella like always.

“How can I have a primera communion?” I asked her.

“You have to go to church.”

“OK. But I don’t think my mom will take me. Can I go to church with you?”

“I guess.”

“When?”

“We go every Sunday.”

“So can I go with you guys this weekend?”

“I think so.”

Gisella told me to come to her house at noon on Sunday. But mom would be awake by then, so I asked Gisella if we could go earlier. A lot earlier.

She said we couldn’t—Spanish was at 12:30 and her parents didn’t like church in English.

I wasn’t sure yet how I would get out of the house in the middle of the day, but I told Gisella OK.

After dinner that night, I told Mom I was going to read. I went to my room, shut the door, and took a box of markers and a stack of construction paper out of my closet.

I folded a sheet of red paper in two. I looked at it and thought that it was too much like a Valentine’s Day or Christmas card. I didn’t want to confuse Dad. Yellow would be better. I grabbed a piece of yellow paper and a black pen.

But those colors reminded me of a bee. I didn’t want him to think of a bug the second he saw my invitation. I looked at the stack of paper. I thought that using blue, my favorite color, might be lucky.

I sat down on the floor, folded the sheet in half and wrote on the front: Dear Dad.

I stared at it and thought maybe I should call him “father” like Mom always did.

I got a new sheet of blue and started over again.

Dear Father, I wrote. You’re invited!

On the inside, I continued: On Sunday afternoon I will be having a big party at my house in the Green Ghetto. I will be happy if you come.

I knew I couldn’t mail it from home because Mom might see it. But there was a post office right by school—I saw it everyday from the bus.

In the morning, I didn’t want to be late for homeroom, so I ran to the post office the second I got off the bus. When I got to the counter, I handed the card to the man sitting on the other side. He had glasses and thin, gray hair.

“I need to mail this to my dad in Israel,” I said.

“First you need one of these,” he said. He held up a manila envelope and tucked the invitation inside. “Next you need an address.”

I didn’t know it. My stomach tumbled in disappointment—my dad wouldn’t get the invitation. “Never mind,” I said. I reached for the envelope on the counter.

“Hold on a second, young lady,” the man said. “Maybe we can work around that. Do you know your dad’s name?”

“Of course.”

“OK, so we’ll send it to the post office in Israel and ask them to forward it.”

My stomach surged up and my heart beat hard. Maybe Dad would come to my primera comunion party after all.

I gave him my father’s name and he wrote it on the envelope. He pulled a big book out from under the counter, wrote some more on the envelope, and then I added my address in the upper left hand corner.

He put it on a scale. “That’ll be two dollars.”

I stood there, embarrassed. Mom didn’t give me an allowance and, at school, I got free lunch. I didn’t say anything. I just stared at the man.

He sighed and took out his wallet. “Go on to school, miss,” he said.

Sunday morning, I was nervous. My mom asked me what was wrong. I told her I was hungry. She made lunch a little earlier than usual and then I told her I was going to my room to draw. “I’m making you a surprise,” I said. “So don’t open the door, OK?”

By quarter to noon, I was in my room, alone. I dressed in jeans, a sweater, grey cowboy boots, and my puffy purple coat. I made sure my chai was tucked away so no one could see it. And then I climbed out the window.

As I walked towards Gisella’s, I felt guilty that I’d lied. I knew that if Mom caught me, she would be mad. But if Dad showed up while I was gone at church, Mom would be so happy she would forgive me right away. And then everything would be OK.

Church was boring, especially in Spanish. I didn’t understand anything and everyone kept getting up, kneeling, and then sitting down again. It reminded me of aerobics, which Mom did in the living room sometimes.

Everyone made a line in the aisle, facing the priest who stood at the front. One by one, they shuffled towards him. He mumbled and then he tucked something into their mouth.

I followed along behind Gisella and her family. “El cuerpo de cristo,” the priest said to me as I stepped forward. He gave me another glance—I guess I didn’t look like a Spanish-speaker—and then translated for me, “The body of Christ.”

I nodded as though to say, “That’s what I’m here for.” I opened my mouth and he put a small, white cracker on my tongue. And then I moved on, chewing as I walked.

Gisella turned and hissed at me, “Alma, don’t chew it.”

“So what do I do?” I whispered.

“Nothing.”

I let the cracker sit there in my mouth. It was dry and I was uncomfortable. When no one was looking, I spat it out in my hand and stuck it in my coat pocket.

I knew I was in deep trouble when I rounded the corner and saw cop cars at my house. I stood in the street for a minute, wondering what to do. I thought of the half-chewed cracker in my pocket. That could be one meal. But then what?

I had no choice but to go home.

I opened the door and there was my mom, with police officers all around her and tears on her face. My father wasn’t there.

I expected Mom to run over to me and kiss me and hug me like on TV. But instead she stepped in front of me and slapped my face. Hard. And then she gripped my arm.

“Ma’am,” one of the cops said.

“You lied to me, Alma. And you scared me,” she said. “I don’t want to see you. Get out of here.” She let go of me, flinging my arm away as though it were a bug.

As I walked towards my room, I heard one of the police officers tell her to calm down. Back in the ‘80s, you know, they weren’t as quick to lock you up for hitting your kids. They gave you a chance to explain first.

Which is what I heard my mom doing as I sat on my bed.

“It’s just so hard,” she said. “Her father lives in Israel and doesn’t help and she asks so many questions all the time and she’s so stubborn. And now this! Running away in the middle of the day…”

I lied down and put my pillow over my head so I didn’t have to hear my mom talking about me. I went to sleep.

When I woke up, it was almost dark outside and Mom was sitting on my bed.

“I owe you an apology,” she said. “I lost control of myself and I’m sorry.”

I didn’t respond.

“So what is it that you were doing today, Almi?” she petted my head.

“I went to church and had my primera comunion.”

“Because you thought it would make your father come to the house?”

I couldn’t respond because there were tears in my throat. If I opened my mouth they would escape. And Mom hated it when I cried.

I nodded.

“Alma, I don’t know how to tell you this. But your father isn’t coming. Ever.”

“Have you even asked him?”

“No. I don’t need to. I know him.”

I tried to think of something else to say, some other question to ask so I could get the answer I wanted to hear. But I couldn’t.

The Time I Took Communion

Mya Guarnieri

Arts and Culture