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Discouraged, perplexed, saddened —  that’s how I remember feeling at the age of eleven. I was upset over life’s injustices, such as bullying and favoritism among family members, friends, and people in general.

One boring Sunday morning, as I glared out through the squeaky, musty-smelling screen back door of our house, I spotted my grandmother. She was walking alone to church on the sidewalk on the far side of her big corner house next door, which she shared with one of my uncles, an aunt, and my cousins.

‘Buelita Viviana, as we grandchildren called her, looked shorter than usual from a distance. She was stout in build and was wearing a dark-blue “dressy” dress, black hose, and black, small-stack heel shoes. She wore a small black mantilla on her head, as was the custom in the Catholic Church at the time, and carried a small, black, lacey purse. Her hair was teased and puffy. She would go to the beauty  parlor every Saturday and to church every Sunday.

As I heard the church bells ringing and watched her disappear behind the houses and trees between her house and the neighborhood church, I felt in my heart, at that exact moment, that that’s where I needed to be. From that time on, I continually called and invited my cousins and friends, who were close to my age, to go with me the following Sundays.

However, they rarely agreed, or they would agree and then change their minds at the last minute, leaving me dressed up in my black, patent-leather shoes and starched, light-blue dress with the puffy sleeves and the wide, satin-ribbon straps at the waist that tied to the back in a big bow. I also had a small black mantilla that my mother bought for me and a small, black clutch purse. Seeing my anguish, my mother suggested that I go to church with my grandmother, but I was too shy and immature to invite myself …

With Love, Gloria

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