The Chicano/Latino Literary Prize (12 page)

“I don't know why, that's all.” And that was all it had come to. “Now will you please stop bugging me?” Her voice became thorny with the last six words and she was now more annoyed than hurt. How many times had she asked herself the same question? That same question that became implanted in her mind and soon germinated into a monstrous sponge, leaving no room for an answer.

He finally lifted his eyes off the lawn and shifted his glance to her face. Slowly, he continued: “It's the twentieth century…” Again he shook his head in disbelief and his eyes glanced over her shoulders and into nothing. “Why weren't you taking anything? You know better.” He paused, wet his lips and sighed, “You're a girl. You're supposed to know these things.”

“I don't. I don't know why.” She felt sorry for him and her voice became increasingly soft. “What do you think we ought to do?” He looked down at the blotches of dirt and grass, staring hard, as if the answer lay beneath.

“You'll have to get an abort—”

“Wait. Just wait.” A ton of bricks fell tight against her breast and she could not breathe. “Let's … we gotta think this over.” There was a long pause between them. The wind blew weak leaves of the tree they sat under and she thought I would like to be that leaf in mid-air swaying so softly. But only weak leaves enjoy the moment of freedom faster; only they die sooner. She realized now, suffering from this heaviness in her heart—this freedom—that the decision was ultimately hers. Hers alone. Her eyes that had first pleaded desperately under the tree now looked upon him as a frightened child.

“Alice.” She turned to him and a reassuring smile appeared on her face. She hugged him tenderly and whispered, “You're just making it worse for the both of us.” Hers. The wind blew a colder breeze and both trembled, enveloping themselves within an embrace.

A girl with long, stringy hair enters the room followed by a chilly draft that slaps me on the back. I hope I don't look that bad. Sits on the lonely wire chair. I smile at her with lazy lips but the encouraging gesture is not returned. Oily hair. (Looks like she used mayonnaise for shampoo.) I belch out a giggle. Alice—now's not the time to joke. I keep swinging my legs until my heart swells and I choke. Oh my God—

God. What am I doing here? Alone and cold. And afraid. Damn, damnit. I should have stayed a virgin. STUPID, stupid—virgins have babies too. Enough, Alice. Keep warm, Alice. No sex, Alice. Punishing me. For loving, God? Fucking, Alice. Fucking Alice. Stop it, Alice. Alice. Grow up, not out. Alice.

Alice

                 God isn't pregnant.

Alice

“Alice. Alice Johnson.”

“Me,” I nod my head and smile. I think I'm going to win.

David Nava Monreal

First Prize: Novel

Miguel was four months old when Raúl graduated from school. Raúl wore his best suit, a wide tie and cufflinks embedded with imitation diamonds. A dais and a microphone were set up in the schoolyard and folding chairs were used to accommodate the audience. Several eucalyptus trees surrounding the graduation area shed their svelte leaves like tumbling showers of excelsior. It was late summer dusk, sprinklers watered the lawn and fat pigeons sat watching from the roofs.

The director of the program and Miss Buford sat on the left side of the dais while the eight students sat on the right. Three months prior, the loquacious divorcée ran off with a policeman and the Negro with the bad eye moved back to New Orleans. The director stood up to make his speech. The spectators squirmed. They were anxious to begin the celebrating.

“I am happy to say that all eight students on stage passed their courses with flying colors. Most of these people had never made it to the fifth grade. But with hard work and encouragement they accomplished more than we had expected.” He paused and gave a quick glance to his watch. “Let it not be said that hard work in America has died. These students are living proof of that. But the truly inspiring thing about today is that these people will now get a second chance at life. Before, they were nothing but sociological statistics. Now they are competitors in the labor market. All of us know that the American government is not perfect, but this small insignificant ceremony proves that it is trying.”

There was a salvo of insipid applause.

“But without further ado I would like to introduce the person who is to hand out the diplomas, the person who is most responsible for the success of this year's class, Miss Buford.”

Miss Buford stepped up to the microphone wearing a white muslin dress that was cut low at the top and raised at the bottom. Her sun-soaked breasts were pressed tightly against her bodice and her shapely legs were in full
view. She looked more like a seductive actress than a teacher. Rosa, sitting in the front row, turned her face as a playful breeze pushed Miss Buford's hem high over her knees.

Tossing her head back, Miss Buford began. “It was a joy teaching this class. Everyone tried hard and I think everyone had fun. As for me, I learned more in this one year than I could have in ten. Education should begin at the grassroots level, not in places where money is plentiful. I hope I did something to help in these lines. These students, sitting here, would not have had a chance if it wasn't for this great program. I would like to thank my director who gave me this wonderful opportunity to prove myself and especially the students who enriched my life.”

The women clapped and several men whistled.

“Now as I call out their names, will the students come up and receive their

diplomas?”

“Ron Thatcher.”

“Bill Thatcher.”

“Joe Méndez.”

“George Álvarez.”

“Chris White.”

“Sam Luna.”

“Carl Lory.”

“And Raúl Nava.”

When the ceremony was over everyone went into the cafeteria to drink punch and eat cookies. The director was in one corner discussing politics with a man with long hair and sandals. Miss Buford was being looked at and pawed by most of the men of the graduating class. Rosa held the baby in her arms as Raúl poured her a glass of punch.

“Oh, I'm so happy for you,” Miss Buford said to Raúl as she kissed him on the mouth.

Raúl stood gawking at the perfumed Venus.

“And congratulations to you, too, Mrs. Nava,” Miss Buford said, taking Rosa's hand.

“We named the baby Miguel,” Rosa said with a frown.

Raúl's business career began as the assistant manager of the jewelry department of a well-known chain store. The director of the educational program had told Raúl that he could find him a job as a salesman, but Raúl was not expecting such an esoteric product. The first day on the job Raúl was like a fish out of water. He was under the supervision of a thin, intense man of thirty who was proud of his glib ability to make sales. The man was highstrung
and he would constantly fly into tantrums. He could not understand why Raúl found it so difficult to learn the jewelry business.

“All you have to do is convince the people that they need to buy a diamond or a watch or any piece of jewelry,” he would say.

“But I have never worked in the public before,” Raúl would try to explain.

“It's Goddamn easy. Just don't be so damn shy!”

“I can't help it.”

“Okay, okay, I understand. You've spent most of your life working in the fields. I should have known that when I hired you through that damn government program!”

“I'm sorry,” Raúl would say.

“Just go back to work.”

The process was slow, but eventually Raúl began to learn more about his job. He studied a manual on diamonds and discovered that they consisted of points, facets, and carat weight. He even began incorporating the salesman's jargon of “fire,” “scintillation,” and “clarity” into his daily conversations. Within two months Raúl was repairing watches and making small sales at the counter.

After six months Raúl was allowed to run the department by himself. He opened up the counter, put up the displays, rang up the sales on the cash register and kept the books. Soon enough he built up the reputation of being a conscientious worker. One day, much to the delight of the manager, Raúl made five sales that amounted to over five thousand dollars.

As time passed, the jewelry department was known for its Mexican clientele. Mexicans would come from all over the city and surrounding communities just to buy a watch or a wedding ring from Raúl. He had become indispensable and there was even talk of him being promoted to a managerial position. Raúl himself was slowly being taken in by his own self-importance.

Raúl took to wearing rings on every finger on his hands and he liked displaying gold watches that made his wrist look tawdry and obvious. He paid special attention to his clothing and he would have his hair styled once every three weeks. He flirted with the women in the store and sometimes he got the impression that some of them were taking him seriously. His selling technique was to fawn and flatter the customer. He attained special gratification whenever he sold an expensive diamond to someone who made the purchase not out of necessity but out of the need to impress.

Raúl's observations of his new environment were gathered over the years. Customers walked in and walked out but the one most valued was the one with the most money. That was the reality of things. He began to understand that this was not a country run by the beauty of trees or the serenity of nature or the profundity of loving and being loved. It was not a country that celebrated the birth of a child or the heat of the sun or the passionate wail of joy.
It was not the same world where he had courted Rosa and silently nourished the depth of his heart. This was not a nation of posadas, friendships and meaningful conversations. It was a world of grappling, struggling and survival. It was a life of poses and intricate games. It was a ruthless cycle that spun around the axis of money. Raúl often scorned this society that bent you, drained you of your simple humanity. In the mornings, Raúl would awaken with a bad taste in his mouth. It was as though poetry had turned to prose.

One day as Raúl busied himself polishing the silver he saw Miss Buford walk into the store. She was strolling hand-in-hand with a man that looked twice her age. She saw Raúl and quickly approached.

“Raúl, how nice to see you,” she said with a glowing smile.

“Good to see you,” he replied.

Turning to the tall man she said, “Raúl was one of my first students.”

“Nice to know you,” the man said dryly.

“This is my fiancé, Raúl. We plan to be married next year,” Miss Buford explained.

“Congratulations,” Raúl said shaking the man's hand.

“How are Rosa and the baby?” Miss Buford asked.

“Fine. Miguel will be five years old next week.”

“Fantastic. I see you're doing okay.”

“I'm the manager,” Raúl lied.

“Wonderful! I knew you would amount to something.”

Raúl blushed.

The man tugged lightly at Miss Buford's arm.

“I have to be going, but it was nice seeing you again,” she said.

“Take care,” Raúl said.

As they walked away Raúl was very sure that if circumstances had been different, she would have been his.

Rubén Medina

First Prize: Poetry

Era como esos domingos

en que Padre nos llevaba al béisbol

y mis hermanas y yo

descubríamos el esplendor bajo la yerba

pedazos de agua que nos llevaban

a odiar nuestro origen de caracoles

Padre era hermoso y grande como un autobús

Madre cariñosa como una mujer de paredes

Las calles eran tranquilas

como un sueño de organilleros

Los muchachos abrazaban a sus novias

tratando de imitar la lluvia

de un impresionista anónimo

Y para la tarde Padre se ponía un traje limpio

y agua de colonia y los zapatos brillantes

como reflectores de cine

y se iba a gozar con otras mujeres

Y Madre se quedaba llorando

maldiciendo una y otra vez su mala suerte

y recordando los buenos tiempos

cuando ella era soltera joven y hermosa

La abuela teje sentada en el sillón

como una vieja diosa tarasca

aunque más parezca un pavo real urbano

y entonces llueve

y yo respiro profundo como una piedra

ando por los muebles como un río

y las manos de la abuela

siguen tejiendo y tejiendo nubes

que para marzo serán un mantel

para el hijo soltero

mientras la ciudad recuerda a sus muertos

entre la melodía monótona de la lluvia

De repente la abuela deja de tejer

mira para la ventana

y entonces suena un relámpago

y yo corro por debajo de la mesa

la abuela viene hacia mí

y desaparece el miedo por las paredes

igual que el sol evapora el agua del asfalto

La abuela sentada en el sillón

como una vieja diosa tarasca

aunque más parezca un pavo real urbano

sigue tejiendo y tejiendo

y yo me meto a la boca un pedazo de madera

que alguna vez fue el botón de un radio

De repente sus manos paran

y se me queda mirando

a mis hermanas

Este miércoles 6 de febrero,

quiero decir la mañana que levanta

los artesanos y pescadores