Chapter One- Isabel
PUT A FINGER DOWN IF YOU GOT PREGNANT SIX MONTHS AFTER YOUR QUINCEA?ERA
Iwas officially the stereotypical retired Chola. Shit, I had been checking off stereotypical boxes before I was even able to legally purchase cigarettes or alcohol.
Pregnant within a year after my Quinceanera. Check.
Reformed Chola turned nurse. Check.
What is a reformed Chola? I don’t know because the word Chola is largely debated amongst Gen-Zers on TikTok.
Many of whom had no idea how amazing the world was in the 90s, but, according to them, the word is somehow derogatory.
Welcome to the twenty-first century. Where cancel culture runs rampant, and everything can be held against you on social media.
The word “Chola” has always been nostalgic to me. A slow drawn smile appears at the thought of me and my friends running through Hillcrest on our goodwill bikes without one God damn screen distracting us. It was a different way of life.
Something about being back in Corpus Christi made all my childhood memories resurface.
When you grow up somewhere your entire life, move away, and then come back, you don’t realize all the things you missed out on.
How every small change seems drastic to you, while those who never left have already adapted.
Like this house, for example. Why did it seem so much bigger when I was growing up? I didn’t realize the bedrooms were this small. Or that the Precious Moments figurines in the large wood cabinet were as creepy as they were. Just staring at me like, “When was the last time you prayed, Isabel?”
Coming back to live with my mom has been the lowest point of my life. Well, second lowest point. The first being the day I found Juan Carlos, my now ex-husband, in bed with our landlord. Looking back, though, I think it was a blessing in disguise.
That day, a part of my soul felt crushed by the betrayal, but it wasn’t for me, it was for our son.
If I’m being honest, there was a larger part of me that felt relieved.
It was like the decision I had been debating for years had finally made itself.
Deep down, I knew I wasn’t happy. We fought about everything and avoided each other most of the time.
The affair gave me the opportunity to finally end the marriage without one damn person questioning me.
I do regret taking the video, though. Blasting Juan Carlos and his mistress, Mildred, on social media was too much even for me, but I guess when you’re hurt, you morph into someone you never thought you’d be.
Like me screaming “Hija de tu perra madre” in the background of a ten-second clip.
A clip I ended up posting to every social account I owned with the caption “Juan Carlos’s newest ride”.
It was immature. I realized that about three hours later, after the video had already gone viral. The digital footprint following me around like that poem my mom used to make us read as kids.
And when you see only one set of footprints, it was I who was carrying you.
I know it was white Jesus who said that, but my brain can’t help imagining Samuel L.
Jackson’s voice when I hear it in my head.
Whether it was white Jesus or Samuel L. Jackson, the point is that the digital footprint was still carrying me.
Through the sand, with all of my shame and baggage, and through the millions of comments saying, “I hope she heals from this.” Healing currently loading.
Very slowly, though, because my need to be petty took over for six months.
Even after I deleted the video, per our mediator’s request, the internet was still passing the video around of Mildred covering herself with a sheet and Juan Carlos standing there frozen in shock.
Then there was me in the background insulting his manhood.
The internet wasn’t ready to let it go. Juan Carlos had become the new Rudy Valencia to them.
Pain is a universal feeling people can relate to. Pain changes you. Makes you hate everyone who hurts you. Or block everyone with the name Mildred because you will never trust anyone named Mildred again.
On the plus side, it does make you more compassionate towards others who are going through the same thing. It opened my eyes to who was around to support me during the most difficult time of my life, my older brother sitting at the top of that list.
One call to my older brother Desmond, and he was there, cramming my entire life into the bed of his pickup truck. We were both the fuck-ups living back at home, taking back our bedrooms and starting over again.
So yeah, I don’t give a fuck about the stereotypes or memes made about me. Here I am, a retired Chola, teen mom, and a single, twenty-eight-year-old divorcee, living with my mother. And now, after years of working as a certified nursing assistant, I am a registered nurse.
I stare at the reflection of myself in the mirror with my graduation cap on.
Graduation was over three weeks ago, so it seemed silly that I kept putting the cap on, but I was proud of myself.
The late-night studying, the twelve hours of home care for Mr. Ruiz, and taking care of Junior, while still managing to pass all my exams. I did that.
“Isa, mija, did you want me to take Junior to school?”
I throw the cap down, startled by my mother’s words. This was the part I hated about moving back home. No privacy. My mother’s eyes look from me to the cap on the floor.
“What are you embarrassed of? You earned that!” She moves to pick up the cap.
“I know. I’m just nervous, Ma.” I admit, swallowing down the familiar taste of fear.
Fear and failure were always lurking in the corner of my mind. This was my last chance to be something. I could not fail myself or my family. Not again.
“Nervous de qué? You go into that hospital with your head held high. You let them know you are Isabella Yolihuali Gomez Sandoval, la hija de Don Charras, y la nieta de… ” Mom starts.
“La nieta de Dona Esperanza Arredondo Gomez.” I finish her sentence and grab her hand.
I love her theatrics. My mother dedicated her entire life to caring for us. She also spent an unhealthy amount of time watching her Spanish novelas. Palming my face, she offers me a comforting smile before exiting my room.
Fear and failure, the double f’ers, as I will refer to them going forward, have held me hostage long enough.
Questioning my every life decision and highlighting the ones that always led to negative outcomes and wasted tears.
I had been wrong about Juan Carlos, wrong about moving away from Corpus Christi, and, as my mother would remind me, wrong about cutting five inches off my hair last week.
I would not be wrong about this, though. It was my job to prove everyone in Hillcrest wrong about Isabella Sandoval. Their stereotypes about me may reflect a small part of my story, but I would never let it define who I am at my core or determine my self-worth.
Fluffing out my hair, I check the mirror one last time, admiring the way my scrubs fit on me. I pull my hair up and put on some small working-class hoops.
Walking into the kitchen, I find Junior sitting at the table with a plate of eggs, bacon, a cup of fruit, and to the side, a large glass of chocomil.
Desmond and I look at each other and then at the large breakfast. We don’t say it, though.
Hell hath no fury like an abuelita being told she is spoiling her grandson.
The same woman who threw us packets of Bimbo muffins for breakfast was now insistent that her grandson had the entire food pyramid catered to him. She waits on the twelve-year-old as if he were the heir to her lost terrenos in Mexico.
“Traded in the apron for some scrubs! órale!” Desmond says before taking a sip of coffee.
“How do I look?” I ask my brother, showing off the black scrubs with my Nike Cortez shoes.
“Firme. Dad would have been proud of you.”
My heart squeezes in my chest. I miss my dad so much, and this house still feels empty without him.
This small home has been a sanctuary for me on numerous occasions.
I can still hear the laughter echoing through the walls.
Desmond, our older sister, Lourdes, and I chasing each other.
Lourdes and I fighting about sharing a bathroom.
Lourdes and Desmond fighting about pretty much everything. We weren’t those kids anymore, though.
For one, Lourdes had been taken by the white people, like an alien invasion. One minute she’s running in the streets, drinking horchata in pink jelly slides, and the next, she’s marrying a white man and playing “keeping up with the Joneses” in her suburban neighborhood.
Conversations with Lourdes were always centered on checking for preservatives and red dye in all our food, or the latest pyramid scheme she had gotten sucked into. I don’t even blame her husband, Tom, for any of this. He’s a nice guy who loves her dearly. She has always been high-strung.
Desmond was taken by the white people, too, but he was taken in handcuffs. He had been in and out of jail most of his life, but the last time cost him six years. Six years that had changed him.
“Junior, ride the bus home after school today, okay?” I say and kiss him on the cheek.
He gives me a thumbs-up sign and continues to watch videos on his phone. Grabbing my work bag, I prepare to leave the house for my first day at the oncology center. My mother stops me before I can reach the door.
“Mija, have you talked to Manny about the car?” she whispers.
I follow her line of sight out the window to the 1969 Pontiac GTO sitting on the curb under the large oak tree.
The car my father had left for me. My mother refused to drive it.
Desmond was convinced my father’s spirit was haunting it after it died on him at the gas station while he was buying beer.
I got too emotional just looking at it. It just sat there, day after day, fading in the Texas heat.
I know I should sell it. It was just sitting there taking up space. But it was one of those things that kept my father’s memory alive. I look at the car and then back at the stack of bills.
“Please, Isa. You and Manny were so close. He’s been picking up Junior every Friday and taking him to his dad. If you would just stick around one time to talk to him.”
I let out a sigh but shake my head in agreement. She’s drowning in debt. Both Desmond and I are helping the best we can, but it’s not enough to cover the medical bills.
Putting up a barrier to anything other than Junior that tethered me to Juan Carlos, meant avoiding Manuel Chavez.
Trying to explain barriers or boundaries to my mother, though, was a battle for another day.
I didn’t want to talk to Manny, but if it eased her anxiety, if there was a chance he could help us with the car, then I had to try.