After having Demi speed out of the body shop to get away from me, I.m not feeling like talking
and hope to avoid mi.amá when I get home. But one glance at the living room sofa puts that wish to rest.
The television is off, the lights are low, and my brothers have probably been sent to our bedroom.
“joe,” she starts. “I didn.t want this life for us.”
“I know.”
“I hope Demi doesn.t put ideas in your head that shouldn.t be there.”
I shrug. “Like what? That she hates I.m in a gang? You may not have chosen this life for me, but
you sure as hell didn.t protest when I got jumped in.”
“Don.t talk like that,joe.”
“Because the truth is too painful? I.m in a gang to protect you and my brothers, Mama. You know
that, even though we don.t talk about it,” I say, my voice getting louder to match my frustration. “It.s a
choice I made a long time ago. You can pretend you didn.t encourage me, but,” I pull off my shirt,
revealing my Latino Blood tattoos, “look at me real good. I.m a gangbanger, just like Papa. You want me
to deal drugs, too?”
Tears stream down her face. “If I thought there was another way–”
“You were too scared to leave this shithole, and now we.re stuck. Don.t put your guilt on me, or my
girl.”
“That.s not fair,” she says, rising.
“What.s not fair is you livin. like a widow in perpetual mourning since Papa died. Why don.t we
move back to Mexico? Tell Uncle Julio he wasted his life.s savings sendin. us to America. Or are you
afraid to go back to Mexico and tell your family that you failed here?”
“We are not having this discussion.”
“Open your eyes.” I stretch my arms out wide. “What do you have here worth stayin. for? Your
sons? „Cause that.s a copout. Is this the image of the American Dream to you?” I point to the shrine of
my father. “He was a gangbanger, not a saint.”
“He had no choice,” she cries. “He protected us.”
“And now I.m protectin. us. You gonna have a shrine of me when I get whacked? And Carlos?
Because he.s next in line, you know. And Luis after him.”
Mi.amá slaps me hard, then backs away. Dios mio, I hate that I upset her. I reach out to her, my
fingers wrapping around her arm to hug her and apologize, but she winces. “¿Mama?” I question,
wondering what.s wrong. I wasn.t rough with her, but she.s acting like I was.
She wrenches herself out of my grasp and turns away, but I can.t let it go. I step forward and lift up
the sleeve of her dress. To my horror I find a nasty bruise on her upper arm. Its purple, black, and blue
hues stare back at me, and my mind rushes back to the wedding when I saw my mom and Hector in a
private discussion.
