Mirror Me

3: The Mysterious Case of the Mirror Breaker

I stood facing a bare bathroom wall. The ghostly outline of where a mirror once hung echoed in the discolored paint. My mother had removed it three years ago leaving the apartment bathroom vacant of one of its essential items.

Thumbtacks littered the empty space near the center, each one holding a magazine cut out of a beautiful idealized Latina woman. Oftentimes I imagined looking like them with tanned and clear skin, almond eyes surrounded in the most extravagant makeup, and voluptuous waves of black-silk hair falling like clouds on my shoulders. Yet in my blind efforts of recreating what they possessed it always ended in failure. Today as I prepared for school was no different.

The comb pulled at the knots in my tangled hair. My face contorted with each painful yank. The sink, covered with all sorts of beauty products from mascara, to hairspray, to foundation, lay stained with years of makeup tutorial mistakes. Anything that could be done to make my sixteen year old self fit in with the other girls was poorly performed at that sink. No matter how long I stared at the blank wall envisioning my reflection, I could not bring myself to imagine beauty. All I had to rely on for my looks was the cruel words of others and the untrustworthy touch of my hands. Where I hoped to feel smooth tanned skin, I felt bumpy red pimples. When I tried to apply eyeliner, I only succeeded at mastering the clown aesthetic. And when I curled my hair to give it that extra volume, it fell shapeless on my shoulders. Despite the meaning behind my name, I was completely hopeless.

"Hope," cried my mother from down the hall, "breakfast is ready. Hurry and eat before your bus shows up."

I silently exited the bathroom and pulled my hair into a ponytail. The smell of food guided me into the kitchen where I was greeted with burnt buttered toast on paper plates, my mom's signature breakfast delight. The only person that did not mind the charred dish was my twelve year old little sister, Laura. She reached over the table and nabbed herself two slices before rushing into the living room. My mom chased after her.

"Laura, eat at the table. You will get crumbs all over the sofa."

My abuelita sat in her rocking chair and turned on the morning news. Today it sounded like the usual drivel of racial tension at the Mexican border.

"Laura," she called pointing to the white cloth covering the television, "can you uncover the TV so your abuelita can see?"

My sister shoved the toast in her mouth and rolled up the cloth. The screen showed scenes of desperate people making the dangerous trek across the Mexican wilderness to America in hopes of gaining a better life. When I was younger I did not understand the need, but now recalling the stories of how my abuelita made the journey all those years ago gave me sympathy for their desires. A better life is all anyone could ever dream of.

"Gracias, mija," said my abuelita, leaning comfortably back in her rocking chair. My mother instantly retorted to the sound of the Spanish language.

"Mother, you know my rule. No speaking Spanish. Try harder, please." My grandmother scoffed and turned back to the television. She flipped to another station. My mother walked up to Laura and ripped the toast out of her mouth. "And you, little lady, will eat at the table."