The other day, leisurely, we wandered into Books on B, a treasure if there ever was one, which we’d heard about and long wanted to visit: a real, live, brick and mortar book store.
Being an English teacher in Hayward since fifteen years ago, watching bookstores come and go, this was something precious. We had to buy something. All of us.
I remember the bookstore that used to be on B Street. You can still see the remainder of its old sign. I remember riding into there when EJ was very little, her on a trike with a handlebar I’d push, which somehow seemed acceptable at the time, to just ride in with a baby girl. We bought a pile of books, stuffed them into the rack on the back of her red bike, rode out. Felt like the last time.
During this summer, I’ve taught English Methods at Cal State East Bay, the Hayward hills, where EJ’s school is, right by the flatland areas where Elaine teaches and where the school’s community lives. (I work in Southwest Hayward.) Given the chance to assign a text to plan lesson around, I chose the first one I taught, thirteen or so years back, English 9, hoping to find something to pave the expanse between my kids and me.
I saw it there, at Books on B, but in translation. I want to get better at Spanish, to learn to speak without flinching at my sentences, to add subtlety to my replies when someone graces me with their comfort in Spanish.
Reading The House on Mango Street, or La casa en Mango Street, with my frail and forgotten Spanish, is a teeny bit like living in those thirteen year old’s shoes when they sat in my class, unaware that their insecurity was deep but mine was old and wide and also gaping and hungry.
Somehow, again with Esperanza Cordero/Sandra CIsneros’ tender frankness, I’m entranced again.
“Una vez, cuando vivíamos en Loomis, pasó una monja de mi escuela y me vio juganda enfrente. La lavandería del piso bajo había sido cerrada con tablas arriba por un robo dos días antes, y la dueño habia pintado en la madera SÍ, ESTÁ ABIERTO, para no perder clientela.
“¿Dondé vives? preguntó.
“Allí, dije señalando arriba, al tercer piso.
-Cisneros, traduzca por Poniatowska, La casa en Mango Street
That longing, those aspirations, that dissatisfaction, that restive desire that comes from the mix of shame and pride, those dreams. Esperanza says of her family/self, “éramos seis,” we are six. The distinctions blur and maintain at the same time, and the same will be true of her and this neighborhood.
And I start to feel it to be so with us three and Hayward.