But my mother didn’t come to the phone. She never said it herself.
Months from that moment, on Thanksgiving Day of my sophomore year, I’d be sitting in my dorm room, my back to the window and the snow falling outside, blinking at the screen of a laptop I’d bought with part of my summer stipend. I’d see a banner hanging from a pedestrian bridge over the expressway, near the exit that got you closest to Mami’s building. THANK YOU ARIEL, the banner would say. WE REMEMBERED IN NOVEMBER.
That was the first election in which I was old enough to vote. When my voter registration card showed up listing my polling place as my old elementary school, I followed the directions in the mailing and sent away for an absentee ballot. When that arrived, it took up my whole mailbox and, when I opened it up in my dorm room later, seemed excessively complicated. There were multiple envelopes, multiple places where my signature needed to be affixed—a word I’d never heard used that way before. I was to vote in private, it ordered. There were to be, it stated ominously, no witnesses.
I almost threw the whole thing out. This is too hard, I thought, and I tossed the flapping pieces of the ballot and its instructions on the radiator, hoping they would sizzle and burn away. How easy it would’ve been to drive to my old elementary school, to park in its familiar lot, to walk into the cafeteria I sometimes smelled under the brighter, cleaner scent of the campus’s dining hall, and slip into a voting booth. How easy—how much less of a burden—than what I had to do, what I would end up doing.
But we all know the history, and I’m sure my vote was never counted. I’m sure it sits—even now, probably in that state’s capital—in some vault, the envelopes unopened, the paper moldy and dank like the Ariel artifacts my mother kept, at the bottom of some bag filled with ballots like mine. I wish I’d known as I sat there hovering over that radiator-warmed punch card—having waited until the postmark deadline to commit a decision to it; the little pin that I’d detached from the instructions, which mandated I use only that tool to puncture the spot that proved where my loyalties lay, slipping in my sweaty hand—how pointless it would be. I wish I’d known that no one would ever see it or count it. I wish I’d known, as I pushed through one choice over the other, how little it mattered which side I ended up betraying, how much it would hurt either way.
Acknowledgments
Much thanks, love, and gratitude to the following:
My agent, the brilliant and thoughtful Adam Eaglin, not just for his belief in this book, but for the passion he put into making it stronger and finding it the right home, and for always knowing the right thing to say at the exact right time, even across several time zones. The whole crew at the Elyse Cheney Agency.
My editor, Hilary Rubin Teeman, a long-lost sister when it comes to unconventional first-name spellings and height. Alicia Adkins-Clancy, who answered e-mails from the altar; Dori Weintraub, dream publicist; the entire St. Martin’s team, especially Laura Chasen and George Witte, for getting us down the home stretch.
The Institute for American Studies and the University of Leipzig, especially Florian Bast (eater of reindeer and undying Vikings fan), Anne Koenen, and Crister Garrett for opening up their homes and sharing their families with me during my time in Leipzig. Jennifer Porto and Andrew Curry for the late nights and the reminders of home.
The One Voice Scholars Program, the single most amazing organization for which I have ever worked. Sue, Mommi, Kelli/Kelly, Irma, Ruth, Rosie, Sharmon, and especially Dan (Dan!) for their dedication to making college access a reality in this country. One Voice is the real deal: Please visit onevoice-la.org to learn about the vital work they do.
More of my One Voice Family: Amara, Angelica, Yaracet, Jenny, Jose, Steve, Pablo, and the rest of the One Voice 2010 class. Roxy and Arturo, my 2011 badasses. This book is for you guys and for those who’ll come after you. Consider it a very long hug.
The Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, where so many of the best things that have ever happened to me got their start. Michael Collier, Jennifer Grotz, and Noreen Cargill for creating a supportive and inclusive home. The Waiters of 2008, 2009, and 2010—especially Tiphanie Yanique (waiter-mama and sister) and Aaron Balkan—and the 2012 Fellows (with extra love for Claire Vaye Watkins for her generosity).