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She made her journey across the stage with anxiety, every step 

audible throughout the silent auditorium that resonated with the 

hushed conversations and whispers. She was nervous; her hands 

trembled slightly as they gripped the ends of her white graduation 

robe sleeves, which somehow had been ordered a size too large. 

Analía reached the school podium and stood behind it only to be 

caught in the gaze of an expecting crowd.

‘How am I going to do this?’ Analía thought. Her throat was closing 

up at the very thought of speaking in front of over a thousand 

people. It was happening; she could feel her hands becoming 

clammy with sweat and her ears were turning a peculiar shade of 

salmon. Blood rushed to her face as she tried her hardest to 

overcome the anxiety washing over her. Analía closed her eyes, 

and murmured a quick prayer under her breath to help calm her 

nerves. She felt her heart slow to a tranquil pace and she collected 

her thoughts clearly. 

‘I’ve practiced this speech over a thousand times… I even read it to 

Abuela. I can do this… I can.’ Analia told herself. 

As she opened her eyes with newly found confidence, her eyes 

scanned the crowd for her mother so she could begin her 

valedictorian speech. Her gaze flitted from face to face in the sea of 

people, searching for her mother’s. But she could not find her; a 

flurry of panic suddenly rose up within her, washing away her 

resolve to deliver her speech. Abruptly, the auditorium doors inched 

open, and familiar silhouettes entered the auditorium, framed by 

the blinding outside gleam of light. Analía knew it was her mother 

and brother, Mateo, simply by the way she bounced when she 

walked and by the way her curls swayed past her shoulders and the 

way he unconsciously staggered behind, ever so slightly. She 

smirked to herself, and as her panic faded slowly, she realized how 

much she desired and wished for her grandmother to be there. 

Her grandmother, her Abuela. The remarkable woman whom is 

deserving of the utmost love and affection and responsible for every 

good, dear thing in Analía’s life. Abuela, Analía’s safety, hide away, 

and means of an endless flow of positivity and warmth. When mamá 

was at work, or busy around the house, or taking care of Mateo, 

Abuela was there for Analía; for anything from bedtime stories to 

making chicken noodle soup when she was sick with the flu; from a 

playmate to a mentor, always ready to listen, free of judgment, to 

wipe away any doubts or heartache Analía had welling up, and when 

the tears were over or her face and heart were calm and exhausted 

from exerting her frustrations, Abuela kindly and gently, or sternly if 

ever needed, reasoned with her granddaughter, uncovered the silver 

lining, guided her to a point of assertiveness and confidence, 

washing away any nerves or jitters or disappointing outlooks.  

A memory surfaced to the forefront of her thoughts, 

overwhelming her with a feeling saturated with nostalgia. It 

reminded her of that sunny, August day close to thirteen years 

ago; the day she came to the realization that she was about to 

begin the journey that would bring her to this point. And the 

most prominent part of that memory was her grandmother; the 

way she smelled of cilantro and roses, the way her skin was 

wrinkled and warm, the way her voice was strong, yet cheerful 

with an adorable, broken-English so common of Latina women, 

but was entirely her own and spread an irreprehensible, 

unconditional love to familia, to friends, neighbors, and even 

the common stranger walking along in the street.

Analía closed her eyes, shutting her eyelids tight, trying to make 

her tears swallowed back up – as she was on the brink of crying, 

her breath even, and the auditorium stop spinning around her as 

the central point. This suffocation, this state of anxiety, due to the 

crowd of masses watching her, presumably gawking and 

experiencing a bout of impatience; the speech made up of 

memories, motivation, accomplishment, and appreciation – all of 

which left no mark on her mind in her desperate time of need; the 

classic lack of punctuality on her mother’s behalf for one of the 

greatest and most important events of her life; and the memory 

choking her heart with a sense of longing.

Children heartily laughed in the busy streets, cars speedily passed 

by, and the sun turned a golden shade as Abuela took a seat next 

to Analía on the front steps of their apartment building. The two 

shared moments of silence, a breath of familiarity, in a city so alive. 

The young girl sighed, and looked down as if her knees were an 

infinite abyss that could hide her away and stall life forever. 

“Why you no play with you friends?” asked Abuela, as she stared at 

the delightfully amused children across the street. 

“Because I don’t want to,” said Analía.

“Oh,” Abuela said, “la nena doesn’t want to play with her friends.”

Analía tentatively smiled at her abuela. “No, I want to sit with you.”

After some time, Abuela pried into the deep matter Analía was 

contemplating. “I’m only six, lela, why do I have to go to school? I 

don’t want to. Why can’t I just stay home contigo, mamá, y 

Mateo?” It was the end of August, and the beginning of school was 

approaching. Analía felt its speed. In just a matter of a week, she 

would be sitting in a classroom full of children her age, in a new 

school – larger and more intimidating than anything she has had 

to experience, as a kindergartener. 

“Well then stay home,” said Abuela, “you wash dishes.”

“I don’t want to do this either,” Analía said with a scrunch of the 

nose. “Mamá is making me go. Can’t you tell her not to? You are 

mamí of mamá,” Analía giggled. 

As a child, Abuela loved school very much. She loved learning – 

everything was fascinating, especially math. That is, until her 

father took her out of school in the fourth grade. It was not very 

common that girls in the campo went to school: they had to stay 

home, help their mother, work on the farm, and take care of their 

younger brothers and sisters – tending to every need of the 

domestic sphere. Abuela was not an exception.

    “You know, my papá did not let me go to school. This is why I 

move to los Estados Unidos: so you mamá, tió, you, and Mateo 

can go to school.” 

Analía felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. It’s true – her abuela 

always talked about life in the Unites States as so much better, a 

place where anything is possible, and opportunities are in reach. 

She did not want to disappoint Abuela by not going to school. How 

sad it is, Analía thought: a little girl who wanted to go to school 

could not, and a little girl who does not want to go has to. 

Analía was then hit with a wonderful idea – to a six-year-old, that 

is. “Abuela, you can go to school instead of me!” The youngster 

said this with a wide smile on her face; her grandmother would be 

so happy finally being able to go to school. Abuela laughed and 

laughed, saying, “Ay, Aní, you so funny. I don’t need school 

anymore, remember. You need school. You are smart, and have big 

future. School is good.”

All Abuela said was true. School is good so you can learn. “And I’ll 

be able to read many many books,” Analía contemplated. “But the 

other kids won’t like me, or I won’t like them. What if I’m the only 

one without blonde hair and blue eyes? What if I don’t make new 

friends, and Bridgy stops being friends with me? Things happen like 

that, abuela.”

‘Yes they do,’ Abuela thought, saddened that her granddaughter – at 

so young of an age – already knew this disappointing truth about 

life. “Why do you say this, Aní? Look where we live. In a big city, 

where not everyone ‘blonde hair and eyes blue.’ No matter, you are 

beautiful. You have pretty brown eyes, hair like chocolaté, you are 

very happy, and, you speak two language: the English y Español. 

People like this.” Abuela continues, “And you amigita Bridgy. She 

will like you.” 

    “Maybe.”

Analía intently watched the other kids play. They never played one 

game for too long. They played soccer, caught the ball from each 

other, ran around, or did cartwheels. Once in a while they would 

look back at Analía, and call out to her to join them. Every time, 

Analía yelled back, “I’ll play in a little.” Her playmates tried to 

convince her to play, saying that she doesn’t have Mateo, so she 

should come while she can, but shrugged it off when she postponed.

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