Her Hands

Today would be the day that this would happen. It wasn't like she hadn't tried this before. And usually, it led to the same results: come back next time. The lines had always been so long that by the time she got to the front, it was closed. Today was different; today she got in. The line to the Western Union wrapped around the corner, as it usually did. Mid-February, below-freezing temperatures at 11:30 am; what else would you expect from Chicago? Camila was prepared though. Doubled-up wool socks, two pairs of sweats, more sweaters than she could recall, topped off with an old coat, a beanie, and a pair of gloves. There was something different about today's attempt to get into Western Union and retrieve the money her sister had sent her. She had woken up 11:11 am, and as if Camila weren't superstitious enough, she rushed out of bed and got to the Western Union, thinking that unintentionally waking up at a time when some people make wishes would make her wish come true. "What's so special about 4 1's?" she thought to herself. But she didn't question it. If it could bring her luck, she'd believe in it.

Approaching noon, rays of the Sun trying to penetrate the cold temperature, Camila moved around the corner and could see that beautiful yellow sign. It didn't make sense to her that so many people in front of her stood in the way of her getting her money, but then again, she figured the people behind her in the line were thinking the same exact thing. Speaking of her money, let's talk about it. Her sister, Xiomara, lived in San Francisco. From the way Xiomara described her home and neighborhood to Camila in the letters, Camila felt like she was back in their home country, Puerto Rico. Healthy trees, warm weather, beautiful sunlight; the complete opposite of Camila's current situation. Camila and Xiomara weren't very close. Daughters of Puerto Rican farmers, Xiomara was the favorite child. Instead of asking Xiomara for a helping hand on the farm, as they would ask Camila, they claimed she needed to preserve her light-skin pigmentation. Camila was born with the same shade of darkness as her mother, so more hours in the sun wouldn't change how her neighborhood viewed her because she was already dark. In their neighborhood, being dark-skinned was a bad omen; their mother's "saving grace" was her straight hair and incredible cooking skills. But Camila didn't inherit the straight hair or cooking skills. Her hair was thick and curly, and her cooking skills allowed her to make a mean omelet, but nothing more. Her escape from the reality of her childhood was her writing. She'd come up with the craziest stories that she'd write in a little black book she kept hidden under her pillow. The first page was blank because her superstitious-self believed that the first page of any book should be left blank for good luck. Her mom had gotten the book for her, but Camila hid it because her father didn't believe that her hands ought to be used for anything other than fieldwork and cooking.

Xiomara and Camila interviewed for the same job at Google, after reading a job description that said it was looking for "diversity." For Google, a dark-skin, curly hair Latina was "too much diversity", but the light-skin, straight hair Puerto Rican with an "exotic" name was exactly what their brand needed. So Xiomara went to San Francisco and Camila stayed in Chicago working at the same salon she'd been at for more years than she'd expected. Doing hair was Camila's thing though; she wanted to make women who didn't have straight hair feel good about themselves. But she barely made enough money to cover the rent. In her free time, she wrote stories like she did during her childhood, but she barely had free time and her stories weren't going to pay the bills. Xiomara took pity on her and decided to send her money. As if any amount of money could make up for the years of oppression Camila faced for being darker while growing up with Xiomara. Xiomara had always reaped the benefits of her light skin, whether she knew it or not.

Camila pulled open the door to Western Union, a new accomplishment for her. She stepped up to the window, told the employee her name, and was greeted not by money, but by a little black book. Camila, though confused at first, grabbed it anyway, partially because she hoped there was a check inside, and mostly because she recognized that little black book. It was the same one she had written her stories in as a child. She didn't open it until she got home. Much to her disappointment, there was no money inside. Instead, what she found was the first page with a bunch of numbers scribbled on it with a note as well, and the childhood stories she had written on the following pages. Camila couldn't figure out right away what the numbers meant, but the note helped her out. It was from her mom, who at this point had been buried for 5 years right next to her dad. The note read: "Camila, my beautiful daughter. Your childhood was not a fair one. Your sister, Xio, is more fortunate in this world than she'll ever know. You did not deserve to suffer, but your father knew no other way. Every time I saw your bleeding hands from working the crops, my heart bled a little more for you. Wherever you are in life when you open this book, I'm afraid it won't be where you deserve to be because of how you look and how society treats our kind. I know your hands are meant for more, and I pray that the money you'll find in this bank account will help you start a new life. It isn't much, I added whatever I could from our food sales, but I know that you will need this much more than your sister. I love you Camila, more than you'll ever know."

Somewhere between tears and confusion, Camila called Xiomara to tell her about the book, assuming she had sent it to her. Before she could even get a word in, Xiomara assumed she was calling to ask if she had sent the money yet and immediately hung up. Camila let it go and began calling financial institutions, assuming they wouldn't hang up on her for asking about money the way Xiomara did. Her mother had left her with what appeared to be an account number and a routing number, but not the name of the bank. After what felt like 100 calls, the account and routing numbers matched up with an account under Camila's name at Banco Popular, a popular (pun intended) bank for the Hispanic community as most of the employees spoke Spanish. The employee on the phone told her she had a balance of $20,000 in her checking account. Camila thanked her and hung up with a smile on her face and tears starting to form again. To her sister at Google, $20,000 would probably seem like chump change, but to Camila, it meant everything. Maybe leaving the first page blank paid off after all (pun intended, again!) Reading that note from her mom and the stories Camila had written took her back to her childhood. It took her back to her first true love: writing stories. And that's when it hit her. $20,000 was not enough for a drastic life change, but it was enough to shave some hours at the salon and spend more time working on her writing.

Over the next couple of months, she worked fewer hours at the salon than ever before. Her writing was going well, her short stories were flowing from brain to pen to paper, and she was happy. She found a website where people uploaded their writing to share with others just for fun. She took a picture of one hand-written short story each week and put it on the website. Each week was a new story in different handwriting because Camila was versatile with her hands, and each week more and more people read and commented on her writing. Camila got to the point where publishing companies were reading her stories and reaching out to her to sign a book deal. Eventually, she decided to sign on with one and sold a million copies of her books. Her first book, a recollection of her and her mother's struggles on the farm, was dedicated to her mom and on the very first page she wrote: "To Mami, thank you for showing me that my hands are capable of so much more."