Esperanza Rising

The summer of 2008 was tough on my family. The housing market had just crashed and with my mother being a teacher and my father working in factories here and there during this time, we unfortunately had no safety net to fall into when the floorboards were ripped from underneath us. One weekend we went to the library in the town were we used to live. It was a distant drive but climbing up the hills and through the newer streets to the glorious hall full of books felt like a life changing adventure everytime we made the trek. It took us thirty minutes to get from our doorstep to the automatic sliding doors opening onto grey colored carpet. Typically in libraries the childrens and adult section were seperated by either seperate rooms or even separate floors. This helped provide time for families to safely practice being away from each other and find refuge in a good story; without a worry of having to be someone’s parent or someone’s dutiful child. We could all just be individuals who happened to walk in together at the library.

My sister and I waved goodbye to our father and ventured down into the dungeon of fantasy novels and tall tales that was the childrens section. It was significantly cooler in this part of the library so it was a welcome relief against the heat chasing us inside for most of the summer. My sister peeled off at about the second row to look for the latest Warriors novel. This was her refuge in a story that taught world politics, struggles, and intrapersonal interactions through her favorite animal the cat. I continued on towards the back row and made a sharp left. This was the childrens “romance” section. I had always been fascinated as a young girl about how people come to fall in love with each other. Though since this was a section for children, the lovestory did come second place to the main theme of the novel: adventure, mystery, inclusion take your pick!

I walked a few paces, lazily glancing at the colors of the books. Most times I would pick up the book and read what it was about. But I would be lying if I hadn’t chosen a few because their book covers’ color was appealing to my mood that day: a bright but rainy spring morning could have me running straight to Molly Moon and a gloomy fall afternoon would always have me looking for the gooey-green and pale moon of Fever Swamp. Though this was a hot summer’s day in the middle of July. The air was dry and I was walking through those shelves as if my skin was made out of sandpaper. It felt too tight. Not only was it dry but it felt as though my muscles underneath had outgrown it. Eventually, walking became too annoying and I stopped to face the shelves to my right.

That is when I saw the bright blue sky and disembodied hand dropping a rose on the binding of an almost hidden book. Hesitantly, I reached out and pulled it from the mesh of text surrounding it. The cover was glossy and felt smooth to my rough hands. I turned it and in my studying I found a girl in a silken gold dress flying through the air. Her hand did not stretch across the curve of the book to line up with the first I had seen but stayed extended to her back. She was dropping the same rose as before. Her eyes were shut not like she was sleeping but I could tell she was dreaming. Her hair billowed in the air behind and above her head; causing a mane of raven curls around her. The ground, that was now so far below her, was covered in sand and looked as bleak as no ice cream truck for a week in the summer. Written above this magical girl was the title “Esperanza Rising” in gold text that matched her flowing dress.

I was captivated to say the least by the cover. I quickly turned foot and ran to my sister. She was engrossed in a Warriors novel she had already read but looked up as I came racing down her aisle of solitude; utterly disrupting the peace with this new treasure I found. She winced as if I was going to run through her but I came about a foot short. Telling her about the book I just found, I plopped onto the could slab of concrete across from where she was perched on librarian’s short footstool. We stayed there for hours reading our respective stories. Finally our dad came down to get us once he was finished his reading. We both begged to take our books home and he agreed it would be a good idea. After checking in and clamoring back into the car, we journeyed back to our blue house on Madison Ave.

For the next few weeks, I couldn’t put this book down. The story of her family fleeing their home in a time of crisis, both politically and personally, had me mesmerized. I found comfort in the tales from her Abuela and the knitting skills she taught her granddaughter. At the first read through, I was so mad when Esperanza had made a mistake in her stitching and subsequently her Abuela reached over and undid all of the loops and knots within the fibers; even past where she had made the mistake. My anger was matched by Esperanza and her Abuela offered the an eerie yet comforting message: “Never be afraid to start over”. The second read through, the anger was calmed but still bubbled up and by the third it was a dull ache of regret for Esperanza having made that mistake that forced the rest of her knitting to pay the price. Though after the fourth and fifth read through, I was finally able to see those words of wisdom were protective gear Esperanza needed to face the rest of her journey. I hadn’t realized how much I had needed the same suit until we were packing up the last of our home into the moving truck. When the market fell, my family lost our home. By the grace of my grandmother, we were able to move into a house right next door to my cousins. My mother, my sister, and I moved out there first with my dad staying behind to watchj the house until the sale was finalized. Apparently with the economic strife came an increase in squatters and my parents were afraid that they would be unable to sell if their house had fallen victim to them. Though eventually a buyer was found and it was time for my dad to move in with the rest of us. I had kept that last book from the library, periodically calling to renew it to give me more time to read as well as give my parents the opportunity to take me back there to return it. With the fall of the iron curtain of the moving truck, those opportunities ceased and I never returned to that library. As I was riding in the backseat back to our new home, I couldn’t help but cry as I finally realized our family was starting over. It was real with my dad finally joining us: no reason to return to this street other than to visit my best friend who still lived there. It was no longer my home but a place I had once lived. I had carried the book with me that day and looked down to the golden swirl of Esperanza’s dress. Her calm expression despite what her story, one far more difficult than my own, had in store for her had my mind so curious. I kept staring at it as we reached the final hill of our town; the final turn before the library. Pressing the book to my chest and shutting my eyes I didn’t mention that we should turn to return Esperanza to her home. Instead I clutched the binding with white knuckles and took a breath.

With my eyes still shut and my arms still barring my chest, I turned toward the window until my nose was pointed at the sun streaming in through sporadic clouds. The warmth washed over my cheeks and down to my shoulders. Then I felt the Knudsen of a wet nose under my right elbow and I turned to see our small dog sitting beside me. Her golden curls caught the sunlight just as the sun had on the golden silk on Esperanza. Our dog was a cockapoo: small, curly, energetic dogs from birth until death. When we had lost our home her age would have resembled my own if she were human. I looked to her face looking up at me and saw no worried expression; her mouth still curled upward on either side and her eyes glimmered with happiness in my return of her stare.

With one, two, three more nudges she had successfully unbound the book and my arms from my chest. She settled in on my lap and put her paws on the car door to look up at the clouds as well. Had this been the beginning of the summer, I still would have welcomed the embrace of my wonderful puppy but I wouldn’t have felt it’s warmth or the weight of it. Her view of the world was changing but she also was not afraid because I was going with her. As long and she still had my company, she could be at home as if we had never stuffed her bed into a brown paper box; which was now travelling at 60mph in front of us. I put the book down beside me on the seat, giving it a reassuring pat that I would return, and looped my arms around the small bundle of fur in front of me. I rested my cheek against her ribs and joined her in watching our skyline morph into unseen buildings and bridges. Even though the door on our old house had been shut by our family for the last time that day, my home had not been left behind.