LA MORENITA, Chapter 1

 It was obvious from the beginning that Araceli was gifted. Not only was she intelligent, but she had a knack for communicating with spirits and understanding the language of butterflies and birds. Even though she couldn’t predict the future, she understood the past and knew what no one could possibly know, except for the people who were actually there at the time.
Araceli resided with her father, Norman, and her mother, Maria, in a town called Richland in Washington state, where they lived among mostly non-Mexican people. In San Antonio, Norman, a German-American, and Maria, a native-born American of Mexican descent, had married. Shortly afterwards, they moved to Washington state. When Maria was three months pregnant, she and Norm got into an argument about what to name their baby. “Todd,” he declared. “Or Jack. Ron. Ron is the name of a football player.”
“Those names are not right,” she said. “They’re not names for a boy with dark hair and dark eyes.”
“Look at me,” he ordered. “How can I have a child with dark hair and eyes?”
“Look at me,” she countered. The morning sun reflected fiercely off her jet black hair. Her dark eyes shined like polished gemstones. “How can I not?”
His translucent blue eyes met her gaze. The light streaming through the window made his hair look like molten platinum. “My genes are stronger,” he said. He meant it as a joke, but an edge in his voice made her uncomfortable.
“What if it’s a girl?” she asked.
“It won’t be a girl.”
“What if it is?”
“Ingrid,” he said. “That’s my grandmother’s name.”
“That’s not a name for a girl who looks like me.”
“Or Caroline. That”s not too—.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?”
“No. Because it won’t be a girl. My parents didn’t have a girl. I won’t have a girl. I won’t have a dark child.”
“Who told you that children always take after their father?”
“Look around you, Maria.”
Maria shook her head. “Bonita. Linda.”
“Linda doesn’t sound too bad.”
“I changed my mind. Linda is too common. Magdalena sounds—.”
“Uh-uh. No daughter of mine is going to be named Magdalena.”
“Why not?”
“It sounds like an old hag leaning out of a window. Or an old dried-up nun. Sister Magdalena.”
She bit her lip. “Jesus,” she said. “Diego.”
“Those are boy’s names.”
Right,” she said. “And that’s what we’ll call our—.”
“Jesus or Diego?”
“Yes!”
“The hell you will!”
She turned and went into the kitchen, her signal to him that she refused to discuss the matter any further. He didn’t follow her.
But they both kept lists.
Two months later in the middle of a discussion about needed repairs for the home, she brought out her list. “Esperanza,” she said.
“What?”
“You heard me. Esperanza. It means ‘hope’. That’s the name our baby girl will have.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Leticia.”
“Ugh.”
“Alicia.”
“Alice might not be too bad.”
“I hate Alice!”
“Well, I hate Alicia.”
“Ana.”
“No.”
“Blanca.”
“No.”
“Bianca.”
“Sounds like a mouthwash.”
“Claudia.”
“Hell, no! No child of mine’s going to be named after a cloud.”
“Elena.”
“No.”
“Emilia.”
“Forget it.”
“Felicia.”
“Never.”
Okay, smart guy. You think up some names.”
He went into the bedroom, grabbed his list and read.
“Since it’s going to be a boy anyway, we’ll call him Joseph.”
“Oh, that’s good. I can call him José.”
He came out of the bedroom and stared coldly at her.
“Anthony.”
“Antonio.”
“Alexander.”
“Alejandro.”
“Charles.”
“Carlos.”
“Frank.”
“Francisco. Pancho. Kiko.”
Louis. I can call him Louie.”
“Luis.”
“That’s a girl’s name.”
“Not in Spanish.”
“You’re making me mad,” he said. “I don’t want to put my hands on you.”
She backed up.
“Why won’t you give me this?” he pleaded.
“Norm, be reasonable.” she said. “Our baby’s going to be a dark girl.”
“No, he’s not!” He wadded up the list, threw it on the floor and walked out.
That weekend, he came into the kitchen carrying a pocket book of names. “Our boy is going to have a European-sounding name,” he announced. “Bo’s a good name. Bo means commanding.”
“Ick!.”
“Gregor means vigilant.”
“Ouch!”
“You’re not giving me a chance here.”
“Our baby’s going to be dark, Norm.”
“If the baby’s dark, we can call it,—.” He consulted the book of names. “Hadrian.”
“What if the baby’s a girl?”
“The baby’s not going to be a girl.”
“What if it is?”
“It’s not going to be a girl,” he repeated. “But just to make you happy, I’ll see what choices the book gives us.” He glanced down. “Astrid means divine strength.”
“Paloma means dove.”
“No way. What’s wrong with Astrid?”
“I don’t like it.”
“Inga. It means hero’s daughter.”
“Araceli,” she countered. “It means—”
He flung the book against the wall.
A month before the baby was to be delivered, he came into the kitchen where she was wiping off the counter. “Chad!” he announced.
She blinked her eyes.
“Yeah!” he shouted triumphantly. “You got a Spanish name for that?”
She shook her head. “If you’re so sure it’s going to be a boy, why don’t we agree that you get to name it if it’s a boy, and I get to name it if it’s a girl?”
“Fine! Fine! Good!” He raised one arm in the air and walked out of the back door.
Five weeks later, their mestizo daughter was born, with black hair, brown eyes, and a wide, knowing smile. “Ingrid,” he said softly.
“No. Araceli. You promised.”
“I know, but—.”
“You promised!”
He didn’t say anything for a while. “Okay,” he finally said. “But you have to promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Never speak Spanish around her.”
“Why not?”
“She needs to speak English so she can fit in. If you want me to keep my promise, you’d better keep yours.”
She frowned. “Yeah. Sure. Okay.”