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........ our first year in New York, we rented a
small apartment with a Catholic school nearby,
taught by the Sisters of Charity, hefty women in
long black gowns and bonnets that made them
[5] look peculiar, like dolls in mourning. I liked them
a lot, especially my grandmotherly fourth grade
teacher, Sister Zoe. I had a lovely name, she
said, and she had me teach the whole class how
to pronounce it. Yo-lan-da. As the only
[10] immigrant in my class, I was put in a special
seat in the first row by the window, apart from
the other children so that Sister Zoe could tutor
me without disturbing them. Slowly, she
enunciated the new words I was to repeat:
[15] laundromat, cornflakes, subway, snow.
Soon I picked up enough English to understand
holocaust was in the air. Sister Zoe explained to
a wide-eyed classroom what was happening in
Cuba. Russian missiles were being assembled,
[20] trained supposedly on New York City. President
Kennedy, looking worried too, was on the
television at home, explaining we might have to
go to war against the Communists. At school,
we had air raid drills: an ominous bell would go
[25] off and we'd file into the hall, fall to the floor,
cover our heads with our coats, and imagine our
hair falling out, the bonnets in our arms going
soft. At home, Mami and my sisters and I said a
rosary for world peace. I heard new vocabulary:
[30] nuclear bomb,radioactive fallout, bomb shelter.
Sister Zoe explained how it would happen. She
drew a picture of a mushroom on the
blackboard and dotted a flurry of chalk marks
for the dusty fallout that would kill us all.
[35] The months grew cold, November, December.
It was dark when I got up in the morning, frosty
when I followed my breath to school. One
morning as I sat at my desk daydreaming out
the window, I saw dots in the air like the ones
[40] Sister Zoe had drawn random at first, then lots
and lots. I shrieked, "Bomb! Bomb!" Sister Zoe
jerked around, her full black skirt ballooning as
she hurried to my side. A few girls began to cry.
[45] But then Sister Zoe's shocked look faded. "Why,
Yolanda dear, that's snow!" She laughed.
"Snow."
"Snow," I repeated. I looked out the window
[50] warily. All my life I had heard about the white
crystals that fell out of American skies in the
winter. From my desk I watched the fine powder
dust the sidewalk and parked cars below. Each
flake was different, Sister Zoe had said, like a
[55] person, irreplaceable and beautiful.
Adaptado de: ÁLVAREZ, J. Snow. In: Castillo-Speed, L. Latina – Women’s voices from the borderlands. New York: Touchstone, 1995.
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