People always want to know why a woman takes abuse. There are so many reasons. In her case, she made a promise to her dying mother-in-law not to abandon her son. Sarah's story is a tale to tell.
My mother's story is a true story, a woman's story. Sarah was a first generation Puerto Rican American, and one of 12 children. Conceived and born on the sugar plantations of Hawaii before it became a state, acquiring US citizenship in 1917, along with all other Puerto Ricans.
Sarah's life was always complicated by the fact that she did not have a birth certificate. Lack of documentation of her birth was a result of her family working off their freedom as so called "indentured servants" of the sugar industry. However, in actuality, they were political prisoners of the United States. Victims of political circumstance when the US paid Spain a few bucks at the end of the Spanish-American war, in 1898. Those Puerto Rican families who displaced the indigenous workers of Hawaii were given a choice: Surrender to your fate as a slave of the US sugar industry or stay in jail for treason against the new government of the United States.
Puerto Rican history is fascinating. Often overlooked and widely misunderstood, Puerto Rican history documents one of the many crimes against humanity that has gone unaccounted for by the United States. It was easy to do away with that nasty business because it only affected 6,000 people. That's the number of political prisoners they shipped from Florida to San Francisco in railroad cattle cars, like Auschwitz.
My own birth certificate is a story unto itself as well. My adopted mother was like a mother-figure to my biological mom, and they were friends. After my teenage mother of Irish/Dutch decent, orphaned at age 11, had signed over her legal rights, Sarah took me home from the hospital. She had already raised two sons and was a grandmother when I was born.
When Sarah and her husband tried to legally adopt me they were denied. They were dark, Puerto Ricans, older and poor. My birth mother, on record, was white. My father was not listed correctly, nor does he know that I exist. My controversial conception was the result of a two week relationship with an older man who turned out to be married. A short, brown California born, Mexican-grown man with two children. The court had no idea I was already with my new family. So Sarah just kept me and didn't say anything.
My adopted father was a retired longshoreman, also a first generation Puerto Rican American. As an adolescent he bootlegged alcohol, ran numbers for bookies and prostituted his older sister. He was a bad dude. He got me a fake birth certificate, and they had me bean-dipped in the Catholic church. With that baptismal record, I entered public school. Those records alone determined who I was until I attempted to marry in my twenties. Imagine my surprise when I learned that I had no birth certificate. How that drama unfolded is yet another story.
I know, intense right?
Indirectly my unusual birth certificate saved my life while on a recent cruise of the Mexican coast, a story I intend to write. In brevity, I had dreamed of going on a cruise for more than 20 years, specifically of the Mexican coast or Alaska. With less that 40 hours to prepare, I was offered what I considered an opportunity of a lifetime. For a small fee to change the name on a preexisting booking, a Facebook friend (fellow teacher whom I had never met) privately asked if I'd be interested in replacing her cabin mate. This is where Horror Cruise innocently begins. (Posting soon)...
Happy birthday, mom. Thanks for doing your best to protect me from the storm. Your sacrifices are still alive in me, and they were not in vain.
