felt great shame. “With ‘sh’,” I timidly replied. Miss Virginia couldn’t pronounce it and it came out as “ch”
like chorizo and chupeta; everyone burst into laughter.
From then on, the woman would never forgive me or simply, no matter what I did, I was a damn Polaco to her, an unacceptable piece of shit.
Miss Virginia said that “Chirano” would go with little María del Carmen, the “cat-eyed” teacher who was standing next to the piano. She was beautiful: green eyes, brown hair, porcelain skin, and the swee-test smile.
The woman would never fail me. She was a loyal friend and the biggest advocate for Polish rights at school. From the very beginning, she considered me a “Tico” and no classmate would dare to send me to Palestine, Poland, or Cochin China. “Jacob was born here,” she used to say, “and he’s as ‘Tico’ as a sweet potato.” María del Carmen loved her country, and rightfully so: we were an oasis of tranquility amidst a convulsed Latin America. The girl may have noticed, just like Pablo, my shyness. But unlike the cruelty of the “moréh” (teacher), she never treated me differently.
In fact, she sensed that a difficult life awaited me; she realized that it wouldn’t be easy for me, and so she stood by my side. Years later, I would be told that she had a brother like me.