Flor Fights Back: A Stonewall Riots Survival Story


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER ONE
 Manhattan, New York City Ortiz family apartment June 26, 1969 8:45 p.m.
 I didn’t mean to start a fight with Abuelita. I just missed Mama so badly that I couldn’t help myself.
 Abuelita made me go to bed early, like she always did now that Mama was gone. I always tried to do what she said, so I turned off my bedroom light and closed my eyes.
 I could hear the screech of car brakes and the wail of police sirens from outside my window. The air in my tiny room was hot. It wasn’t long before my pillow turned clammy from my sweat.
 Sleep didn’t come. I had tossed and turned most nights since Mama died six months ago. This was the worst night yet.
 After a while, I got up to get a cup of water from the kitchen. I put on my glasses and crept down the hall on my tiptoes, careful not to disturb Abuelita. If she found me out of bed, even just to get a drink, she would yell at me for sure.
 The light in my grandma’s bedroom was out. Abuelita must be getting the sleep I couldn’t. That’s when the idea came to me. It wrapped itself around my heart and wouldn’t let go.
 Instead of sneaking into the kitchen, I opened the door to Mama’s room, stepped inside, and then carefully shut it behind me. The room smelled like coffee, cinnamon, and cold cream, like my mom used to.
 I turned on the lamp on top of the vanity and then focused my attention to what I had come to see: Mama’s big cedar jewelry box. I opened the lid and slowly ran my fingers across the contents inside.
 Mama’s pearl necklace.
 Her gold hoop earrings.
 A bracelet of blue beads I made her four years ago, when I was nine.
 I traced over the smooth surfaces of the jewelry. I thought of how Mama would let me watch her put on her makeup and pick out her jewelry on Sunday mornings before we went to the cathedral for mass. Sometimes she even let me try on her pearls. She would laugh with delight when I danced around the room for her. She always let me be myself.
 My fingers stopped when they reached something soft and silky. It was Mama’s purple scarf. She wore it over her curly black hair when it rained. I always thought it made her look elegant, like Rita Moreno or Coretta Scott King.
 I picked up the scarf and rubbed it against my cheek. My eyes began to well with tears as I thought about how I would never hug Mama again.
 “What are you doing?”
 Abuelita was standing in the doorway in her pink robe, her hands on her hips and a scowl etched on her face.
 “Nothing,” I said. I backed away from the jewelry box, the scarf still in my hand. “I couldn’t sleep.”
 “So, you come in here and disrespect your mother’s things?” Abuelita’s voice was beginning to rise.
 “No,” I said. “I just…”
 “You just want to play with her jewelry like her precious things are your toys. Don’t you have any respect for her memory?” Abuelita yelled.
 “I d-d-do,” I said, stammering. The tears were flowing down my cheeks now.
 
 
 
 
 “I was just remembering how Mama used to let me try on her jewelry,” I said.
 “Shame on you,” said Abuelita. “I’ve told you a thousand times, you act like a boy while you live in my house. You disgrace your mama and dishonor our family.”
 Suddenly, my face was hot. Abuelita thought I was a boy because that’s what the doctor had said when I was born. That’s what everyone saw when they looked at me, but I knew differently. In my heart, I was a girl. I had never told Mama, but she seemed to know anyway. She never cared. Why did Abuelita have to care so much?
 I was still crying, but I felt angry too. Angrier than I had ever felt before.
 “Mama would want me to have her things!” I yelled. I scrunched her scarf in my hand. “She saw me for who I am.”
 Abuelita closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
 “As long as I am alive, you will conduct yourself as a proper young man,” she said. “Now go back to bed. In the morning, I will tell you how much trouble you’re in.”
 I padded back to my room and lay down on my bed.
 Grounded. I could handle that. I couldn’t stand being someone I wasn’t. I wasn’t a boy, no matter what my grandma, the doctor, or anyone else said. I was certain that Mama had loved me no matter what.
 “I wish you were still here, Mama,” I whispered into the darkness. “But since you’re not, I know what I have to do.”
 I waited in the dark until I could hear Abuelita snoring. Slowly, I pushed the covers off me and placed my feet on the floor. Walking to my dresser, I selected a white T-shirt and a pair of bell-bottoms and dressed quickly.
 Before putting on my sneakers, I grabbed my backpack and dumped its contents on the bed. I left everything in a heap except for my drawing pencils and my sketchbook. I stuffed those into the backpack.
 I listened again to make sure that Abuelita was still asleep. Leaving all the lights out, I stepped out my bedroom door and crept down the hall.
 When I passed Mama’s room, I stopped for a moment. With all my courage, I dashed into the room and grabbed the purple scarf from her jewelry box.
 Back in the hallway, I inched past Abuelita’s room and then rushed to the front door of the apartment. I closed it gently and ran down the