Free The Ladies of Managua by Eleni N. Gage

decisions, enacting changes, affecting everyone and everything she touches. I was seventeen and in Managua for spring break the first time I realized I had this talent. I’d been admitted to a summer program at CalArts near San Francisco, but Madre wanted me to spend the summer in Managua with her, interning in her office at the foreign ministry, working on my Spanish, which she said I spoke like an American. “Dude, I am an American,” I said, just to annoy her. I knew I would capitulate in the end; I liked being in Managua with my relatives, even, when I didn’t let my teen angst get the better of me, enjoyed being with Madre herself. What bothered me was that she seemed to know it, too, and the clearer that became, the angrier I got.
    â€œMy Bela says I should go to CalArts,” I told her. “And my abuelo, too.”
    â€œThey’re not your parents.” She pressed back her shoulders the way she did before she had to give a speech. “They’re your grandparents. I’m the one who gets to decide! I’m your mother.”
    â€œOkay,” I answered. “Then let’s just ask my father.”
    I don’t know what possessed me to say that. It had gotten to the point where neither of us ever mentioned Papi much; Madre certainly wasn’t going to bring him up and I had moved on from fantasizing about how handsome my heroic papi must have been to noticing how cute the editor of our school’s literary magazine was. One point for Sigmund Freud, I guess. But I didn’t think it was fair that by her logic, Madre was the only person left on earth who had the right to weigh in on my future. What surprised me wasn’t so much that I brought up my papi, but her reaction. She left the room. She didn’t storm out or slam the door behind her. It wasn’t like anything you’d see on my Bela’s TV shows. But she was gone three hours and when she came back she said, “Fine, you can do the program. I made some calls and it comes highly recommended. But after those six weeks, the rest of the summer you’re with me in Managua.”
    Madre said it as if this were her idea, as if she were giving me a command, telling me what we were going to eat for dinner, and where, and with whom. But the truth is, the scenario she was describing was exactly how I would have designed my summer if I thought she’d let me. I wanted to spend time in Managua, to see Rigobertito, whom I grew up with like we were siblings, and whom I only saw on holidays since he’d gone to college. And I also wanted to do the program and live in a dorm with kids who had no idea who I was or who my mother was or why I had no father or even where Nicaragua was. I had gotten exactly what I wanted. And while that fact on its own was mind-boggling, I wasn’t so stunned that I failed to notice something else, too—I now knew that when I needed to, I could invoke my father and hurt my mother.
    I knew it wouldn’t always be the right thing to do. In fact, it usually isn’t. And I certainly shouldn’t have referred to him, even obliquely, now, at Abuelo’s funeral, when I should be supporting Madre and my Bela, or at least keeping track of what’s hidden in my pocket, so it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. Instead I had lashed out, and I know what I said reveals me to be stunted emotionally. Beth would say I’m blaming the victim here, but Madre always seems to bring out the worst in me. For so many years, my entire childhood, really, I tried to be my best self around her. On the last day of first grade before Christmas break, our music teacher let us watch a video of “The Nutcracker” in class, and at the end, when she turned the lights on and everyone lined up for recess, Amy Santiago refused to stand. I was the last person in line, and she motioned to me to come over and whispered, “On the way out, tell Miss Thomas that I’m not getting