Growing up in TenerifeI have a sister, dear bird. A woman with hair as black as your plumage, although I have only known her as a child and must conjure the woman she is, the woman she has become.
Maria is two years my senior, and she was a little matriarch, even at seven.
When I was a young man, women in my society were expected to blend in with the background. They were to be meek and mild, obedient to all male authority. They were to keep house and have babies and more babies and nurture them all.
My mother was the exemplar of the perfect woman, a carbon copy of the immaculate Mother herself, and in naming her firstborn “Maria”, I suppose she was hoping to hand down her goodliness and obedience like a pretty pink bonnet. Alas for my mother, Maria didn't turn out like that.
José squi
