Carmen María Montiel - Stolen Identity

“Come on! What is your problem that you cannot lend your grandmother your brush?”

We had actually ran and hid our brushes. We did not want our abuelita to get lice. Finally, she said: “I do not have lice if that is what you are worried about.”

We could no longer hold it in and broke out in laughter: “ Abuelita , it is us who have lice!” We were crying, laughing and embarrassed at the same time.

In the meantime, Mami and Papi went from pet store to pet store all over Caracas. In one store, the salesperson was too nice and replied to my parents’ question about the shampoo with: “Help me to help you. What do you need?”

My embarrassed parents said: “We have a couple of dogs with fleas.”

The gentleman replied: “Oh, well I have the solution for you. We have these collars that are wonderful for that. It will kill all fleas. Guaranteed!”

My parents looked at each other, just managing to contain their laughter until they left the store. “Can you imagine the girls with those collars?” my father asked my mom.

In the summers, my mother’s sister always visited us from Caracas with our cousins, two boys our ages and a baby girl. We love each other to pieces. It was the best time when they came over. We played all day long.

One summer, our generosity was tested. We were playing in the backyard when we heard someone on the front porch. Little and full of energy, we ran to the front and found an old man, a guajiro , asking for something. Guajiros , an indigenous people from the area of Venezuela that we share with Colombia, have their own language. When they speak Spanish, it is difficult to understand them.

We tried our best, asking him again and again what he wanted. Finally, we came to the conclusion that he wanted “lemons.”

“Oh, lemons!” We all said at the same time looking at each other.” “ ¡Claro, señor! (Yes, sir!)” we all screamed. “We can do that!”

After all, we had a lemon tree in the house. So, we told him to wait and we would be back. We went into action with a purpose: we needed to get enough lemons for this old man. We felt like warriors.

Armed with a chair and a bat, we started getting lemons from the tree like monkeys hanging there. We filled up a bag, laughing, giggling and loving it. We were so proud of ourselves because we were helping an old man who needed a cane to walk. Once the bag was full, we run to the front porch and handed it to the old man with a smile.

Instead of the praise and thanks that we had expected, he was furious and started hitting the iron fence hard with his cane as he screamed, “¡ Limona, limona !” We were like, “Yes! Here you go, a bag full of lemons ( limones ).” But he kept screaming limona .

Scared, we ran back into the house screaming, finally understanding he wanted limosna (alms). My mother and aunt came running, then went outside and gave him alms. To this day, we laugh when we remember that story.

I was sure I was going to miss my Maracaibo. But I knew we would go back because it is our hometown.

Caracas meant a new neighborhood, new friends, and seeing more of the family we had there. Of course, it was nice that we could enjoy the Caracas weather, open our windows, and wear a sweater in the morning and in the evening. Maracaibo is so hot that we keep the doors closed and use air conditioning all the time.

But the biggest challenge was starting a new school with girls we did not know. My mother took us to get the uniforms —a gray jumper with a white shirt underneath worn with black shoes and white socks. We got our books, and the first day of school finally arrived.

I was starting second grade. For some reason, my sister was off to her classroom but I was held at the principal’s office, along with another girl who also was starting second grade and attending that school for the first time. She was a redhead. We sat together.

The school is a magnificent building that looks more like a castle than a convent. I felt ever so small inside it. The ceilings are so high that I feel minuscule sitting there. Rumor has it that the last right-wing dictator, Marcos Pérez Jiménez, built the school because his daughters attended it. Like anything he did, this was perfect, beautiful and magnificent. The time of Pérez Jiménez was a time of building. Most of the freeways and buildings in Caracas were erected during his dictatorship.

I looked at the girl sitting next to me, but we did not talk. We kept looking at each other timidly and somewhat mischievously. My eyes showed I was scared; she must have been scared also. We were new and inside this spectacular building. We might get eaten by it! My childish brain was spinning.

At Santa Rosa de Lima School, the sisters belonged to the Dominican Order. Their white habits were so well pressed they were almost shining. Some had black veils and some had white. It was the way hierarchy was determined.

Finally, a nun came to the office to get us. As we started to walk together behind her, we held hands. Although we had just been introduced, she was the first person I met at the school and that created a bond. The nun opened the door of the classroom where they had already started to introduce themselves. She said to the teacher, “These girls —Carmen María Montiel and Amarilis— belong to this classroom and they are both new.”

Life would prove that was not the only day we would walk together. Our lives mirrored each other for many years.

The following days proved to be the first challenge of my life. I had a heavy maracucho accent, something that was the butt of jokes made by the rest of the girls. There is nothing more cruel than children, not because they are naturally cruel, but because they have no filter. Children always tell the truth and say what they feel. They made fun of every word I said, my natural expressions, everything!

It got to the point where I hated to go to school. I missed my friends in Maracaibo. Until one day I decided this accent of mine had to go! And in no time, I was talking like a caraqueña and the jokes ended.

What I did not know at the time, there was another possibility of embarrassment. I am dyslexic. Back then, there was no knowledge of it. I was able to get good grades in all subjects, but I was not able to read. At the time, everybody just thought I was lazy or dumb.

I had all types of tutors in Maracaibo to teach me how to read and my father tried. They all failed. When my mother signed us up at the school, she wanted to put me in first grade because of this, instead of second grade where I was supposed to be, but I was too tall for my age. The nuns told my mother that it would not be a good idea for my self-esteem. La Madre Superiora (Chief Nun) assured my mother that their teachers were specialized and if I was not able to read by December, they would put me in first grade then.

My God! What could have been worse? But sure enough, I was reading by December, not perfectly but much improved.

It was not until I was in college when reading an article waiting to see an ophthalmologist that I learned what my problem was… I am dyslexic! That article described me. Every word, every symptom was talking about me.

However, I went on to graduate magna cum laude from college and worked as a news anchor reading a teleprompter. Who would have ever thought I could accomplish that? I think the move to Caracas, with all the changes and challenges that came with it, made me more aware and secure in myself.

Once my accent became more like the other girls, school life was normal, learning, studying, playing kickball, learning ballet and being with friends. However, the girl that sat behind me did not like me or my hair, which was long, down to my waist, and honey colored. My mother took care of us, and the three girls had beautiful long manes. My sisters had golden hair.