I’d watched them in all their beautiful courage. I’d watched them as they struggled through their hurts and their wounds.
And there was one thing I could be certain of: I was loved.
I pictured Mima pointing at my dad. I knew exactly what she had been trying to tell me. She wanted to be sure that I understood that I had been raised by a kind and tender man, that there was no cruelty in the world that could rob him of his dignity. His heart could not, would not, allow it.
God, I was happy.
I texted Sam: Are you awake?
Sam: Just about to fall asleep
Me: Wftd = nurture
Sam: What?
Me: As in nature vs. nurture
Sam: You okay cray boy?
Me: Go to sleep. I’ll tell you in the morning
Sam: Sweet dreams
I went outside and sat on the back steps. And all of a sudden it mattered so much to me where I went to school. I wanted it to be Columbia. That’s where my father had met my mother. That’s when they’d fallen in love with each other. It wasn’t the usual love story. But it was a love story. A love story like mine and Sam’s.
I held the letter in my hand. Dad said that Mima would always be with us. And my mom, she’d be with me too. That’s the way it was when you loved someone. You took them everywhere you went—?whether they were alive or not. I read the letter over and over and over. I didn’t sleep all night. I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t tired at all.
I was happy sitting there on the steps, my mother’s letter in one hand and my essay in the other. I remembered the first day of school as I walked home in the rain and how I had never felt so alone, the weight of the rain blinding me.
I wasn’t alone. Mom. Dad. Mima. Sam. Fito. My uncles and aunts. My cousins. No, I wasn’t alone. I never had been. I never would be. Alone was not a word that applied to me as I sat there. Waiting for the sun to rise.
Salvador
I HEARD MY FATHER grinding the coffee beans in the kitchen.
I walked inside. He looked up at me. “You’re up early.”
“I wanted to watch the sunrise.”
Then he studied me. “You look like you’ve been crying.”
I held up the letters. “My essay,” I said. “And Mom’s letter.”
“Oh,” he said.
Just then Sam walked in, ready for her morning run.
She looked at me—?then at Dad.
I dangled my letters.
Sam’s eyes got really big. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve never been better.”
Dad said, “I need a cigarette.”
And Sam said, “I’m going to text Fito.”
I am watching my father sitting on the back steps. He is smoking a cigarette and reading my mom’s letter. Sam and Fito are sitting next to him and reading it with him. I am throwing the ball up in the air and catching it in my glove. I am playing catch with myself as they read.
They have just finished reading the letter.
They are looking at me, Dad and Sam and Fito. I drop the glove and the ball on the ground. I walk toward my father.
I take the sealed envelope from him—?the one that holds the information about my biological father.
I ask him for his cigarette lighter.
He hands it to me.
I look at Sam and Fito and say, “Word for the day.”
Sam understands and says, “Nurture.”
I take the unopened envelope. I am watching myself as I take the lighter and place it over the edge of the paper.
I am watching the envelope burn. I am watching the ashes floating up to the heavens.
I am hearing myself as I tell my father, “I know who my father is. I have always known.”
And now I am laughing. And my dad is laughing. And Fito is smiling that incredible smile of his. We are watching Sam dance around the yard as Maggie follows her and jumps up and barks. Sam is shouting out to me and the morning sky, “Your name is Salvador! Your name is Salvador! Your name is Salvador!”
Epilogue
I GOT TO THINKING about the essay I wrote to get into Columbia. I think it might have been different if I’d read my mom’s letter first—?but it’s no use living in regret. My dad told me once, “If you make a mistake, don’t live in it.” He also said that we do things—?important things—?only when we’re ready to do them. I think he’s right. But sometimes life forces our hand. Sometimes we have to make decisions whether we’re ready to make them or not. I suppose I will have to learn to bend to the inexplicable logic of my life.
So this is the letter I sent to Columbia University (which fit none of the guidelines):
Dear Admissions Committee,
My name is Salvador Silva. My name represents the story of my life. My name matters more to me than I can ever explain. If things had turned out differently, I would have had a different first name and a different last name. And I would have had a different life.
My mother died when I was three. Her name was Alexandra Johnston. She met the man who was to adopt me, Vicente Silva, while they were undergraduates at this very university. My father came from a poor Mexican American family, went on to study art at Yale, and has become a rather well-known artist. I think it’s important to mention that my father is gay, not that it matters to me (though it seems to be something that bothers other people, mostly people who know nothing about the kind of man my father is).
I believe that the friendship between my dad and my mother was something incredibly rare. Their love created a family. A real family. When I was three, my mother died of cancer, and the man I know as my father adopted me. He was my mother’s birth coach, and he was in the room when I was born. You could say quite accurately that he was my father from the very beginning.
For some reason my mother decided to name me Salvador. And I’m very happy to have the name she gave me. My last name, I got from my father. I grew up feeling and thinking that I was as Mexican as my family. And even though, technically, they’re not Mexicans—?as they have been in this country for several generations—?my uncles and aunts and my grandmother have always thought of themselves as Mexican. That’s how I think of myself, too.
The most influential person in my life, other than my dad, is my grandmother. I call her Mima. By the time you read this letter, she will probably be dead. She is suffering from the last stages of cancer.
It’s difficult to put into words what my Mima means to me, so I’m going to end this essay with a memory I have of her, a memory I have carried all my life and will carry until the day I die. I want to be worthy of being called her grandson. If I can live up to that, then I think I just might make a very fine addition to your university:
I have a memory that is almost like a dream: the yellow leaves from Mima’s mulberry tree are floating down from the sky like giant snowflakes. The November sun is shining, the breeze is cool, and the afternoon shadows are dancing with a life that is far beyond my boyhood understanding. Mima is singing something in Spanish. There are more songs living inside her than there are leaves on her tree . . .
Dad said it was a great letter. “It’s really beautiful, son.”