Now it is time to independently read and reread the passage from Under the Mesquite. Use a different reading speed each time you read it, and take notes on what you learn from the passage at different reading speeds. For example, speed up to skim the text for key words. Slow down to learn new information. Use the table to record your thoughts.
Mami said life would change
after I turned fifteen,
when I became a señorita.
But señorita means different things
to different people.
For my friends Mireya and Sarita,
who turned fifteen last summer,
señorita means wearing lipstick,
which when I put it on
is sticky and messy,
like strawberry jam on my lips.
For Mami, señorita means
making me try on high-heeled shoes
two inches high
and meant to break my neck.
For Mami’s sisters, my tías
Maritza and Belén, who live in Mexico,
señorita means measuring me,
turning me this way and that
as they fit me for the floral dresses
they cheerfully stitch together
on their sewing machines.
For the aunts, señorita also means
insisting I wear pantyhose,
the cruel invention that makes
my thick, trunk-like thighs
into bulging sausages.
When my tías are done dressing me up
like a big Mexican Barbie doll,
I look at myself in the mirror.
Mami stands behind me
as I pull at the starched
flowered fabric and argue
with Mami’s reflection.
“Why do I have to wear this stuff?
This is your style, not mine!
I like jeans and tennis shoes.
Why can’t I just dress
like a normal teenager?
En los Estados Unidos, girls
don’t dress up like muñecas.”
“Señoritas don’t talk back
to their mothers,” Mami warns.
When my aunts aren’t looking,
she gives me a tiny pinch,
like a bee sting on the inside
of my upper arm. “Señoritas know
when to be quiet and let their
elders make the decisions.”
For my father, señorita means
he has to be a guard dog
when boys are around.
According to my parents,
I won’t be allowed to date
until I graduate from high school.
That’s fine with me.
I have better things to do than think about boys—
like prepare for my future.
I want to be the first one in our family
to earn a college degree.
For my sisters, señorita means
having someone to worship:
it is the wonder of
seeing their oldest sister
looking like Cinderella
on her way to the ball.
But for me, señorita means
melancolía: settling into sadness.
It is the end of wild laughter.
The end of chewing bubble gum
and giggling over nothing
with my friends at the movies, our feet up
on the backs of the theater seats.
Señorita is very boring
when we go to a fancy restaurant
decorated with Christmas lights
for the upcoming Posadas.
We sit properly, Papi, Mami,
and I, quietly celebrating
my fifteenth birthday
with due etiquette because
I’m trying my best
to be a good daughter and accept
the clipping of my wings,
the taming of my heart.
Being a señorita
is not as much fun
as I’d expected it to be.
It means composure and dignity.
Señorita is a niña,
the girl I used to be,
who has lost her voice.
