Marta Sanchez

“No.  Marta Sanchez isn’t coming.  She wasn’t invited.”  It was May of 1958, I was 8 years-old, and at Susie’s house, three doors down from mine in Passaic, NJ.  We were talking about an end of the school year party at her house this coming Saturday.  Susie’s house was the biggest and most perfect one in town with a pool in the backyard (with a slide!), a treehouse for her brothers that was off-limits to girls, and a permanently set up croquet course where we were right now.  “But she has to come.  I thought everyone from our class was coming,” I blurted out while banging my mallet against the wooden ball sending it precisely through the hoop.  I continued, “Her mom even made us matching dresses.”  Marta’s mom was known to be an excellent seamstress.  Her work on wedding gowns was in constant demand.  She would sometimes show me how to stich around a button, or under a complicated pleat, or behind an intricate embroidered area and tell me, “it has to look like it’s floating.  It has to look like angels made it with magic.” Then she’d smile, look through her thick-lensed glasses, and get back to work.
“My mom says that she’s Puerto Rican and they don’t belong at our parties,” Susie continued as she took her turn, hit the ball, and missed the hoop. Suddenly Mrs. Tannor appeared holding a tray of lemonade and cookies, her heavy, gold charm bracelet clanging as she walked. “Are you girls having fun?”  She set things down on a nearby table, smiled and was beginning to walk away when I stopped her.  “Susie says that Marta Sanchez can’t come to our party next week because she’s Puerto Rican.  I don’t understand.  She’s really nice.  Everyone likes her. She says she’s going to be a doctor one day.”  Mrs. Tannor sat down on a nearby chaise lounge, her soft yellow dress rustling around her, and motioned me to stand before her.  With great solemnity she took my hands and looked me in the eyes. “Sylvia, dear, there are things in this world you just don’t understand yet.  There are people we simply can’t be seen with.  There is such a thing as a reputation and if you are with the wrong people…well, it’s shattered.  You have to be very careful in this world. And she will not be a doctor. She’s a girl and look where she comes from.” I stood frozen with my wooden mallet in my hand as she stood up quickly, patted me on my head, told us we only had a few more minutes to play, and went back to the house.  “Come on, Sylvia, we’ve got to finish. You’re beating me.  You always beat me,” Susie giggled. 
The situation troubled me, and I thought it over and over in my mind as I trudged solemnly home. The next day at lunch I talked to Marta about this.  She didn’t seem surprised.  “My mom says this happens to us sometimes.  But she tells me not to worry because when someone doesn’t like you even before they know you it’s not you they don’t like.  It’s something in themselves that they don’t like but they have to find an outside place to put it.  How can anyone really not like you when they don’t know you?  She says, ‘Don’t listen to hate when it talks, Marta, because it will stop you. You are made of star light, so just shine and the whole world will see you are magnificent.’”  “Magnificent” became my favorite word for the whole day.
That night at dinner I told my father about the problem.  His face was red with anger, but his words were controlled and clear, “ Well, you know how your mother and I feel about justice.  You know how we feel that all people deserve dignity and respect and equal chances.  There is a great deal of unfairness in the world. But this is becoming your world now--how do you think you should solve this?”  I was confused.  The party would be so much fun, but how could I enjoy it without my friend Marta there?  And the matching dresses were beautiful.
I came up with a plan.
I told Susie I was really sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to come to the party.  I asked Marta to come to my house for an adventure on the party day and that we needed to wear our matching dresses.  My mother called her mom to get her approval and when they arrived, as Marta and I twirled around in our fancy white dresses with pale blue lace trim, I saw the adults talking but couldn’t hear any of the words.    And then all of us climbed into my parents’ big black Buick, drove over the George Washington Bridge into New York City, and on to The Plaza Hotel for afternoon tea.  We ate cookies and scones and whipped cream (right off the spoon!) and cakes.  Then Marta and I were allowed to wander through the lobby by ourselves.  We hid behind the huge potted palms and scampered and slid on the shiny corridors. Someone stopped us and asked if we were twins and we looked at each other and burst out “YES!” at the same time.
On the way home we sang songs in the car and the adults told stories about when they were kids.  The sun was almost setting as we drove west over the bridge on the way back to New Jersey and when we said our goodbyes, we all declared it to be “The best day ever!”  I yelled loudly as they drove away, “It was magnificent!”
We moved away the following month and continued move after move for many years.  As happens, I lost touch with many of my childhood friends.  But by chance I ran into Susie at an event almost thirty years later.  We didn’t recognize each other at first but small talk about backgrounds quickly sorted that out.  I asked about her family.  “Well, I married a lawyer—he specializes in civil rights lawsuits.  He and my mother barely talk to each other.  I love her, but I just can’t agree with her ideas.  It took me too long,” she looked down with sadness and continued, “but I did finally realize that people need to be treated with dignity.  I remember listening to Martin Luther King’s speech and his line about basing your opinions about folks not on the externals but on the content of the character of the individual.”  She went on, “My father died a few years ago.   Heart attack.  And my mother…Oh my…” now she chuckled at some long-held internal joke, “she had breast cancer.”  I looked confused, but she continued, “so her doctor sent her to the best specialist and meticulous surgeon in New York.”  At this point she was laughing so hard that she wiped tears from her eyes. “I went with her for the examination and imagine both of our surprised faces when we were greeted by Marta Sanchez!”  Oh my.  Now I burst out laughing.  “My Marta?” I sputtered, “Marta? So, what happened next?”  “Well, she had the surgery and it was successful.  Marta saved her life. And while my mom was in the recovery room and Marta came out to talk with me, I listened carefully to all instructions about after-care, thanked her, and then I asked her how she could put aside such anger and obstacles that she was faced with.  And know what she told me?”  Now I was listening very intently as she continued, “She said you just have to love the world.  You have to make things better that you can make better.  That you just have to harness your internal star-shine and glow brilliantly, and eventually everyone will see your magnificence—that her mom taught her that.”

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