Part 1; Where It All Begins- Chapter 1

Sophia Rivera POV

Tingggg!!!!!!!!

Ugghhh!!!!!

I quickly turned my alarm off

As softly as it could but still enough to wake me from a dream in a split second.

I have settled into the routine.

The city was half asleep, but I heard delivery trucks buzzed somewhere around, I smelled the bagel store near the corner baking fresh bread, and I felt the subways rattled under us.

In one part of Brooklyn we resided in a modest home within an economically disadvantaged area in which hardworking individuals strive diligently for improving of their circumstances.

There were two bedrooms in our house. It also had creaky floorboards and windows that allowed more cold air than light

Since Dad died five years ago, Mama has carried the load of everything, from working two jobs to pay the bills to keeping the house together and holding down everything.

When I got to college, I started to help out my mama by getting a part-time job. Now, as I navigate through the last semester of my master’s degree, it will be the time to find a full-time job that is also stable.

As I was sitting on my bed, quite distracted, I detected just a soft rattle of pans or plates being jostled within the kitchen.

Mama in her crocheted slippers was bent over diced onions inside a frying pan in the kitchen I walked into after going downstairs.

“Mama, you should be in your bed still,” I said softly.

My mama gave me a smile as a burst of black escaped from the bun on her head.

“And let my daughter do everything by herself? Absolutely not, Sofía!”

“You did a double shift yesterday; sit!” I took the spatula out of her hand before she could disagree. 

She sighed, but she wiped her hands on her apron and lowered herself into the chair.

I knew her body was old and tired with all the work she had been doing for us for the past few years; even if she would never say it, I know she needs rest now.

We both went about doing our morning chores together; I was cooking, she was folding the laundry from yesterday, and we spoke in low tones in Spanish so Nick wouldn't wake up.

We didn't need much of a language, as our routine became our language.

By the time I finished the eggs, Nick came out of his room, hair obviously jacked like he lost a fight to his pillow, and plopped down in the chair and squinted at me.

“You know what, Sof,” he mumbled through a yawn,

“You’re like a forty-year-old deep in a twenty-three-year-old’s body.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I’m serious.” He grinned now, so awake that he was starting to tease me.

“Most girls your age are out partying, enjoying themselves, and having their lives. You, on the other hand, are up before the sun, cooking, cleaning, and working like a grandma.”

Mama smacked his arm with the dish towel. “Don’t talk about your sister like that. We all keep this house together. She works really hard managing everything.”

Nick rubbed his arm but couldn’t stop smiling. “I’m not insulting her. I’m just saying… she is the most serious and boring person on earth.”

I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth wanted to fight back. “Someone has to be, especially with you around.”

He laughed, then the toast was filled in his mouth. But under all the jokes, I knew what he meant. He respected me, even if he would never say so. Since Dad died, responsibility came naturally for me. I have taken it upon myself to manage our home; no one has ever asked me to take this, but I just want to help Mama. 

I slipped my last dress over my coffee-stained café apron, grabbed my textbooks, and jumped out the door.

Time was always my worst enemy, but I learned to run away from it.

I walked to the café for my first shift.

It was located on the corner of a well-populated street. Red and white striped canopy with the smell of roasted coffee wafting onto the sidewalk. I’d done this for two years. At this point I recognized the regulars by name. I took orders, made drinks, and wiped tables—literally all in one long movement without messing up one single step.

“Good morning, Sofía,” Mrs. Levine, a regular, called as I handed her the usual cappuccino.

“Good morning, Mrs. Levine. Extra foam, just like you like it." She smiled and deposited a dollar in the jar.

Soon after that, two of the travelers then entered, and one intently did examine the menu just as if written in a cryptic language.

He asked with hesitation, “Uh... do you speak French?”.

“Oui,” I said, also I did not skip a beat. I went on then to explain the difference between a flat white and a latte. Then I turned to a man asking me for some directions in Italian.

By the time the rush slowed, my shift was almost finished. I was physically exhausted; my arms twinged from the weight of the trays, but I didn't mind. I had a roof over our heads, sort of courtesy of the café.

From the café, first shift, it was straight to college.

I got into a university on a scholarship. It only covered tuition, nothing else. It wasn’t Columbia or NYU, but it was still mine. 

Going for a master’s degree was a practical move. I knew it would give me new experience, I would gain new skills, and it would expose me to the world of work. I was not only continuing my education; I was increasing my chances of getting a better job that would provide more resources and good pay.

I invested in what is a better future. This investment was meaningful as far as I am concerned. I reminded myself every day that this was truly my shot. I now had an opportunity Dad never found available. Mama would have a better life, with Nick also having his dreamed-of future.

I was hungry to become the perfect student; I graduated as a top student. During lectures, I was the first student to raise my hand and the first to assist with any answers.

Professors noticed it; classmates noticed it too. I was aware I was different from the others; I have responsibility rather than luxury: they all went home to nice apartments, living comfortable lives. I went home to 8-hour shifts and late bills.

But even so, if anything, it made me sharper and hardworking.

In the afternoon, we convened for our group project.

I consistently contributed but frequently found myself shouldering the burden and clarifying things for others. I didn't mind providing explanations, as I regarded knowledge as a valuable resource that ought to be shared.

That afternoon, Professor Dalton's International Business class handed out an article translated from French about European market trends. Half of the class groaned. However, I skimmed it really quickly and then translated it out loud word for word and held the attention of the students, who looked surprised.

"You can speak French!?" A classmate asked.

"Yes, along with Spanish and Italian," I answered without hesitation and noted as I moved ahead. Learning languages is simpler for me. I mean, words have always been my escape and way of envisioning something bigger than our Brooklyn apartment.

For the remainder of the class time, we analyzed the record of charts and theories I had never seen before, but my attention was focused. The slides, the text, and the references felt like bricks I would pour into the foundation I was building.

By evening, I was back in a café for another shift. Although my tiredness increased, I just kept moving, paying attention.

Refilling cups, wiping, and asking, "How's your meal?" I knew when the last customer left the lentil soup and rye sandwich restaurant because we had no more customers.

I made a point to loosen the apron strings and step outside into the cool temperature.

Brooklyn was in its comfortable form: chaos, but known. Every corner, you can hear the sirens from distant police activity. Kids playing stickball on the sidewalk.

When I arrived back at my house, Nick had fallen asleep on the couch. Textbooks were open but unmistakably ignored. Mama was sewing in the light of the lamp; only her glasses were sliding down her nose.

"You work too hard, Sophia," she called to me softly when I kissed her cheek!

"I'm fine, Mamá," I said.

But when I closed the closet door to my room, all the exhaustion I had just received from the day crashed down upon me.

I placed my bag and collapsed upon my bed as I slowly let the silence consume me into the earth.

Across the river stretched the city skyline, and it glowed through the thin curtains. Tall buildings shone like gold, out of reach instead. Somewhere out there, people lived easy, comfortable, golden lives. But that wasn’t my world. Not yet.

I quickly got freshened up and had my dinner with Mama. I helped her with the dishes and said goodnight to her.

I pulled my scratchy blanket a little closer and whispered to myself,

"One day, I’ll make sure Mama will never lift another pan again. One day, Nick will no longer say I'm serious when he thinks about me. One day, all of this hard time will be worthwhile, worth gold!"

Until then, I fight for my silver shoe. I will keep working hard for my own success. Because that is what Brooklyn girls do!