TWICE A PEDRO PAN ... From Memoir, "A Dot In Time."

                              Twice A Pedro Pan           From Memoir, A Dot In Time

                 

                           For all the Pedro Panes I know and for all those I'll never know.

I sat in a chair at the circle of twelve people in the room that held acting and dancing classes. I waited for him to call me while something rattled within me. Would I be next?

 I could hear the voices of the others taking the class. Some whispered, some muttered. A mixed group of different ages and races. Most fidgeted. I sat quietly, staring at one of the  windows at the top of the front wall of the room. This was my third acting class and my eyes always seemed to go to the same comforting object standing regal out the window when I waited for the teacher to give us the next instruction. A very tall royal palm tree. An icon from my past.

I heard another name called and it wasn't mine. I glanced at our instructor, his white T-shirt creating a beautiful contrast with his ebony black skin. I smiled. He appeared to be the only one relaxed. Not us. We had learned to expect the unexpected in the class. Those impromptu assignments he sprung up for us to think through fast.

"Amarilys." I saw the young fellow leaving the seat in front of our instructor and the teacher motion for me to come and sit. I plunked down on the cold metal chair and he smiled. That smile had a dance going with his eyes. I felt pulled right into it and for a moment that magic chased my nerves away.   

"Finished the first part? The assignment for this week?" He drew his hand to the pad ready to write. "What part then?"        

 "A Pedro Pan. I'm going to be a Pedro Pan child."

He looked up from his pad. His eyebrows furrowed. "You said that's how you came here?"

 I nodded.

He placed his pen down on the pad. "You sure?"

I bit my lower lip and nodded.

"Why?" He looked at me and gave me another of those smiles.

I pressed my lips together and sighed. I felt my throat tightening.

"Never mind," he said. "I'll help you." He started to write.

"Here. To write the part. Consider what I've written." He turned the pad around.

"Read it."

"Number one: The moment before. Number two: The moment after." It was my turn to furrow my brow. "What do you mean?"

"Your assignment is to write a character in a short scene, right?"

"Yes?"

"While you write it hold close the moment the character experienced before the scene. And, hold close the moment the character experienced after the scene. Understand?"

The room was filled with silence. The group had heard what the instructor spoke and knew something of value had been said.

 "Write your character. Remember, the character has to want something. What is it? And, then, write dialogue. The whole scene. Not long. Just strong. Bring it to class next week. Any prop that will help you, bring. I'll read it and then feed you lines. They'll draw the character out." He did that dance with the eyes and mouth again. "I'll help you."

 Every day that week I labored on the assignment. I wrote the character, a nine year old  girl leaving in a Pedro Pan flight from Cuba with her five year old sister. What did she want? To stay close to her sister. What was the character to perform? The nine year old communicating to authorities receiving her that she wants to stay with her sister.

 I  wrote the scene holding fast the moment before it. The moment both girls found themselves in the airplane alone without their parents. A scene I once lived. I wrote the scene holding close the moment after the scene I would perform. The moment the older girl was separated from her sister ... a  picture that unraveled in me all kinds of tearing emotions. Why was I attempting this? Would I fall apart performing the part in a wrong way? Would I numb myself to the pain of the character to protect myself and not do justice to the acting?

The next week our instructor called out for volunteers to act out their character in the scene written. I held  to my prop, an empty cigar box, like the one I brought from Cuba, with one hand, and raised the other high ... "Me!"

I stood before the instructor, clasping my invisible little sister's hand with my one hand and holding tightly to the cigar box with the other, ready to play the Pedro Pan, Maria del Carmen.

"Your name?"

"Nombre? Maria del Carmen."

"Ah, you speak English."

I swayed slowly from side to side, swinging the hand of my little sister. Looking down, back and forth, to my little sister. "Sí, Jes! Un poquito. Mi hermana, sis-ter, con me, sí?

 "What's your sister's name?"

"Liliana. Lili." I swayed my body faster, side to side. "Lili, conmigo. Me." I pushed the cigar box against me. Hitting my chest. "Juntas. To-ge-ther." I kept looking at my little sister. "Sí, Lili? Junticas siempre. Sí, Señor?"

The instructor shook his head. "No. So sorry."

Tears rolled down my face. "No, señor. Ay." I looked down at my little sister. "Ay, no. Lili." I swayed faster and faster and pulled my little sister to my side. "Ay, no,no.Mami!,Papi." I sobbed.

Then ...

I wiped my face and bowed my head. For an instant I felt a lifting of a weight from my heart. I knew  why I had to write and play that part. They were out there and in some way writing and playing the part had connected me with them. The Pedro Panes I would never know.  

The Instructor whispered. "Well done, Amarilys."

I wiped away more tears.  

"We'll take a break now," he said.

Chairs screeched as people got up to take the break outside. A lady stayed behind.

"That was brutal. I had to turn away or lose it. How could you act like that?"

I dug a Kleenex out of my pocketbook, blew my nose, and smiled. "I wasn't acting."

"What?"

"I was a Pedro Pan child."

She shook her head. "Really?"

I nodded. Her arms went around me. "I'm sorry," she said.

After a few minutes the lady left. I sat on a chair facing the high windows on the front wall. I fixed my sight out the window at an object. An icon from my past.