The Ciguapa

I was six-years-old when my family immigrated from our home in the Dominican Republic to the United States. Being as young as I was, I don't quite remember much before then. All I know is that one minute, we were living in a small village outside of the city of Santiago De Los Caballeros, and then the next, my parents, two brothers, sister, grandfather, and I packed up what little we had and moved to New York City. My parents quickly and readily embraced the American lifestyle and culture, and by all accounts, I was your typical all-American girl. I played sports, tried to do well in school, hung out with friends, watched popular American television and listened to popular American music. But like most other immigrants, even though our native country was far away, many of our traditions made their way across the ocean with us. Yes, we were an American family now, living the American dream, but echoes of the world we'd left behind were never too far away, thanks especially to our elders, like my grandfather, and another woman who would end up bringing the world I'd all but forgotten closer than I could have ever imagined.

She moved into our building in the Washington Heights neighborhood around the same time as we did. Coincidentally, she was also from the Santiago De Los Caballeros area. This wasn't all that unusual though; Washington Heights was chock full of Dominican immigrants, so chances were that you would eventually encounter someone from the same province or even the same town or village as you.

Her name was Senora Sanchez, at least that's all I ever knew her as. Thinking back, I can't really remember anyone ever calling her by her first name and she never provided one. She was an unusual character from the very beginning. She was older, around my grandfather's age, and wheelchair bound, yet somehow, she had managed to immigrate all the way to the United States completely on her own. As far as we could tell, she had no relatives or friends in our neighborhood and she lived all alone in her small apartment four floors up from our own. No one ever saw her leave her apartment, and no one ever saw anyone go into it, yet somehow, the Senora seemed to be doing just fine. No one could understand how a woman in her condition managed to fare so well being completely alone.

Naturally, her aloof nature and strange way of living caused many rumors to spread about her within our close-knit community. The most common, especially among the children and elders, including my grandfather, was that she was some kind bruja, or witch. Supposedly, she would keep all sorts of weird charms and talismans under the thick blanket that was perpetually draped over her legs, no matter the weather, and she would curse you with them if you so much as looked her in the eye. Others said that she was once married to a wealthy man but murdered him long ago and took all of his money, which was how she managed to immigrate and live on her own. I once heard my older brother and his friends talk about how she lost her legs while assisting the rebels during the Dominican Civil War and that there were still people out for her head, which is why she fled the country and kept such a low profile. His best friend, Ricky Moreno, claimed she still kept a loaded gun under her lap blanket just in case. A few of the women who frequented the nearby bodega would often gossip about how they believed she was, in fact, faking her need for a wheelchair in order to scam the insurance companies to get more money. Supposedly, she would sneak out late at night, walking just as well as anyone, and do all of her shopping and other errands then so no one would see her. Senorita Alvarez from the hair salon even claimed she actually saw her on the street one night.

Whatever they believed, people kept their distance from Senora Sanchez, just as she did from them. I too would have probably continued to do the same, if it weren't for a chance encounter one day when I was about eleven years old. I was going around our apartment building posting flyers to advertise our upcoming school bake sale, for which I had been given the task of promoting and asking for donations. I hadn't even realized that I was on the Senora's floor when I caught a rare sight of the elusive old woman wheeling down the hall towards her door. I watched curiously out of the corner of my eye as she dug into her large purse and fumbled with her keys before dropping them onto the floor by accident. Seeing her struggle to reach down to retrieve them, I dashed over to her.