Zarela's Story

In a world of cruelty and discrimination, a troubled girl of black and white transcends it all.

The world can be a cruel place. It’s full of contradictions, hypocrisy, unfairness and hate. It’s up to parents to decide how they expose their children to it, and how they teach them to deal with it. They can be honest, realistic with their child, and show them how to survive, and live in those brutal circumstances. Others may choose to shield their children, and lie to them, tell them the outside world is wonderful but neglect to let them outside. Both kinds of parenting have their fair argument. One protects, the other teaches. One lies, the other can be harsh. If one can find the perfect balance between the two extremes, all the better. But there are those who aren’t shown either way, because they lack the parents. Children like Zarela are confused, frustrated, and scared.

Zarela was born in the midst of the early 1950’s New York City life. Her mother was a gorgeous african-american woman named Nekeisha. Her hair was as dark and soft as her skin, and that’s the only thing Zarela remembers about her mother. There’s no memory of her father, so she wasn’t sure if she missed him or not. She missed her mother, however. She missed her scent and touch, however brief she’d encountered it. See, Niki, as she was nicknamed, fell horribly ill shortly after Zerela’s third birthday. It wasn’t a surprise, not when you’re in the poor side of New York during times of limited medical advancement. No one knows what she had, or how she got it. It could have been the dirt ridden water, the scraps of food, or something airborne. Malnutrition wasn’t unheard of either, and even though she had little, what she managed to get she gave to her daughter. Somehow she knew her days were numbered. Maybe she did know. Or maybe she was like any other mother, who was just looking out for her child.

Niki never got a chance to teach Zarela all the things she wanted. Zarela knew not to fuss, but that was all. Niki passed, two months from Zarela turning three. She told her to carry on, to live life to the fullest. She told her she’s beautiful, so beautiful. Still young, Zarela didn’t understand, but she’d remember. She remembered her mother’s death every day after that. She thought of her often, and prayed to her always. She didn’t know how to pray like a priest, but she talked to her mom. She’d tell Niki she missed her, then she say she’s scared, and lost.

It’s not until Zarela wanders into a shop, with dirt and grime caked into her dress. She reached up onto a stand that held a mountain of tomatoes. She didn’t think it was bad to try to get one, because it reminded her of an apple, and she liked apples. Especially if they weren’t already browning. That was a grave mistake though, because the shopkeeper stopped her in mid reach and yanked her out of the shop. Zarela didn’t know what was happening, and froze. So the keep had to drag her, and toss her out into a puddle of mud and lingering rain. She started to cry, weeping where she landed, with brown clumps and globs stuck to her face and hair.

“Damn half breed.” The keep grumbled under his breath. Zarela didn’t understand still. She didn’t know what those terms meant. She’d remember them later, though, when another calls her the same. Children of mixed orientations were shunned as much as those of solid color, but she looked different from both. She didn’t know why. Niki said she was beautiful anyway. And she was. She is.

It’s a minister that passes by, having witnessed the whole ordeal. He takes little Zarela, walks her to a building she’s never seen, and talks to a lady who greets him at the door. When Zarela glances up she sees others her size in the windows. They’re being nosey, to see why the bell rang. Normally it doesn’t, unless someone is there to adopt, or to drop yet another child off. Zarela vaguely remembers the conversation.

“She’s bloody filthy..”

“You have baths-”

“And no room...she..it-”

“Sister Mary, this girl needs… surely you can-”

“But look at her!”

“It is your duty!”

The minister and sister argue for a bit longer, with tidbits of their sentences missing. She can’t recall every word, but she recalls what she can. Eventually Sister Mary takes her in, rather reluctantly, because she’s reminded her oath to her god. With a harsh shove Sister Mary orders Zarela to wash up and change into the mundane, plain clothing the other children wear. It’s a rough, greyish cotton dress and paper thin flats. The maid who helps the children clean and dress scrubs her skin til she bleeds. She scrubs and scrapes where there’s splotches of brown, as if she were trying to cleanse her of her skin color. Zarela bears it with a grimace and tears. Eventually the maid gives up with a curse, yanks the dress over the girl and yanks her hair back into a tight ponytail.

Sore and beyond frightened, Zarela is shoved into a room thereafter. It’s the room she’ll stay, day in and day out. There’s 6 other children in the room. Two on each level of the bunk-beds. There’s enough room for a small dresser, which separates the bunk-beds. The girls are already sitting on their beds, talking among each other. Their older, by a couple-to a few years. The oldest, of 10, sits on the right top bunk, snickering at Zarela. The girl has fair skin, like most of the others. There’s one with a darker tan, and one who looks mixed. You’d think they’d get along with her, but you’d be mistaken.

“She looks like a cow!” The oldest one shouts, after sizing Zarela up. The other five girls erupt into laughter that howls like a pack of hyenas. Zarela had never seen a cow, so she didn’t know what that meant. That didn’t keep the children from calling her it, and making mooing sounds when she was around.

They did that so often, she began hating the word. When someone uttered the word cow, she’d lose it, and either storm out of the room or try to push them. After all, since her mother’s death, it seemed like the only way to deal with things while angry was to shove things and hurt them. That’s what they did to her. So why not do it to them. Except, when she retaliated, Sister Mary heard about it. Each offense was awarded ten lashings against her back. One time Zarela tried to shove Sister Mary, and the whip got her face. To this day the scar remains. As do the others.

Anyone could imagine, that Zarela became more hateful and spiteful, full of rage and sorrow. At first she acted out, but soon found out that made things ten times worse. So she’d sit in silence, at the corner of the room, on the dirt ridden floor. Curled up, as small as she can be, she’d rock herself in silence, afraid to make any other motion, terrified to make a sound. Even in her solitude she seemed to get in the way. The children never left her be, no matter how much she begged and groveled. They made her grovel too, at their feet. One went as far to hold her head down with the bottom of their foot. When she sat still, wishing to disappear, sometimes they’d give her a kick, or toss something at her. There were many times a beetle or spider were thrown at her, sending her screaming and crying.

What no one understood, was Zarela. They didn’t understand her, internally or externally. On the outside they saw black and white, where the black patches were like an infection on her skin. Some of it had been rubbed raw and scarred permanently with pink. It’s why they called her a cow. When she gets older she’ll be introduced to the term Vitiligo, as her diagnosis. The vitiligo was pretty severe, but it never bothered her any. She knew her skin was different, far too different to be like any others she saw. She knew there was something wrong, but her momma never pointed it out. She always said,

“Baby girl, you are beautiful. You’re beautiful, strong and smart. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Zarela started doubting her mother's words. By the second year in her nightmare, she strongly believes her mother was a liar. Or crazy. But it’s just when she gets to the breaking point of self loathing and bitter woe, that there’s a knock downstairs, then the doorbell rings. All the children rush to the same side of the building, to the windows that overlook the front portion of the housing. Below, they see Sister Mary greet a young woman clad in a pricey-looking 50’s styled floral dress, pretty heels with the prettiest copper hair. They chat, Sister Mary plasters on a fake smile, and the two enter the building-the lady, then Sister Mary. The children run again, to their respectable rooms, while smoothing out their attire, fixing their hair and cleaning their beds off. Zarela stays in her corner, huddled up. She didn’t care someone was there. Every Time there was a chime, a man or woman came in, sometimes with another child, and someone else was picked.

“I think you’ll be very pleased with what we have, Lady Geneviève. We have many children, all healthy and bright. Ages 2-14, boys and girls. We can start here.”

Sister Mary begins speaking, with extra pep in her step, and excitement in her voice. She hurries into the corridor that splits the rooms in half. One side is boys, the other side has girls. It’s a dim hall, probably to hide the fact it hasn’t been properly cleaned in a decade. Lady Geneviève doesn’t say anything. It’s Sister Mary the children hear, loud and clear. It’s hard to ignore her voice. It’s impossible to forget it.

“They’re the finest of the fine.” Sister Mary beamed with a drizzle of sweat dripping from her forehead. That was beyond a stretch, and the Lady knew it. She didn’t comment on that though, not in the way the Sister expected.

“Children are not cattle, S�"ur Marie. Each and every one is precious in their own right. Whether they’re of riches or dirt, they deserve only the best.”

The Lady’s voice was chastising, and Sister Mary went red in the face. She nodded, muttering a “yes ma’am” and waved for the Lady to continue, and seek out her desired child. If Lady Geneviève could have, she would have taken more than one child home with her, simply because she believed every child deserves a good home. She was on a mission, though, to find a daughter or son. She had lost hers, in a recent pregnancy. She’d named him Johan, after her father, who had been her inspiration for everything. As he’d been a great man, she strived to be a great woman. And how. She took any man’s breath away. Even women swooned at her exotic beauty. She had gorgeous copper hair, earthy green eyes, and a smile that made your heart palpitate. Her grace matched her beauty, along with her sense and intelligence.

When Lady Geneviève reaches the room Zarela stays, she peers around. She’d been to 4 bedrooms so far. Three boys, and this was the fifth girl’s. When she looked in one of the remaining girls of 3, not including Zarela, ran from their bed to show the woman a drawing she made days go. It was a picture of her family, which was all the children and Sister Mary. Lady Geneviève smiled at the girl and her drawing, before frowning at the very rough sketch of an animal of black and white spots.

“I was not aware you had a vache. Is it the back?” The Lady turned to face Sister Mary, who stood behind her, just a bit from the threshold. Sister Mary gave a nervous laugh and waved off the awkwardness with a shaky hand.

“Oh, that’s just a um, a nickname the children have for one of the girls here. There’s no actual cow.” Lady Geneviève could tell the Sister was a nervous wreck when she spoke. She was, and for good reason. Anyone who was anyone knew the Lady was one of high morals, good natured and kind hearted. Any form of bullying was met with strong disdain and contempt. The Sister feared that if Lady Geneviève knew she condoned the bullying she would turn away and refuse to take any children. So she shrugged it off, like being called a cow wasn’t at all offensive.

“Would you like to be called a chicken? Or perhaps a goose. Maybe a dog would be more flattering.” The Lady turns to Sister Mary with a side glance that silences the Sister. She then turns to the little girl, who has hidden the picture behind her back and backed away a few paces. The woman’s gaze snaps to Sister Mary and she demands to see this girl. Sister Mary points to the left, where Zarela sits, staring up at Lady Geneviève with wide eyes. The Lady wiggles her finger, urging Zarela to come out. She obeys slowly, while wiping some dirt from the white splotch on her face.

“What’s your name, mon chéri?” Lady Geneviève asks her, with the most charming smile on her lips. She kneels down to the girl’s level, to put her at ease. Zarela stares a while longer, and gulps, afraid to speak. The Lady urges her gently with a warming smile and nod, while wiping more dirt from her brown and white cheek.

“Y-you’re pretty..” Zarela blurts, a nervous wreck like Sister Mary. Lady Geneviève laughs softly and lightly pats some of the dust from her dark locks.

“And you’re beautiful, little one. A true trésor, oui?” Nodding, Lady Geneviève tries to make Zarela smile, and she does, just a smidge.

“O-oui..?” She stutters, not knowing what the strange word means. That makes Lady Geneviève grin more, and she nods again, before caressing both sides of Zarela’s blotchy features. She speaks softly then, knowing all too well why she was so scared, and why she froze at any pleasant contact.

“You’re not a cow, mi amour. Never will they call you that again.”

“She doesn’t have a name.. L-Lady Geneviève.” Sister Mary pipes up, but not very confidently. Probably because she had neglected to name the girl. Or to bother getting her name in the first place. She didn’t have a birth certificate. She didn’t have any records. In her memory, Zarela remembered her mother calling her baby girl, and that’s all.

“Do you remember it, love?” Lady Geneviève asks Zarela, who twitches, and moves so that the Lady’s body hides her own from Sister Mary’s view.

“N-no..miss.” Zarela stumbled with her words, but wanted to be courteous, because the Lady was so nice, and she didn’t want to anger the Sister.

“Noemie sounds nice. Do you agree?” Lady Geneviève asked Zarela, who was speechless in wonder of this pretty lady talking to her. She considered the name for a split second before nodding, liking just about anything the Lady said. Not just because of her accent, but because of the warmth and kindness she radiated. When Zarela nodded Geneviève grinned, and offered her hand. Zarela hesitated, before placing her smaller hand in the much more lavish one. Lady Geneviève took her hand, and turned to Sister Mary.

“I believe I have found my daughter. I will be adopting the lovely Miss. Noemie today, Sister Marie. Shall we?” She strolled forwards, her pretty heels tapping at the floor while Zarela’s pat softly. Zarela never thought she’d see the day where she’d get adopted, or one where someone would be at least half decent to her. Lady Geneviève took her home that day, to her luxurious Manor on the wealthy side of New York city. She gave her a nice, long bubble bath, dried her gently and dressed her in the cutest dress of daisies. It looked kinda like Lady Geneviève’s, and Zarela grinned for the first time in years.

It’s some time later, that Zarela remembers where she’d come from. She takes Lady Geneviève there, where her mother had lived with her, in a tiny shack in the slums. Lady Geneviève didn’t stick up her nose, curse at the lifestyle, or judge it. She did mourn Zarela’s mother, and all the poor souls going through an eternal struggle of survival. She felt for her daughter, and all of those around her. So she took her precious girl home, and the very next day they went back with loads of food and water for the homeless. They handed the goods out all day that day, and then the next.

On the third day, while Zarela was talking to an elderly man outside her old home, Lady Geneviève looked around the shack. She saw a piece of paper sticking out from under a broken plate, and slipped it out to read. On there was Zarela, written fairly sloppily, but it was legible. The Lady knew her birth mother had to of written it, as a form of certificate for her birth, and existence. Or maybe it was a visual reminder, something to fight for, to live for. It brought a single tear to the Lady’s eye. She wiped it away with a manicured finger, before folding the paper and tucking it into a pocket.

She’d talk to her Noemie later, and discuss the finding. She’d give her little girl the choice, to keep her new name or take her birth name. They’d agree, that the best way to honor her birth mother would be to use the name she gave. So she was Zarela again, and forevermore. Zarela Lemaire; The beautiful, strong, intelligent daughter of Nekeisha Ayim and Geneviève Lemaire, who grows to be just that, and more. Geneviève puts her through the best schools in New York, so that she can become the prosperous woman her mother prayed she’d be.

Zarela learned from Geneviève herself too, to be a strong woman in a male dominated society, to be a humanitarian, a philanthropist, and activist. She was taught to never back down, never give up, and to never let anyone tell her she’s less than incredible. Lady Geneviève didn’t hide the awful world, but she helped her daughter muscle through it, and overcome it. She was her support, her drive, and inspiration. She was her best friend and mom. And with her, Zarela was able to overcome anything. Starting with adversity and discrimination.

Author's Note

Feedback is always welcomed, and favors will always be returned. More stories are to come, and they're announced first on Twitter. If you want the heads up follow @sskaitlyn.

Reviews

[Razer990]

I quite enjoyed this story. It's well thought out and relatable, both generally and to me personally. I particularly enjoyed the Lady Geneniève and her permeating personality. There's only a few things I saw that could use a bit of polish. Maybe expand the vocab and detail in your background descrition. I could see the world but it needs a little more texture. That and a few grammatical fixes. Other than that it was a great story. An interesting take on a side of racial persecution that is rarely explored. Well done.

[SSKaitlyn]

Thank you. I will take that into consideration and do another edit on the story. I appreciate your words very much.

[Razer990]

It was my pleasure.

[Duncan Brown]

Love love love love love............................