Nancy “Blanca” Saldivia Character Analysis

Julia-day-Burgos is so obscure it would be hard to find a single poem of hers. In any language.

With her light skin, semiblond hair, pale seagull blue eyes, she could easily pass herself off as something other than a woman born and raised in East Harlem. She spoke as if she had spent her formative years in some boarding school, walking around with a big lettered sweater tied around her shoulders.

“I’ll buy her one bigger than that! One with a diamond as big as the Palladium.”

“When you complain that you’re gonna feel awkward graduating with a big belly, I know what you really mean. You mean people are gonna think, ‘She may be smart, but she was stupid enough to get herself knocked up.’ But when you go to church it all changes. They like you pregnant and you like them to like you pregnant.”

“Blanca, why does me becoming Pentecostal have any bearing on you getting your privileges back? On you playing the tambourine in front of the congregation? Why do they look at me and my faults and not you and your merits?”

“And he loved her. And she, and she—don’t tell me you don’t know what she did. Don't tell me you don’t know that she later left to fornicate with other kings. Don’t tell me you don’t know that she left her king and went with others, and don't tell me you don’t know this princess was called Israel. And she went with other gods and slept with many idols. You still don't know what she did? […] I’ll tell you what she became. You all know what she became, don't tell me you all don't know what she became. She became a harlot! […] A whore! […] A prostitute!”

They had seen the coming of the Lord. He was coming soon, maybe even that very night. Roberto Vega had told them so. The kingdom of God would arrive, and they would all go to heaven, to the penthouse in the sky. Until then, they would go back home to the rats and roaches.

He was the Lord’s stud, wanted by sisters in Christ who all hoped to be his chosen.

“For a Latina that’s not married, twenty-seven is ancient. Nobody is going to want to marry her.”

I always knock the people in Blanca's church, but a lot of them were right there that night helping us move our things, everyone splashing around ankle-deep in water. If we hadn’t had Blanca’s spiritual brothers and sisters we would have been moving things out all night.

All I understood was that Bodega was in trouble. Not with the fire department, which would know right away it was arson and dismiss it as another case of pyromania in a neighborhood crawling with fire-bugs. Nor with the media, who needed sensation and since no deaths had occurred would give it only passing mention, like a footnote in a thousand-page book.

“Let’s not say anything right now, okay? I’m going to be staying at Mami’s for a while. At least until the baby is born. I think that's best. Best for both of us.”

Julia-day-Burgos is so obscure it would be hard to find a single poem of hers. In any language.

With her light skin, semiblond hair, pale seagull blue eyes, she could easily pass herself off as something other than a woman born and raised in East Harlem. She spoke as if she had spent her formative years in some boarding school, walking around with a big lettered sweater tied around her shoulders.

“I’ll buy her one bigger than that! One with a diamond as big as the Palladium.”

“When you complain that you’re gonna feel awkward graduating with a big belly, I know what you really mean. You mean people are gonna think, ‘She may be smart, but she was stupid enough to get herself knocked up.’ But when you go to church it all changes. They like you pregnant and you like them to like you pregnant.”

“Blanca, why does me becoming Pentecostal have any bearing on you getting your privileges back? On you playing the tambourine in front of the congregation? Why do they look at me and my faults and not you and your merits?”

“And he loved her. And she, and she—don’t tell me you don’t know what she did. Don't tell me you don’t know that she later left to fornicate with other kings. Don’t tell me you don’t know that she left her king and went with others, and don't tell me you don’t know this princess was called Israel. And she went with other gods and slept with many idols. You still don't know what she did? […] I’ll tell you what she became. You all know what she became, don't tell me you all don't know what she became. She became a harlot! […] A whore! […] A prostitute!”

They had seen the coming of the Lord. He was coming soon, maybe even that very night. Roberto Vega had told them so. The kingdom of God would arrive, and they would all go to heaven, to the penthouse in the sky. Until then, they would go back home to the rats and roaches.

He was the Lord’s stud, wanted by sisters in Christ who all hoped to be his chosen.

“For a Latina that’s not married, twenty-seven is ancient. Nobody is going to want to marry her.”

I always knock the people in Blanca's church, but a lot of them were right there that night helping us move our things, everyone splashing around ankle-deep in water. If we hadn’t had Blanca’s spiritual brothers and sisters we would have been moving things out all night.

All I understood was that Bodega was in trouble. Not with the fire department, which would know right away it was arson and dismiss it as another case of pyromania in a neighborhood crawling with fire-bugs. Nor with the media, who needed sensation and since no deaths had occurred would give it only passing mention, like a footnote in a thousand-page book.

“Let’s not say anything right now, okay? I’m going to be staying at Mami’s for a while. At least until the baby is born. I think that's best. Best for both of us.”