“That’s excellent. Excellent,” Joe says. “Just don’t be afraid to be yourself, okay? Just act natural.”
He’s always saying that. Joe talks like we’re close friends, when in reality he barely knows me. He just thinks he does.
We shoot footage for another hour and a half. If this shoot and the interview go well, Papi and his staff plan on launching a livestream of his campaign. There’ll be cameras everywhere he goes, which means everywhere we go when he’s with us. I can’t imagine anything worse. Our lives are being turned into a cheap presidential election version of The Bachelor. Would Jackie start writing about me then, too, with so much fresh material to pick through? I pull out my phone and hit decline on her request. Whatever it is she wants with me, it can’t be good.
Joe scribbles another line on a pink notecard and hands it to me. It’s about how much Papi loves Miami—real subtle. I fold the notecard in half, then into quarters and eighths until it’s a tiny wad so thick it won’t bend any further. Papi glances at my hand, but I hide the paper in my palm before he can see what I’ve done to it.
“You’ll be perfect,” he says.
Perfect. No pressure or anything. Just perfect.
two
My father has been a politician for as long as I can remember. It’s not something I ever had to get used to. It just was.
When I was in kindergarten, Papi led my whole class on a field trip to Parrot Paradise. It was just a few blocks down Old Cutler, so the teachers got a long rope and had each of us hold on to it as we walked down the street, which was lined with so many trees, their roots cracked open the sidewalks.
“Look up, Mari. You’ll miss everything,” he told me. He stopped at a crossroad and everyone stopped behind him. He turned his head left, right, left, and we followed. Mami was all the way at the back, walking next to my teacher, who kept reminding us not to let go of the rope.
When we got to the park, the first thing I saw was a man in a khaki uniform wearing thick black gloves, and a bright red parrot, the size of a blender, sitting on his shoulder. Her name was Giselle, and her feet looked like they were made of dried leather and bubble wrap. The man let us each take a picture with her on our heads, but when it got to be my turn, Giselle’s nails dug into my skull so hard, I couldn’t tell if the drops on my forehead were sweat or blood. I was terrified I might cry and humiliate myself in front of the whole class, humiliate my father. But he came over and placed his hand on my shoulder. “I’m right here with you. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said. “See? Everything’s fine.”
The next Sunday, the picture was published in the lifestyle section of the local paper with the caption: BIG BIRD: COUNCILMAN ANTHONY RUIZ AND HIS DAUGHTER, MARIANA, SHARE A SPECIAL MOMENT WITH THEIR NEW FEATHERED FRIEND. In the picture, I’m grimacing and my shoulders are scrunched up all the way to my ears, but Papi holds me, looking proud. I’d thought we were taking a family photo. Somehow it got sent to the press.
On weekends we’d go door-to-door with Abuelo and Abuela to hand out Papi’s pamphlets. While my father talked to voters, I’d play tag with the neighborhood kids. After my brother was born, I’d help Mami watch after him. I’d change his diaper if she was in the middle of a conversation with someone. I’d carry him in my arms when she needed a break and he’d cry if we put him in his stroller. By the time Ricky learned to walk, we realized people loved seeing us holding hands down the sidewalks. The adults would call us darling, or precious, or model children.
Weekend rallies were like huge family get-togethers. There were the six of us, plus a bunch of people I didn’t really know but felt like I should know, or had to pretend to know, because they’d say things like they’d last seen me at my father’s very first election, and did I remember them? I’d nod and smile even though at my dad’s first election I was like two.
When Papi was done speaking, he would play with us—catch or soccer—and of course, we danced. He’d salsa with Mami first, and then the two of them would bring out my brother and me. Papi knew all the best spins, and he always joked that I was his favorite dance partner because I just went whichever way he turned me. He said letting someone lead requires trust. We’d hold hands and he’d bring his arm over my head, across my back, over my chest, until he’d tangled us into a knot I knew he’d get us out of. Papi’s confidence when we danced was on another level. There was a lightness to it, a spontaneity I never saw anytime else. It’s not that he wasn’t sure of himself when he spoke to constituents or did interviews—on the contrary. But that version of him was always measured, always planned far in advance. For two or three minutes at a time, when the music kicked in, I got to hang out with just him, no matter how many strangers were watching.
Weekdays were different. We never ate out and Mami cooked every meal and we’d eat at the round kitchen table in the apartment while she set aside two plates to reheat when Papi finally got home. On the days he got off work before dinner, we went on bike rides together, down the same road that led to Parrot Paradise. Somehow it wasn’t as exciting. There were no crowds or cameras watching. Everything just felt better when we were in a big group. Whenever it was just the four of us, it felt like something was missing.
The years when my father was a county commissioner and then a Florida legislator are honestly kind of a blur. Like a long road trip, how when you finally arrive you can’t pick apart exactly how you got there. What I do remember vividly is the day he told us he was going to run for the US Senate. I was eleven and Ricky had just turned four. Papi told us to sit on the couch, the beige one in the new house we’d moved into just months before. He stood in the center of the rug in front of us and clapped once.
“Tonio, espera. Help me in the kitchen first,” Mami said. Ricky and I sat waiting, marveling at how the couch seats were so deep, our feet just bobbed over the edge of the cushion.
My parents came out of the kitchen holding two bread bags full of end slices. They told us to tear them into little pieces, and we got into the car. On the way to the park by the canal, Mami said, “You know how Papi’s been working really hard to make Miami a better place for people to live?”
We smiled and nodded. I didn’t understand much about his job, but I knew enough to know that he helped a lot of people, and that’s why so many of them liked him. People were constantly telling me how I must be so proud of my father, and I was.
“Well . . .” Mami reminded me of soft-serve ice cream, the way she was sitting in the front seat, twisting around to look at us. She leaned her head toward my father.
“Well, I’m going to try to help even more people now.” he said. “I’m going to run for the US Senate. Which means I’d represent all of Florida.”
“Cool!” Ricky said. “All of it?”
“The whole thing,” Mami said.
“Even the tippy-top?”
“Yes, papito. Even the panhandle.” Papi laughed and glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “What do you think, Mari? Do I get your vote?”
I’d been busy looking at the crumbs in our bags, trying to guess how many ducks we could feed. “Always,” I said.