Roused in the morning by the noise of children playing in the street, I rolled out of bed and pulled on jeans and a tee shirt. Ramón had left earlier to go surfing, so I had the room to myself. The week before we had driven from Palo Alto to Mazatlán and were staying with his family for the Christmas holidays before embarking on a road trip across Mexico. I ate my breakfast while watching the children playing in the street. A scrum of shirtless boys kicked a ball around, displacing others struggling to get their homemade kites in the air. The few girls playing outside sat on porches, away from the ruffians.
I heard a tap at the bedroom door. Fabiola poked her head in and greeted me with a buenos dias. Ramón’s eight-year-old niece wore a faded flowered dress that looked too short for her lanky frame. I suggested we go outside. It was nearly noon and the room had become stifling. We stood on the front porch and watched two boys running with their kites. I pointed and raised my eyebrows. I didn’t know the word for kite and hoped she’d understand I was asking if she had one. She looked astonished. “Eso no es para niñas.”
Girls weren’t supposed to play with kites? “¿Por qué?” I asked.
She shrugged her skinny shoulders, causing the hem of her too-short dress to jerk high up her thighs.
I pointed at one of the kites and asked how to say the word in Spanish.
“Cometa,” she said.
“Oh! Like a comet.” My pantomime of a streaming comet made her giggle.
“Hagamos una.” At my suggestion to make one, Fabiola scrunched her face. We looked at what the boys were using for their homemade kites and she ran off, returning minutes later with an armful of items, including scissors, tape, and twine.
We assembled our cometa and took itoutside. I was about to give her instructions when Fabiola ran off. I stood on the porch and watched her figure it out. One of the boys shouted at her to shorten the string, then run and let it loose. She tried again and had some success. Soon she was dashing back and forth with the kite lifting behind her, the only girl in the street with all those boys.
Other little girls playing in their front yards gaped in awe. They pointed at Fabiola flying by, her ponytails flapping in the breeze. One boy yelled at her and tried to take her kite away, but she gave him the slip.
I pulled my chair out onto the porch and enjoyed the neighbors’ confusion at seeing a little girl playing freely in the streets with all the boys. The idea that she might have upended the whole neighborhood by playing with a boy’s toy didn’t seem to bother Fabiola. I felt a little wicked having initiated this anarchy. I also experienced a nudge of pride watching her master the skill. But her mother came to the door and beckoned her in. I winked at Fabiola as she handed me her kite. I’d keep it safe until she was ready to fly it again.