A/N: I apologize for the delay. I hope all of you had as fabulous of a fourth week of November as I did. Unfortunately, the fabulousness left me little time to write…
I've always though there was more to Santana than just Queen Bitch. Although her character may not play it, I've wanted to make her Catholic since I started this series. This is not the original piece I wrote for her, that may become its own stand alone story. This was partially inspired by "Mi Condición Femenina y Mi Fe" by Nancy K. Olivas, published in From the Pews in the Backby Kate Dugan and Jennifer Owens. I hope I've done it justice.
Santana Lopez: Saturdays with Mary
Santana Lopez hates spending Saturday nights at home. She practically begs for any opportunity to be somewhere else. Brittany is pretty good about their sleepovers, or the boy of the week can be counted on to provide an escape. Its the loneliness that makes San crazy, a loneliness she cannot escape.
When she was a little girl, Santana used to spend her Saturday nights at her grandmother's house. They would cook together, and then Abuela would get out her bottle of beer with the spoon stuck in the top to keep it from going flat. Even though her grandmother was a proper lady, they would sit together, eating their dinner of tv trays in the living room, while they watched Telenovelas together. Then, Abuela would tuck Santana into bed, and together they would whisper the familiar words of a prayer.
"Ave Maria, llena de gracia, el Señor es contigo…"
In the morning, they would go to church together. While el Padre intoned the misa, Santana would stand by her grandmother, feeling very grown up. After communion, and the dismissal prayer, the elderly lady and her young charge would make their way over to a small side corner of the church, just to the left of the red light burning before the tabernacle.
White candles in plastic sconces burned constantly in the little capela. The air was always perfumed with the scent of the cut roses supplicants would leave at the feet of the statue of a young woman in pale blue. Behind Mary, a stained glass window showed an image of a middle aged woman and her young daughter. The daughter, dressed in blue, was clearly the woman depicted in the statue, but the proud mother next to her, in a red mantel, was her mother, Santa Ana. Abuela would whisper her Aves, while Santana sat quietly. Sometimes, the little girl would pray. But, most of the time, she would stare at the window. She loved the image of the mother and her daughter. Someday, she wanted to be like the woman for whom she was named…
After mass, Abuela and Santana would walk to the Taurus her grandmother drove. Even though Santana wasn't normally allowed to ride in the front seat, Abuela would let her. They would go to her grandmother's favorite bakery, and get coffee. "No digas nada a tu padre, mija," Abuela would admonish every week. Santana would smile, and keep her grandmother's secret.
Santana's home life was none too good outside Saturday nights. Her father was a doctor, and a workaholic. He spent more hours with his patients than he did with his family. Her mother was timid, keeping a perfect house, cooking good meals, never questioning or crossing her father. It was like her father was the king of the castle, and her mother was a lowly servant.
Santana was thirteen when her grandmother died. It was the first time she spent time alone in her parent's house on a Saturday night. It was the first time she heard her mother's cries, of "Mariano, no!" and her father's rough words, "Callate, Magdelena!"
Santana lay in bed, over and over again, repeating the familiar words of her grandmother's.
Bendita eres tu y bandito sea el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús.
Santana cried out to Mary, to her Abuela, to anyone who would listen, but no one did. The next morning, so she went to mass alone. She was restless, though. The ritual, which had seemed magical with her Abuela as her guide suddenly seemed rigid and confining. Why should Santana sit and stand at the whim of the Padre? She had her own mind.
After the service, she made her way over to the corner chapel. She stared at the flickering candles, and the window, until glass became blurred with her tears. "Adios, Abuela," she whispered, and she leaned over to blow out her grandmother's favorite candle. "Adios, Maria, Adios, Santa Ana." Santana Lopez slipped out the church door without a backward glance.
No one has ever asked her to return. She doubts anyone will. She escapes from her house on Saturday nights, and doesn't say a word to anyone. Sometimes, though, when she is stuck there, she finds herself whispering her grandmother's prayer, hoping that some day, a devotion to Mary will triumph over a devotion to patriarchy.
"Santa Maria, Madre de Dios, reuga por nosotras, las pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte, Amen."