Refer to details from the text to explain why Constancia considers her grandmother to be, in her eyes, “ridiculous” and “bizarre.”

No way,” he says, pocketing them and grinning at me.

Needless to say, we come to a compromise very quickly. I do have a responsibility to Sandra and Anita, who don’t drive yet. There is a Harley-Davidson fashion show at Brookline Square that we cannot miss.

“The mass in Spanish is at ten sharp tomorrow morning, entiendes?” My father is dangling the car keys in front of my nose and pulling them back when I try to reach for them. He’s really enjoying himself.

“I understand. Ten o’clock. I’m out of here.” I pry his fingers off the key ring. He knows that I’m late, so he makes it just a little difficult. Then he laughs. I run out of our apartment before he changes his mind. I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.

Sunday morning I have to walk two blocks on dirty snow to retrieve the car. I warm it up for Abuela as instructed by my parents, and drive it to the front of our building. My father walks her by the hand in baby steps on the slippery snow. The sight of her little head with a bun on top of it sticking out of that huge coat makes me want to run back into my room and get under the covers. I just hope that nobody I know sees us together. I’m dreaming, of course. The mass is packed with people from our block. It’s a holy day of obligation and everyone I ever met is there.

I have to help her climb the steps, and she stops to take a deep breath after each one, then I lead her down the aisle so that everybody can see me with my bizarre grandmother. If I were a good Catholic, I’m sure I’d get some purgatory time taken off for my sacrifice. She is walking as slow as Captain Cousteau exploring the bottom of the sea, looking around, taking her sweet time. Finally she chooses a pew, but she wants to sit in the other end. It’s like she had a spot picked out for some unknown reason, and although it’s the most inconvenient seat in the house, that’s where she has to sit. So we squeeze by all the people already sitting there, saying, “Excuse me, please, con permiso, pardon me,” getting annoyed looks the whole way. By the time we settle in, I’m drenched in sweat. I keep my head down like I’m praying so as not to see or be seen. She is praying loud, in Spanish, and singing hymns at the top of her creaky voice.

I ignore her when she gets up with a hundred other people to go take communion. I’m actually praying hard now—that this will all be over soon. But the next time I look up, I see a black coat dragging around and around the church, stopping here and there so a little gray head can peek out like a periscope on a submarine. There are giggles in the church, and even the priest has frozen in the middle of a blessing, his hands above his head like he is about to lead the congregation in a set of jumping jacks.

I realize to my horror that my grandmother is lost. She can’t find her way back to the pew. I am so embarrassed that even though the woman next to me is shooting daggers at me with her eyes, I just can’t move to go get her. I put my hands over my face like I’m praying, but it’s really to hide my burning cheeks. I would like for her to disappear. I just know that on Monday my friends, and my enemies, in the barrio will have a lot of senile -grandmother jokes to tell in front of me. I am frozen to my seat. So the same woman who wants me dead on the spot does it for me. She makes a big deal out of getting up and hurrying to get Abuela.

The rest of the mass is a blur. All I know is that my grandmother kneels the whole time with her hands over her face. She doesn’t speak to me on the way home, and she doesn’t let me help her walk, even though she almost falls a couple of times.

When we get to the apartment, my parents are at the kitchen table, where my mother is trying to eat some soup. They can see right away that something is wrong. Then Abuela points her finger at me like a judge passing a sentence on a criminal. She says in Spanish, “You made me feel like a zero, like a nothing.” Then she goes to her room.

I try to explain what happened. “I don’t understand why she’s so upset. She just got lost and wandered around for a while,” I tell them. But it sounds lame, even to my own ears. My mother gives me a look that makes me cringe and goes in to Abuela’s room to get her version of the story. She comes out with tears in her eyes.

“Your grandmother says to tell you that of all the hurtful things you can do to a person, the worst is to make them feel as if they are worth nothing.”

no,

explanation:

because they are likely to use their corrupted thought process to get what they want. not what is better for the another reason they shouldn't is since they abused their rights as a us citizen they should have certain rights stripped away from them as punishment, such as the right to vote. due to the lack of proper behavior exemplified   from their actions , it would be hard for people to trust them because of their criminal record.   either directly (in the case of a referendum or ballot initiative) or indirectly (by choosing lawmakers and law enforcers). in fact, we do have certain minimum, objective standards of responsibility and commitment to our laws that we require people to meet before they are given a role in the solemn enterprise of self-government. people who have committed serious crimes against their fellow citizens don’t meet those standards. and those crimes can include such “non-violent felonies” as, say, treason and espionage, or voter fraud and public corruption, white-collar crime and felonies merely “concerning drugs” — like trafficking in fentanyl-laced heroin and selling it to minors, for example. if you’re not willing to follow the law, then you should not have a role in making the law for everyone else.