A Written Creative Work submitted to the faculty of San Francisco State University
In partial fulfillment of the requirements for
the Degree
Master of Fine Arts In
Creative Writing
by
Juliana Delgado Lopera San Francisco, California
May 2015 A6
3 6
70IS C. .li
I certify that I have read Fiebre Tropical by Juliana Delgado Lopera, and that in my opinion this work meets the criteria for approving a thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirement for the degree Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing: Fiction at San Francisco State University.
Toni Mirosevich, MFA Professor of Creative Writing
Juliana Delgado Lopera San Francisco, California
2015
Fiebre Tropical traces the life of 15-year-old Francisca after moving from Bogota to Miami with her evangelical Christian family in search of a better life. Francisca is dragged to the Colombian Christian church where she later discovers her queemess and falls for the pastor’s daughter. The narrative also traces the life of Mami (Francisca’s mother) and La Tata (grandmother) in their own previous migrations. A story of migration and loneliness, womanhood and queemess.
I certify that the abstract is a correct representation of the content of this written creative
Date
Yes, hello, si buenos dfas immigrant criolla here reporting from our ant-infested townhouse. The-air-conditioner broke sometimes too. And below it the T.V, the pearl couch—we were there, used and new, there, full of bones and under-vaccinated. Y como quien no quiere la cosa Mami angrily shut the stove where La Tata left the bacalao frying unattended, then Lysol sprayed the counter-tops smashing the dark-trail of ants hustling some pancito for their colony. Girlfriend was pissed. She didn’t come to the U.S of A to kill ants and smell like puto pescado, and how lovely would it be if Marfa could have come with us on the plane? Then she could leave Maria to the kitchen and concentrate on the execution of this Migration Project. Pero, aloooo? Is she the only person awake en esta verraca casa? On the T.V. Another commercial for Learn Espanol Sin Barr eras and Lucia, La Tata and me chuckle at the white people teaching other white people how to say, Vamos a la casa amigo. We want to go home but Mami explains with a fake smirk that look around you Francisca, this is your home now. On this doomed Saturday Mami obligated us to help with the preparations for the celebration of the death or the birth or the something of Sebastian.
It was June and hot. Not that the heat dissipated in July or August or September or even November for that matter. The heat, I will come to learn the hard way, is a constant in Miami. Sebastian’s baptism took place that summer afternoon a month after we arrived, still salty, on the doomed tropical swamp of Miami. It has been argued—by the only people who cared arguing: La Tata and her hermanas—that my dead brother’s baptism was the most exciting event in the Martinez Juan family that summer. This
Yes, hello, si buenos dfas immigrant criolla here reporting from our ant-infested townhouse. The-air-conditioner broke sometimes too. And below it the T.V, the pearl couch—we were there, used and new, there, full of bones and under-vaccinated. Y como quien no quiere la cosa Mami angrily shut the stove where La Tata left the bacalao frying unattended, then Lysol sprayed the counter-tops smashing the dark-trail of ants hustling some pancito for their colony. Girlfriend was pissed. She didn’t come to the U.S of A to kill ants and smell like puto pescado, and how lovely would it be if Maria could have come with us on the plane? Then she could leave Maria to the kitchen and concentrate on the execution of this Migration Project. Pero, aloooo? Is she the only person awake en esta verraca casa? On the T.V. Another commercial for Learn Espahol Sin Barr eras and Lucfa, La Tata and me chuckle at the white people teaching other white people how to say, Vamos a la casa amigo. We want to go home but Mami explains with a fake smirk that look around you Francisca, this is your home now. On this doomed Saturday Mami obligated us to help with the preparations for the celebration of the death or the birth or the something of Sebastian.
It was June and hot. Not that the heat dissipated in July or August or September or even November for that matter. The heat, I will come to learn the hard way, is a constant in Miami. Sebastian’s baptism took place that summer afternoon a month after we arrived, still salty, on the doomed tropical swamp of Miami. It has been argued—by the only people who cared arguing: La Tata and her hermanas—that my dead brother’s baptism was the most exciting event in the Martinez Juan family that summer. This
mainly because La Tata drank a half of rum bottle a day and couldn’t keep Monday from Friday, September from June, so obviously a fake baby’s baptism is more important than say the fact that by the end of the summer Lucia woke in the middle of the night to pray over me.
But back to my dead baby brother’s baptism. W e’d been preparing for the celebration even before departing from our apartment on the third floor down in Bogota; inside the six Samsonite bags Lucia, Mami and yours truly were allowed to bring into this new! Exciting! Think of it as moving-up-the-social-ladder-life! were the black and gold table cloths, hand-crafted invitations, and various baptism paraphernalia. We even brought two jars of holy water (instead of my collection of CDs that included The Cure, Velvet Underground, Ramones, etc.) blessed two days before by our neighborhood priest, water that was confiscated for two hours by customs then quickly flushed down the toilet by my tia Milagros who now soaking in Jesus’s Christian blessing believed Catholic Priests were a bunch of degenerados, and buenos para nada, ni para culiar.
Now Mami hustled her naked butt around the dining room, head tilted hugging the telephone. Wearing only a laced push-up bra, reading glasses, purple spidery varicose- veins all over her legs (she was quick to mention to Milagros and the women at church that as soon as she could find someone who did massage therapy as her girl back in Bogota her legs will be como un lulo again), anxiously phoning the flower people, The Pastores, the five singing ladies in black—Milagros idea—who will professionally mourn Sebastian charging Ma $20 an hour for crying. Right now she’s negotiating: $15 per hour
plus food leftovers.
We were obedient.
What else could we do? Where else could we go? For the last month we’d been pushed around to this church service, and that church dinner, and that other meeting where La Pastora explained why it is important that dead babies are baptized.
La Tata and I eyed each other. We wanted to hold Mami’s hand tell her, Come on Mami. Come on now Myriam carajo deja el berrinche. We had some serious eye-to-eye magical power going on with La Tata, I knew she needs a rum refill when her left eye went “give-me-a-break” and she knew I was this close to slapping Mami when my right eye went “buddha-shut.” After signing divorce papers Mami rolled for three days in the same crazed energy, painting our entire apartment in Bogota a tacky red, then crying because her house resembled the one of a narco wife, and when that was not sufficient to kill her mojo this Cartagena-born costenita de Dios bleached Lucia’s and my hair with hydrogen peroxide because na-ah! No hombre is going to ruin Mami’s life, not even your father.
Lucia helped her with the final touches on the cafe. The black and gold icing accompanying the baby Jesus in the plastic cradle retrieved from the pesebre box while La Tata in the kitchen fried bacalao yelling at no one but of course at Mami, that Myriam doesn’t have any birthing hips no wonder she lost a baby. Lucia sat next to me on the couch and we drooled captivated by the speed of the ceiling fan, the possibility of it
breaking and cutting us all. We never had a ceiling fan in our house before, we never needed one. Now our chests are drenched with saliva waiting to dry or to be cut or to return.
Between phone conversations Mami gave us The Eye—the ultimate authoritative squint-wide-open flickering of eyeballs that had you on your feet and running. Whenever the nuns sent home a disciplinary letter she did this, searching for my guilt, and I played along with her daring myself to stand The Eye for as long as two minutes but always failing. Not this time. We were exhausted of moving our shit around, exhausted of meeting this youth leader and that church former drug-addicted woman, and every senora de Dios fixing our hair, squeezing our cheeks, commenting we were either too skinny, too fat, too pale, or, my very favorite, too Colombian. The “too Colombian” thing offended Mami, being too Colombian was acknowledging her hair wasn’t blow-dried by Alex every day. Levantada, she whispered. But I was fifteen and all I wanted were my girlfriends back home, cigarettes, and a good black eye-liner. None of which Miami was giving me. Instead I was exhausted of the infiemo that crawled deep into your bone and burned its own fogata there. The surreal heat gas-veiled everything, everything seemed like a mirage, a burning stove coming from within. Did living with La Tata helped? No, mi amor. Did living close to Milagros and my other tfas and primos and the freaking Pastores, whom you are about to meet, aided this transition in any way? Falso.
This was not a Choose Your Own Migration multiple choice adventures where a, b, or c are laid at the end of each page and you can simply choose b) Stay in Bogota, you
idiot.
Cachaco, por favor. This was militant mama colombiana index-finger waving you to pack your bags while she sold the remaining of your books (Plath collection of poems saved, thank God), donated your Catholic uniform (that you hated, but still), and then informed Lucia and your sorry ass that Ni por el chiras you are not leaving in six months but next week because Milagros got Mami a job (that never materialized) and then boom boom boom some Cuban guy speaking condescending English stamped your passport, sent Mami a smirk smirk for those boobs, he literally said boobs, and when she asked you translate you simply said, Ay you didn’t know people speak English in the U.S of A?
And what did we really know about migration.
I knew nada before forever jumping the Caribbean charco. You kidding? This homegirl lived in the same apartment on 135th, next to the same chapel, the same CAFAM, the same comer store where Dona Marta sold me cigarettes religiously, the same, under the same excruciating Bogota clouds for the entirety of my fifteen years. And although Mami is originally from Cartagena, she moved to La Capital when she was six (making her a so-so costena) and we only travelled to the coast on vacation, which in itself was The Event of the Year (planned for a year) and caused enough commotion to last until our next visit: las maletas! El spray-off! The aspirinas for Fulanita! The pancito you can only get at that panaderfa for Sutanita! Etc. New hair cut, new (awful, hated forever) flowery dress and gold communion studs wore to impress the epicenter of The
Matriarchy. I was so anchored in Bogota, so used to our homogeneity, that the girl from Barranquilla—the only girl in school from outside the city—was out own exotic commodity. We made fun of nera ways, her mouth eating vowels and sounds for our own amusement. But mostly every trip felt so painful because Mami didn’t (and still doesn’t) like change. She likes to stay put and if possible very still so nothing moves or changes. The day we left her stress skyrocketed, a rash of tiny red bumps growing on her back, scratched for the entire 3.5 hours.
A few days before the baptism Mami bought a yellow prom dress for me along with some Refresh! Artificial tear drops. Pa’ que llores, in case I couldn’t cry. I hate yellow. Mami knew I hated yellow and red and orange and all “warm colors” but in an unusual enthusiasm out of the ROSS bag along with my yellow dress, she retrieved a tiny set of little boy’s pants and shirt all with a black tie.
What’s that for mama?
For Sebastian!
I told her ni muerta was I wearing a dress. Even in Miami, you have to respect yourself. A yellow dress? You know what was yellow? My Catholic uniform. Fucking yellow stripes with orange and a green sweater, the nuns made sure there wasn’t the slightest possibility of provocation or desire from the men! The Evil Men that only
existed outside the school while we, the endangered species of respectable teenagers, were protected by the tackiest most unfashionable piece of clothing ever invented. We were marked. We didn’t have men pissing on us marking their territory but we didn’t have to, the nuns did it themselves.
Anyway, Mami hugged me tight saying she’s not asking for an opinion on the dress. Wear it. If it weren’t for Sebastian you wouldn’t be here right now. Then out of the ROSS bag she yanked a naked baby doll, a weird Cabbage Patch doll with blue eyes and a swirl of plastic black hair. She placed the doll on her lap and with great care dressed the piece of plastic with the tiny pants and the tiny shirt and the tiny black tie. I dared not ask if the doll was indeed a boy? Cabbage Patch dolls wore a plastic diaper so it was impossible to be 100% sure on its gender. We could be dressing a girl doll in boys’ clothes but Mami didn’t care.
She handed me the baby demanding I keep an eye on Sebastian. Grab it, Francisca carajo que no muerde. I grabbed the doll by its head, Mami’s face a yeah-muy-funny and placed the baby in my arms the way you’re supposed to hold a newborn.
Of course he’s not a real baby Francisca, sabes? It is a symbolic bebe, si? Like Jesus is not really in our hearts it is a metaphor. But treat it is your flesh and bone brother Sebastian—can you at least do that for me? This was her joy. The motherfucking boss of an multinational insurance company now reduced to cuddling a plastic toy. Okay mama. This thick-haired Cartagenera slightly looking down at the white scar across her belly
(this one is you) as a reminder of all she’s done for me. Before I could say, No me jodas mas, she exposed the white scar like a trophy followed by a quiet smile and a gentle slap on the butt.
An hour later Mami still ran around. I sat behind La Tata popping blackheads from her back using the yellow prom dress as a cushion hoping it would disappear between our butts. Fake baby Sebastian laid next to us, arms reaching for a mommy he never had because he is dead and this is all stupid. La Tata paid me 25 cents a pop while she watched a new Don Francisco Presenta. She shushed Mami who on the phone still negotiated one last crying lady for half the price (mi senora, please, la fiapa).
Even before moving to Miami La Tata was obsessed with Don Francisco (what woman over 67 isn’t?), sending him hand-written letters and pictures of her daughters. La Tata called the 1-800 number every time she watched, leaving messages, Si nina, Alba that is A-l-b-a, si, Alba. Can you tell him to call me back? It’s important. La Tata daydreamed of that Chilean-born papi reading her name tag, holding out his arm for her, then spinning the wheel of fortune and announcing she was the winner of a new car, or a new set of knives. Alba is the ganadora! Landing a faint kiss on her cheek. She would have hanged the photograph of her and Don Francisco next to her Blessed Woman of the Year certificate from church. If the never-aging papi called her she would wear the dark green dress and the only gold earrings she still had, she’d walk down the steps like she once did at the Club Union sending kisses this way, kisses that way—But did Mr. Tumba Locas called?
Mami didn’t understand how La Tata praised Jesus all morning then watched that low-class crap on T.V. And isn’t she supposed to be cooking the arroz on coco? Doesn’t she understand the baptism is tomorrow and Mami’s hair is a webbed mess and nobody, nobody, is helping her?
Pajaros tirandoles a las escopetas, habrase visto tanta huevonada. La Tata moved around, pulling at her dress, getting the ever-round and wide costena ass comfortable in the sofa.
Those are Jesus’s hijos too, okey? And the arroz con coco will get done whenever the arroz con coco gets done, are we clear? Ya me paro, I can’t even watch Don Francisco in peace no joda.
Of course Mami couldn’t leave it alone.
Do you really think Jesus would approve of that behavior mama? Where in the biblia is that passage because I totally missed it. Por Dios! Jesus did not die in the cross so half- naked women dance around that man.
Wiping the crumbs from the bacalao La Tata frustrated told mami, Yes Jesus died for all of that and more. He was crucified so Sebastian could die and Francisca could be born.
Mami’s eyes peeked over her glasses as if they alone could kill La Tata. The ceiling fan on high turned the pages of her color-coded notebook where the budget, the visa, the
church, the baptism were detailed in bullet-points and perfect hand-writing. Whenever she finished taking notes and the bullets did not perfectly align, she’d rip the page and start all over again. On her hand also the yellow highlighter meant to differentiate between IMPORTANTE and DEMASIADO IMPORTANTE. Carefully and with an air that said you-dont-know-what’s-coming-bitch Mami removed her glasses, gave a light flip of hair like she used to, and continued to check off things from her notebook. La Tata tightened her grip on my hand. They didn’t look at each other.
Mami knew the joy ese verraco programa brought to La Tata, but wouldn’t leave it alone. If stubborn has a name it is Myriam del Socorro Juan and her house was the equivalent of military school: orderly, predictable. Uno, dos, tres. Demanding everyone sacrificed their lives for the cause. The baptism cause. The migration cause. The story? Sebastian was Mami’s first baby, the one and only boy never bom to bloom into a macho, so whenever she retells the Horrible Miscarriage Story thick lines draw on her forehead, watery eyes search for some invisible moving ball on the ground and voice recedes coming out in soft, broken segments. Back then our Cartagenera was only 21 years old three months pregnant and with a thick pool of blood in her panties after lifting a fat child in Unicentro. At the hospital the doctor told her there was nada que hacer, mi senora, you’re just gonna have to wait and get pregnant again. Head lifted high, Mami curled into a ball when nobody saw her. Locked herself in the bathroom pretending to be dusting. Dios mfo. An unconsolable llorona crying and crying for a month and even when the doctor reminded her not to dance pegadito for at least two months, those wide hips lured
my Pa and yours truly was born nine months afterwards.
I was joy but I wasn’t Sebastian (what to do with all the baby blue clothes?).
Mami proceeded her speech to no one while highlighting her notebook: Nobody in this house cares about me losing my baby. You two don’t know el dolor, all the pain I’m going through.
Sighing heavily La Tata whispers to me, It’s been seventeen years! To Mami she says, Okay what else needs to be done?
At the Heather Glen Apartment Complex there was no gate, no lights, no tall buildings or people on the streets. There was a moldy jacuzzi and a small pool where dead insects, used condoms and some of the ducks congregated leaving a trail of green poop. A few of the Venecos and the emo boys also hung there. It was five blocks from Iglesia Cristiana Jesucristo Redentor and three blocks from the Pastores’ house. Our townhouse sat facing the Food 4 Less dumpster and Mami loved telling all visitors the piles of plastic toys and rotting food is how Food 4 Less gives back to the community. Those poor children! You should see their faces when they open their gifts. Poor people are so humble. Mami the business woman venida a menos, had she known everyone at church knew the headless Barbies were trash but didn’t dare say.
Americano with six stuffed Samsonite bags. Only a month, dale tiempo al tiempo, mi vida. Patience is a virtue, said La Tata to Mami when she’s up to here with job applications and rejections. So what if Milagros promised an accounting job at a Colombian law firm that in reality didn’t need any math, or business suits or, really, any accounting but was more about distributing fliers to rich people’s houses at night to be thereafter chased out by the neighborhood police. The first night Mami returned giggling like a fifteen year old running from home with her machuque, but after a week of this degradation she wanted nothing to do with this flier pendejada. Soy una mujer educada, carajo. Did the neighborhood police cared she had a window-to-window office and a secretary who watered her plants and delivered a tintico in the mornings? Cachaco, please.
La Tata, on the other hand, sashayed to Miami a year before to join The Exodus of The Juan Family after grandpa was found dead on the toilet in Cartagena. La vida es dura, mija. Life is hard, girlfriend.
CHAPTER DOS
I met the Pastores at Iglesia Cristiana Jesucristo Redentor two days after we landed. To my surprise the church was a room, a room, inside The Hyatt a few blocks from our house. Was I the only one appalled by its lack of holiness? Did Mami waved her estrato like a flag of entitlement and walked out? She hugged and kissed and called this lady hermana and that senor hermano like this was totally her salsa and I was exaggerating. Painful to watch. Mami sensing my discomfort mentioned a youth group, people my age learning about Dios. Clearly this was all a mistake.
When we got there three fat women in matching navy suits ran to greet us, introducing themselves as Ujieres, mi nina, Dios te bendiga. A low cemented arch with three palm trees to each side where a sign for the South Florida Beauty Convention hanged on the side. And then: the room that pretended to be a church. Talk about being colonized by the wrong people, the wise Spanish understood it took Gothic fear to believe and follow Dios. For starters the churches in Bogota were old, like centuries old, gothic, tall with vitrales, and colossal images of the Virgen de la Caridad, Virgen de Chiquinquira, Virgen del Carmen, bleeding tears on the baby, the backdrop of the altar a nailed Jesus de Nazareth face contorted—did I mention homeboy also bled?—showing you he died for you, sinner. During the weekly school mass whenever I searched for spiritual or moral guidance the image of the bleeding, good-looking bearded son of God shook me into my senses: stop fake-kissing your Salserfn posters Francisca, he died for you. And although my religious skepticism started at the age of 11 when I began falling
asleep during mass, stealing my tfas’ cigarettes and rubbing myself on the edge of the bed, the imposing thorn crown bleeding for all of us had created a fear so deep I found myself praying unconsciously after each said sin.
But enough of the past already. Mami always says you gotta look into the futuro, el pasado esta enterrado, we sold it, buried it and bought new flowery bedspreads at Walmart instead. And now Iglesia Cristiana Jesucristo awaited with its baby blue walls, four rows of folding chairs and a passageway in the middle. A mustard yellow carpet that resembled Mami’s favorite blouse which tied in a perfect silk bow and hadn’t been worn since her farewell party at the insurance company. Bibles secured in armpits. Everyone blessing their hermano, declaring in the name of Jesus, gloria a Dios for Sutanito’s new job at Seven-Eleven, and beware of Satanas when your children curse at you.
Women kneeled at the center. Others painfully hummed songs as a young man began drumming beats, their faces obviously demanding attention because as everyone could clearly decipher from the tightness of their fists, the hermanas suffered.
They couldn’t be serious, but they were.
I remember the awkward embarrassment, an urge to tell everyone to please turn it down a notch. Amazed at the lack of shame in blasting Christian rock and signing to it while people watched—normal gringos peeked from time to time entertained by the free Spanish spectacle happening right at their hotel. People are watching you, I wanted to say. But at that moment all they cared about was proving to each other who was Jesus #1
Fan, and to be honest it was a tough call. So instead of snapping I actually yearned for the mournful, silent quality of Catholic mass. The Ave Marias, the bells, the Latin phrases nobody understands, all of us girls in uniform passing notes during the evangelio. The imposing holiness of the priest, his robe—the Pastor wore black pants and a dark blue shirt that made him look more waiter than godly.
Mami explained the Christian logic of such circo to me later: you can praise el Senor anywhere, because He is everywhere and He is watching you, sinner. It’s about a direct relationship with Jesus and Dios, no intermediaries, no fake images to praise. What about La Virgen? Na-ha, no Virgen. Dios mfo. Fifteen years lighting candles to the Virgen, waiting anxiously for rosaries to end, fifteen years with a Virgencita around my neck that protected me of all mal since my baptism. And now, suddenly, the Virgen and I faded into the background.
Mami introduced me to the Pastora inside an arch of blue balloons framing the stage. A sign—lead singer works at Kinko’s — covered half of the end wall with a rainbow reading ARCOIRIS DE AMOR. On the left two huge speakers. Big party speakers because this was a party para alabar a Cristo. A Jesus party. Someone whispered to me: Jesucristoooo.
La verga, I told Mami.
Half of the people were thick women with hairs done in highlights, fake red nails, kissing each other’s cheeks with tired eyes while some mumbled things in English with an air of superiority. Clarita! Como ha aprendido ingles, mire a la gringa. Children wailed, chanted. One of them colored a dove black, the bird breaking the lightning sky. Why black Marcelita? Aren’t you Jesus’ little princess? It should be baby blue. It should be white. Holy spirit is pure mi amor, a ver. Young girls in white sheer gowns shook tambourines, held hands, eyes shut letting out a siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh to the heavens. Above, the heavens, three colossal ceiling fans going whoosh whoosh whoosh and in the back table a man alone in headphones. I asked Mami and Mami asked tia Milagros and tia Milagros responded that it is the Biblical Translation Center, for the gringos. This is a real time translation Spanish to English with headphones. Oooooooh. See how good? Even the gringos come here. Tia Milagros pointed to a giant white man with tiny spectacles seated in the first row wearing headphones hunched over a bible. Mami was super excited about the church’s inclusivity. Of course Mami couldn’t stand the gamines outside of Catholic mass asking for money or Lucia’s close friend a moreno from Barranquilla, of course not. But gringos, she’s been super excited about. I pitied the yanqui man a little. Why in the world would a gringo come to this church? Don’t they have their own?
People jumped to touched me, asked all kinds of questions. Lady in yellow dress and an enormous cleavage (Marcela, later barred from stealing the diezmo), Mamita are you Myriam’s daughter? Xiomara mira, this is Myriam’s daughter. No way, you don’t look anything like her! I held you when you were this big.
This is exciting, I thought, very exciting. Is it different from what you had in mind? Is it different from The Promised Life? Is it different from the yellow-haired blue eyed heaven of boys and girls in Saved by the Bell wanting to be your friends? Cachaco, please, I wouldn’t have conjured up this place in my head in a million gazillion years (and I grew up in Bogota during the 90s).
You come with me to the youth group, nena.
Mami sat in the first row, next to the bald Pastor and his terrible mustache while Xiomara with her gelled curls escorted me to the room next door.
Xiomara’s infomercial voice made the walk a sort of limbo, stuck inside a television screen. Down the hallway men in shirts, gelled hairs, smiling out of some sort of obligation, handing me their sweaty palms. Free embraces that I never asked for. Lots of arms around me chanting in unison Dios te bendiga! Dios te bendiga! Dios te bendiga! But I thought, I’ll meet some people there, right? I couldn’t imagine young people going there out of mere will and a light sense of hope let me breathe deeply one last time. And there ducked taped in gold on top of a rainbow read: Jovenes en Cristo.
Here’s a little something for you, mi reina: All these colombianos migrate out of their pais de mierda to the Land of Freedom, in this case Miami, to better themselves, to flee the “violence” or whatever, seek peace, or, really, to brag they’re living in the freaking
U.S of A and hello credit card, and hello cell car I can’t afford, and hello hanging out in a room at the Hyatt with the same motherfuckers you ran from. Like, they couldn’t have done that in Bogota? Barranquilla? Or Valledupar? My second reaction to the room- church was a terrible disappointment. This. Is. it? Whaaa? More on that later.
Now, what I saw behind that door had been inconceivable before (cachaco, Bogota in the 90s, remember). Never in my life would I have thought young people could be... so... soulless. Depressed? Yes. Hijosdeputa? Yes. Killers? Yes. I’d been robbed by young boys on the streets before, kids barely over 5 years old sniffing boxer, sleeping next to their knives. Junkies? Yes—Catholic school for them daughters of coqueros. But a state of mind robbed completely of humanness, fifteen-year olds humming like a machine, and brought to life through the stupid repetition of prayer: hijos de Dios!
Inside everyone around the circle lifted their hands in a let’s-slap-some-high-fives gesture. Disgusting, I thought. I didn’t want to touch everyone’s hands but Wilson the youth leader, who we’ll call Young Mulatongo, grabbed me by the elbow and skipped around the circle holding out my arm. Are these people blind? I’m punk. I’m an artist. I fight bitches on the street. Once in the middle of la 82 I spat on this girl for calling me a chirri (I did run right after. But still).
But there, where could I run? The condescending smiles. Two girls in matching shiny flip-flops held tambourines fake smiling and only barely touching my hand with their
fingertips. Okay mi vida do it for your mother who worked her costena butt off to get that visa and who is ecstatic to be in this church (no one could shut her up about it months before we moved here), and if you just behave today maybe later she’ll forget all about it and you’d be able to stay at the townhouse and think of ways of not killing yourself yet. Cool.
The Young Mulatongo shook his finger in front of me.
Eeee-cume nina, hellooo. W e’re down by three people tonight we need to increment our Sacred Outreach Efforts.
Some of them yawned. Others swayed their arms to the baby blue ceiling. Everyone was instructed to bring a friend and share their Life Changing Testimony. Then in came a young morena from Barranquilla in one of those sheer white gowns, waving off the Young Mulatongo but flirting with him, passing out pamphlets with light exploding from grey clouds.
Okey, pelaos, this is how it’s going down. I want all you lazy disque followers of Jesus to get that culo moving or else we’re buried, me estan oyendo? Tonight go home and think of that friend, that lonely ugly child with the Metallica shirt next to you in English math Spanish government class that is in desperate need of saving. You know the kind. Yes? And you bring that ugly, godless child next week and here he will strip him of that shirt and he will smell of pachouli and we’ll deal with Dios and he will be one of his soldiers are we all full cleaaaaar pelaos?
They all went wild, cheering, throwing pillows in the air, bibles flew. Girl is a preacher. This girl has my attention. And just like that, that ugly Barranquillera and her authority, and her pimples demanding with no respect whatsoever that w e—that I —do exactly as she said.
Back to our fake baptism.
Our cheddar-cheese smelling blue Honda drove us the three blocks to the Pastores’ house.
Why can’t we walk, ma?
Because we have a caaaaaaaar!
Palm tree after palm tree after Walgreens and a homeless man passed out on a bench with an IN NEED OF HELP? Handwritten Sign. Was Yaquilandia clean like Clorox commercials? Let the ripped teddy bears, dirty diapers and heaps of leaves answer that. We stopped briefly at the McDonalds down the street, and when we finally arrived to the Pastores’ house gold and black balloons lined the entrance.
Inside the car I carried the colossal SEBASTIAN EN PAZ DESCANSE sign printed at Kinko’s and Sebastian sleeping on my lap. Right before leaving Mami ran through everything we should and should not say, no cursing, no wearing black-black, no asking the Pastores’ daughter about real parents, she’s adopted remember, nada de pendejadas,
Francisca for the hundredth time no stealing cigarettes, just behave how I raised you. Forever in lalaland Lucia could care less where anyone took her. Once in CAFAM in the second Mami turned to grab the lettuce five-year-old Lucia found a new 65 year-old friend to grab her hand and almost walk her out the grocery store. If you’re a mama that’s enough for a heart attack, imagine Mami’s desperation in the late 90s in Bogota. Even to this day you have to shake Lucia at times, wake up sister, smell the bread, feel the mayhem.
At that moment Lucia also wanted to please Mami (who didn’t), because anything seemed healthier than contradicting her.
The sky painted with a crotchet cumulus of dark grey with patches of blue. It was 4pm. Like a giant God scooped a piece of cloudy rain and munched on it. No mountains. The air thick, soiled, acidic as if you were constantly inhaling poppers. The Pastor, the Pastora, Carmen and Camilo paced up and down the door reading from what seemed like a bible. Waste no time hijos mios, Jesucristo may fall from the sky any minute now and what would YOU be doing?
In the car with a red pencil Mami outlined her lips on the rearview mirror and do I want any? I didn’t want any. She insisted red lipstick went exceptionally well with that stunning yellow dress. My stunning yellow dress covered half of the back seat. More than half. On the other end Lucia practiced her biblical lines for the baptism. Sebastian on my
lap, forever staring at me with glossy blue eyes, forever smiling and judging me behind the tiny tie. The piece of plastic with an enviable liveness. Rays of sun lighted his brown face, that face seeing right through me, knowing exactly how I felt: bored, itchy, out of place. I scratched my butt under the layers over layers of yellow lace, yellow veil, yellow pantyhose and the Nirvana boxers Mami refused to buy me at Walmart but were my birthday present nonetheless.
A ver mama, give me some of that lipstick.
The brief satisfaction on Mami’s face. That way mothers have of transforming a neutral face into complete satisfaction once their lost child agrees to something they’ve proposed. She’s no different. A mother knows best, it’s not her motto. I say what you do, is her motto.
My bottom lip is fuller than my upper lip. Clumsily I traced the lines that keep this mouth together noticing the few thin black hairs on either side that I try covering with the red pencil. Then fill with red lipstick. I’m more clown than glamour, more slashed face than full lips. Mami’s satisfaction is eclipse by my face on the rearview mirror, followed by the loudest sigh Miami’s has heard, and a gyrating door slam. The rest of us are left in the car. La Tata looked around then took a quick sip of her flask. Still lost she turned to me, then proceeded to blurt the second loudest sigh in Miami.
Dejame Tata. It’s my face.
Who birthed all these stubborn hijas de puta, ah? Dios rmo. Francisca I love you mimi, but you know your mama is going through it.
I ignored her pleas. Instead I hugged the baby and proudly stomped out and into the house. I owned that face. It was mine. The few things I owned at the time: my face, those Nirvana boxers, Ariel by Sylvia Plath, and a box full of letters from my girlfriends back home. Long nose, eyes too close together, humungous elephant ears, and still it was my face. I could claim it. I could write all over it. I could have ten seconds of superstar glory down The Pastores’ overgrown lawn while they all stared blankly.
Hola hola, welcome to Sebastian’s baptism this is immigrant criolla reportando from Miami, Florida. We got them holy signs dug into the yard Those Who Look For Him Shall Find His Glory and further down Sebastian Found His Glory and lastly Would You Find His Glory?
The Pastora I learned that day is from Barranquilla as evidenced by the thick long- black hair, tacky yellow highlights and a toothy smile tattooed on that oval face. Not the kind, warm hospitable costena, but a sharp dictatorial female whose smile was less an invitation than a mandatory law. The most devoted mujer in the entirety of Miami Dade county (if you asked her, the world), who saw Evil right in The Eye and just by gazing at
a passing colombiano could instantly tell if Jesus resided in that heart or if the colombiano played on the other team, satanas’ team. She scolded the Pastor for sometimes overshadowing her with his enthusiasm, like after I stomped down the Pastor came running to greet me with a hug and a Dios te bendiga hermana Francisca. A chubby man. Also from Barraquilla with a swirl of hairs sticking out of his pale blue shirt, gelled curls combed back that he continued to comb with his fingers and snapping his fingers after every sentence saying hooooome! Jesu-would-not-do-that. The Pastor who in the congregation’s eyes held supreme power but deep down the herd knew La Pastora is the real peso pesado and held more cojones that Noah stirring that ark.
The Pastor handed booklets with prayers and songs to anyone entering. Mami directed people to the back of the house. Sebastian was baptized inside the Pastores’ pool. Again, symbolism. The key to 21st century Christianity, I was learning, was to blindly believe in the power of metaphor and symbolism. The doll was a dead baby, the room at the Hyatt The House of God, the Pastores’ pool became the Jordan River, etc. You following?
The pool in the patio, the patio enclosed by a fence. Ducks with red balls on their beaks fought each other over crumbs of bread a child threw through the holes. Mami handed money to our professional mourner ladies in black. Black veils and all. She told them to lose the rosaries and handed small booklets with the lyrics of the songs she chose for the occasion so they may cry to them. Mami suggested to Crying Lady #1 that she should cover her chest, gave her a fake grin and continued to parade her gold dress
kissing this and that hermana. The four ladies stood in the comer practicing some of the crying in front of Mami who applauded saying, perfecto! She searched for me and what do you think nena? I said nada but gazed around at the tables covered in gold cloth bought yesterday at the Dollar Tree Store, the baby cradles on it. Each flower, balloon, cookie, cupcake perfectly arranged. Mami managed that baptism as if she were managing the 900 people under her at insurance company. Emerald studs on her ears, her long finger pointing and dictating what, where, when. Did I mention girlfriend is a control freak? Did I mention she paid more attention to the arrangement of the food, the gold bows on the shekinas than the actual baptism of the baby? Mami’s focus on kissing, hugging, sitting, gossiping, on overall succeeding as superstar host was such that when the moment came to bless the fake baby someone had to drag her from the kitchen.
The Pastor snapped his fingers, mike check: uno, dos, soooo-nido. Dios los bendiga hermanos!
Mami still ran around asking Lucia to put the tiny babies in the back next to the recordatorios. As a recordatorio of this life-changing event every attendant received a small bag full of goodies including a tiny plastic baby in impossibly small baptism couture, an infinitesimal bible plus a Psalm verse plus a bag of Skittles (Jesus’ rainbow of love).
It is time hermanos.
point pen and the Baby’s Recordatorio Book where every one who entered should sign and leave a wishful message for the woman who is mourning a miscarriage after seventeen years.
I put the book on the small podium next to the entrance, then realized the Pastora wanted me to stand next to it for the entirety of the baptism. But my mom—I said. There was no arguing. Apparently Mami didn’t see anything wrong with her oldest daughter not only being dragged and bored out of her mind by attending this type of event, but on top of this used as the door-woman. The cherry on top, mi reina. I’m not needed as much as there needs to be something assigned to me. The Pastora also handed me a Jesus and Me: How To Survive High School copy with dog-eared pages that she suggested I read. Brown hands, long nails painted beige and not one spot on them. The hands of a woman who has not worked or suffered, hands that have known manicures since they were able to point. And pointing she did, to my face with a wet piece of paper towel La Pastora dabbed on my mouth and all I could do was muster a, But I like my lipstick to accentuate my lips.
I’ll have to teach you how to properly apply lipstick, you’re mother seems incapable. Now here mi nina, open the book on page 12 and if you feel incline recite The Prayer That Will Save You at any time. Here by yourself. Just between you and Jesus. He’s always attentive, always expectant of ninas like you.
Outside the shekinas waved their flags in preparation of the baptism dance. The horizon nothing but black clouds, palm trees, A.C.
When the Pastora left, Carmen showed up calling me a loser and handed me some pills that Mami apparently told her to make me swallow. I recognized the pills.
Those are not mine.
Pela’a pero of course they are. Dona Myriam just handed them to me.
She has a great voice, Carmen, like she’s giving a speech after saving an endangered species from dying.
On my second visit to the pretended room at the Hyatt Carmen called early in the morning first. Aja Francisca, I know moving here is hard pela’a but don’t make it harder on yourself. Come, see what Jesus has escondido for you. Sin compromiso. Again with her messianic voice that does not accept rejection. A voice that said stay calm, I got this.
I’ll think about it.
Aja and what’s there to think? I’m just giving you a chance to hang with Jesus and me and the chicos buena onda that love Him.
That afternoon Jesus wanted to go bowling at the Dolphin Mall.
Jesus’ Youth Battalion held hands in their assigned bowling alley, eyes shut mumbling prayer to the Almighty. Espfritu Santo may we walk in your wisdom. Carmen sat alone in the back munching on onion rings. Hair parted in thick greasy slices, dangling gold cross and dangling “Carmen” gold necklace over a white shirt with a baby
blue dove carrying a bible in its beak. Not imposing or holy looking like before. Tongue licked finger after finger, no use of napkin.
Hola Carmen.
She didn’t as much as look at me. Kept chewing with her mouth open, wiping food residue with her right sleeve. A thin saliva shadow shone around her lips but I sat there anyway. I didn’t know anyone else, Carmen had called. She owed me the time. For ten minutes only the sounds of the hamburgers sizzling, the smack of balls on pins, the T.V over our heads. Awkward. Of course.
Pela’a I’m sorry you came, she said.
But you call, remember?
Her oval sad eyes outlined with black. Surprisingly I was not upset at her, there was nothing for me to do at home and her lack of energy was comforting. And even though the Young Mulatongo hugged me, offered a prayer and asked me to be part of Team Jovenes en Cristo (or would you prefer Team Jovenes Llenos del Espiritu Santo?), and even though I said I rather just watch with Carmen, he glared at Carmen because clearly Carmen was not joining them either, even though he breathed deeply and muttered a prayer there was a small opening in me, next to this costena with no manners, I was engaged in her not-doing, in her rejection of participation, in her chewing.
si? And don’t feel like throwing balls. And what are you so excited about? Go play.
Nah. I rather sit here if you don’t mind. I never understood the love for bowling really but you sounded so convincing.
Licking her fingers she walked to the cashier and got more onion rings and milkshake. We ate onion rings and drank milkshake after milkshake in silence while Justin Timberlake’s Cry Me a River followed Christiana Aguilera’s Beautiful streamed in front of us. The youth group did not sing, some of them covered their ears to Christina’s song. All Carmen said was, That video is soo nasty. If I wanted to see anorexic I’d go to the mall.
But we are at the mall, I said.
We both laughed and that was it.
The last rays of sun hit the house in North Miami. Unmoved by the ducks tugging at her dress, Mami held the fake baby on her arms reclining on the fence. Sebastian already changed into his baptism dress, a long shiny toga-like vestido with a perfect sequin cross sewed in by Mami. From my doorpost I saw her showing off the custom-made dress, probably lying to everyone, Oh this old thing? Fulanito Italian designer hand-made it for the occasion.
forward to in this hellish Cuban swamp. So much fake gold, so much hairspray, so much kissing on the cheek and turning for women to nod at the ugliest yellow dress in the history.
Francisca? One lady exclaims in such uncontrolled excitement.
She grabbed my dress, then my hand until I turned to show her the back.
Palida but stunning! Then to Carmen, Carmencita? La adoptada? Mi nina...how you’ve grown chubby.
More and more food piled outside. Bocadillo con queso, arepa de huevo, quidbes, nino evuelto. Two chihuahuas barked. How I hate small dogs. I kicked one in the stomach, not before someone’s kid noticed and ran to tell his momma. How I hate children. I ate a nino envuelto. Around twenty people gathered outside amidst the black plastic chairs, the balloons, Mami showing off the fake dead baby in all his fake dead baby sequin couture.
The Pastor signaled for all to sit. They forgot about me. Carmen still came and went presenting me with three shekina dress options.
Which one?
A lit candle inside a rainbow was option number three. A lit candle with no bra. Her breasts obviously relaxed from all this heat. I stared and she noticed. It’s the light of the Holy Ghost. Oh, I said. Aja, she said. Her nipples pointed at my heart. The rainbow
connects the heavens with mama earth and the Espfritu Santo is the energy between them. I nodded.
Are you following?
She told me the Young Mulatongo called her the prettiest shekina to ever walk the Iglesia Cristiana Jesucristo Redentor, then ballerinas-out to the edge of the pool where people clapped joyous to finally see her.
Waving black flags with gold stars she does her Woman Warrior dance. People did not dance in Catholic church. Nuns did not dance, you kidding cachaco? Some children clapped. But this is like a novena navidena every day of the year. Maracas tambourines drums.
The Pastora closed the sliding door. To preserve the A.C.
Someone asked where the bathroom is. I don’t know. I don’t live here. I’m being used by my mother in her baptism project.
I watched as the baptism happened outside. At times the door sliding open and a wave of humidity slapping my face.
Mami handed Sebastian to the Pastor who kissed the baby and proceeded to enter the pool. He lifted the baby as he entered the water. People gathered around banging on the tambourines, shaking the maracas, singing Jesus. Whatever. Amen.
I paced up and around the hallway. Everyone’s purses, coats (in Miami!), hats (in Miami!) hanged next to the door. Nobody’s thinking about me. Mami clearly set her priorities. Nobody watched me. Should I? Why not? I needed a smoke, needed money, needed anything to push me out of this sameness. Anything to push me to that life that waited for me somewhere on the other side. This boredom, this awkward shame (pena ajena all the way, cachaco) for having to explain to myself what was happening.
So I did what any bored immigrant teenager locked in a dead baby’s Christian baptism would do: I went through the purses and coats. I wasn’t really interested in the money—who I am kidding, I was also interested in the money and any trace of a secret life that would point to the normal I had known. Deep down I hoped everyone faked their Christian faith. Sorpresa! It would have been the best April fools in history.
Gums, cigarettes, x-number of anti-depressants, tiny orange bottles, hand sanitizer, prayer notebooks, endless receipts for Tan with Dan and Wendy’s, chicken nuggets, money money money. I pocketed the cigarettes and $100 in fives. I could buy a new eye liner, or Doc Martens or eat sushi that’s not bought one day old from Publix Sabor. I could walk to Barnes and Noble, the only bookstore a la redonda, and actually buy a book instead of sitting in the back reading Clockwork Orange until the manager kicks me out. Fuck si, money is power.
Heavy black clouds ate away the sun in humid stillness. Summer in Miami is dark. Nothing moves. Water drips rom the ozone like a sweaty armpit. Nadie Como Tu
Senor played out of someone’s ipod connected to the speakers. An old lady in fuchsia I hadn’t seen before pulled out her teeth and shone them with her dress. She yawned, other people yawned. The ducks still flapped in the background. The black summer midday sky, ducks with red balls. My baby brother at last lifted from purgatory and now what. All of us still there. I chewed someone’s gum then spit it inside someone else’s purse. She will probably blame it on satanas anyway.
When there was nothing else to do, no other purse to sabotage, I picked at my cuticles until they bled. Until tiny red rivers pooled at the base of my nail. The life drained out of my finger. The obvious metaphor for my life.
Carmen still danced around the pool waving the flag.
The Pastor submerged the baby for a few seconds, eyes closed, screams to the heavens to lift him from limbo.
I had to pee. From the comer of my eye I see Carmen’s brother, Camilo, walking swiftly to be lost in the darkness of the hallway. Then a middle-aged bearded guy chased after him. Then I decided finding a bathroom right now is not such a good idea. I didn’t care about this baptism but if I stood for three hours on that door, I wanted my work to be recognized.
Thirty minutes go by. I can’t hold the pee anymore. The door slid open as Mami’s hands covered her face. All the fake gold rings bought before coming to the U.S of A, the
pashmina draping from her head. At last, the baby rose from the pool and everyone goes aleluya! Aleyuya! Gloria a Dios hermano. The wrap-around sequin dress must be too heavy with water because I see it drop, splashed.
Carmen received the naked Sebastian. Lifted it high like in the Lion King movie. Brown fake skin glimmering with the pool lights. Naked baby doll.
She rocked Sebastian, smiling through the sliding doors showing him to me. The contemporary version of the Virgen Maria, rocking baby Jesus with a pool of halo, ropy black clouds.
When it all ends Mami handed me the baby to dry it up, put new clothes on.
Mamita ayuda a algo, si? Grab the baby. What have you been doing here all the time and why do you smell like pee?
She’s kissing everyone goodbye. Que gracias por venir, que si claro ni mas faltaba. Que you can take the sobrados with you. Que everything was uno-A. Que please sign the recordatorio book if you haven’t done so already. Que Dios te bendiga hermana.
CHAPTER TRES
For the next few weeks nobody knew what to do with the plastic piece of baby in the house. La Tata thought it was a pendejada to keep it, Lucia and I refused to let Mami place it among our books and CDs and Mami, even though she would not admit to it, was embarrassed to have a muneco a esta altura del partido con her bed. After being the monthly center of attention Sebastian now served no purpose. The Pastores did not specify what would happen with the metaphorical baby once baptized and the real baby rose from limbo to baby heaven.
The night after the baptism Mami left him on the dining table and the next few days you could see her startled every time she entered the dinning room, as if she expected the fake baby to walk out now that he served no purpose. It was a strange time for Mami: what was she going to do now that the baptism was over? She paced around the house trying to find a nook for the fake baby. She went out with Milagros two or three times a week to distribute fliers again, worked on some guy’s magazine writing about Jesus and Finance, made some money here and there but when she came home at night ay de que you’d touched or moved the freaking baby! At the time I thought the hot humid infernal weather is messing with Mami’s brain cells and moved the baby on purpose just to have a reaction from her, just to watch La Tata close those hazel eyes in frustration and finally tell her, Myriam grow unos putos cojones and I’m throwing out this pedazo de mierda. Sebastian gone, leaving a smell of chlorine and a small void in the house.
But don’t you go thinking it ended there.
This is Myriam del Socorro we’re talking about. The same Myriam who fought the cashiers in Spanish because she just knew the bag of rice was buy one get one free, call me the manager! Fought the manager until he caved in and handed her the free bag of rice. The same woman who more than once obligated Alex to blow-dry her hair twice in a row, wetting it after he’d finished the first time because it didn’t fall elegantly on her shoulders. Mami in Bogota refusing to pay for the car-wash until she’d inspected all the comers of the trunk, then refusing to believe me when I said I wasn’t drinking at Carolina’s party, then lying, saying she was taking me for ice cream but really dragging me to a hospital to proof I had been drinking and she was right.
You see the pattern here?
And Sebastian was Mami’s project, the baby she mourned for seventeen years. Was she about to drop fake baby forever?
Out of the dumpster she retrieved the plastic doll. Wearing pantyhose and a skirt she jumped until the baby and a bag of trash cascaded on her. I was dividing the room space with Lucia who eagerly taped Jesus paraphernalia after Jesus paraphernalia on the walls and demanded I wear another color other than black in her presence, when we heard a crash outside our window and what do you know there went Mami limping back into the townhouse. Tara! Cabbage Patch was back with ketchup smeared all over his face.
Even nonchalant lalaland dreamy Lucia felt Mami went overboard. What. Is. She. Doing. In. The. Traaaaash. Our eyes meeting in a shared recognition, a brief moment of connection over our mother’s stupidity quickly shattered because, she continued, she just could not understand why if there is such a wide spectrum of beautiful colors that Diosito in his sabidurfa created you Francisca choose the darkest, the satanico one. Lucia and I were like Marfa Magdalena and la Virgen Marfa. The sinner and the holy. She dared not challenge Mami in anything, Mami said jump Lucfa threw herself over a cliff. No falta decir that Lucfa slipped into the Jovenes en Cristo so easily, her Life Changing Conversion like a Cinderella lost shoe transformed the girl without any rough marks, as if she’d been waiting to pray with Jesus’s immigrant militia mayamense for the entirety of her twelve year old existence and, nina! Did this sister succeed. I mean who was volunteering in outreach efforts on South beach, plastering Sedanos’ with fliers, recording herself reading Bible verses for the children, call out La Tata for cursing? To the point that even Mami—already a fully Jesus-loving devota—as Lucfa lectured La Tata over a lie, told her to calm down. Ya ya Lucfa calmate carajo. Calmate Lucfa! But there was no calming her. Jesus was with her, in her, all around her. It only took a month to transform this petite cachaquita into a full-blown hija de Dios and, motherfucker, was she proud of this. The prouder Lucfa grew the more time I spent staring at the goddam ceiling fan, fighting with her over my Smiths’ posters, yelling at her for calling Nirvana the satanas of gringos, etc.
On the chair next to Mami’s bed laid Sebastian. After praying during dinner that night it was decided the baby should be kept close to the only person in the house who didn’t want him soaked in ketchup in the dumpster. Of course Lucia did not have an opinion on this. But I did.
Es ridfculo mama, don’t you think Tata? Isn’t ridiculous she’s saving that piece of plastic? You, of all people ma.
Underneath the table La Tata patted my leg. Her way of saying, just leave it alone mija.
Esta bien. But what do you care? I’ll keep him in my room.
Why do I care? Porque Lucia and you complain about my posters, mi “satanic” music, my eye-liner pero ay de que I say anything about a maldito muneco. You do know he’s not your real baby, right?
Francisca, in this house no maldecimos. Words have power, you know better.
Damn: maldito. Could she kill with that shit or what? We couldn’t say “maldito” because words have power and we should be sending blessings into the world, so instead the muneco should be a “bendito” muneco. But the damn baby was a freaking maldicion. A sign that we, that I, that this new life was cursed.
I evaded Mami’s room at all cost. Something inside me wouldn’t let me see Sebastian without a ball of defeat setting around my throat.
My fifteen years wasted.
I inhaled the plastic smell of the A.C. and unable to open any windows I stared out the window at the dumpster, at Roberto, the old Cuban drunk in a wheel chair who flirted with La Tata every change he got, at the low cemented houses, pink houses glaring, somewhere across those dry palm trees was my home, beyond the lake, beyond the venezolanas in bikinis wrapped around flashy boys in the moldy pool, beyond the highways crisscrossing—the everlasting whoosh of cars speeding—beyond the flowery bedspread, my dry hands. Beyond Pablito, the Argentinian fat loser with the glasses and the Star Treck shirt knocking on our door asking in the singing accent if one of the ninas would accompany him to the mall.
Yo no voy a salir contigo, maricon.
He played shyly with his hands. Mami yelled from the kitchen that maybe it’d do me good, Pablito mumbling, With all due respect I’m not a maricon I swear I can prove it.
Hands clasped behind him. I saw myself shrink watching the biggest loser in the Heather Glen Aparment Complex offer his friendship. This is what I’ve become. Not become, really, more like unbecome. And yet. Pablito was the only loser who did not approach me with a Jesus brochure or a Got Jesus? Tank top suggesting I lose my Ramones shirt for some festive Caribbean colors. You’re colombiana mami, where’s your sabor. Still. Homeboy gave me the creeps and I dare not be seen with him in public (mind you, I did not know anyone).
Now mi reina, do you understand why I locked myself back in my room, blasting The Cure while staring at the MSN icon on the computer waiting for someone, one of my friends back home, to say something, anything. The first few weeks our conversations lasted hours. They detailed all the gossip in school, who banged the panadero, ended up drunk at the hospital, was caught smoking, etc. I spent as much time as Mami and her devotion allowed me glued to that computer. But after a few weeks the messages began to fade. New people were added to the groups, who’s that? Oh, you don’t know him he’s Marfa’s brother who is un churro divino. Relationships changed. Carolina? Girl she got kicked out of the school por kissing Paola. Paola said she forced her. Who is Paola? Bogota changing without me. Leaving me behind. New buildings, bars. My own language kicking me aside. I remember noticing them using new words “guapa” instead “hembra,” “darse besos” instead of “rumbearse.” I try joining in, sprinkling those new words here and there but they all sounded butchered, foreign. Now the conversations lasted only minutes before hitting a dead-end. The chat windows empty. The ceiling fan pressing down.
The next Sunday at Iglesia Cristiana Jesucristo Redentor I refused to join the Jovenes en Cristo after the one hour alabanza. Yes. One hour of non-stop salsa holy beats, slow generic music and arms high up swaying slowly, swaying in unison, almost choreographed, almost shadows of each other, the little, the big, the brown, the white, the arms clinging with bracelets, hairy arms, fingers intertwined, hands that had seen rough
times, the scarred, the veiny: all pointing to the baby blue ceiling where Diosito metaphorically lived. This querido cachaco was the second most embarrassing moment during the service. The first one of course being newly arrived sheep of Jesus walking up to the podium to share their Life Changing Testimony in tears and recurrent faints.
Mami, La Tata and Milagros had done so repeatedly already.
Dios rmo. The embarrassment when Mami told the entire congregation my father cheated on her. I could not look at her that day.
That Sunday I remained seated next to Mami who obediently bowed her head when the Pastor demanded, who obediently flipped through the Bible when the Pastora commanded while I silently gazed at her, sometimes angry, sometimes in awe of her new unstoppable devotion. Mami gave me The Eye then whispered I should do lo que me de la gana. Of course Lucia ran excited hugging her biblia and of course La Tata sat at the other end gossiping with Martica about the putas that were doing it before marriage. She continued to call putas putas even though no one was supposed to curse inside church, but they let La Tata curse because everyone felt pity. People knew. They must have. That La Tata practically ran Cartagena during her time, that she was known as La Muneca a voluptuous matron hija of a well known notary in the city and the most codiciada costena in the late 1950s, and now Alba Leonor de Jesus Juan was an overweight devota de Dios missing most of her teeth. Let me woman curse! A large alcoholic who birthed so many children the skin around her hips drooped as if it didn’t belong to her, as if it was dead
and tired of all its use. Mami ignored the tiny bottles of rum on La Tata’s nightstand by wrapping them in aluminum foil or filling Sprite cans. Oh she’s just drinking her medicina. And so we all forget until one day La Tata steps out into the street en cuera, como Diosito la trajo al mundo, an angry bird flapping bright yellowing skin calling on her dead husband: Fabito, mijo, la comida esta lista.
Mami joined the crowd gathered up front around the Pastor who immediately started praying over the kneeled sheep. I stared down at my hands, cold and dry from the A.C., a half-moon mole on my right index finger (the only resemblance to my father), nails bitten to the core, small ugly hands that didn’t say much. I turned them over and imagined someone tracing its lines. I daydreamed of a huge mansion with a greater-than-life library, my wife with long brown hair waking up naked next to me, tracing the lines on my palm, whispering I was the mera mera ultimate love of her life and she wanted to bear my children. Maybe not children, no. I was fifteen, the fuck was I thinking about children. But I wanted this girl to show up in a Jeep and drive me out of Miami into a quiet place where the silence didn’t hurt as much as it did here.
Carmen sneaked up on me and asked me to join the jovenes. Que no quiero, I said. But her arms were strong and clasped my veiny hands. She smelled of accumulated sweat under the white veils, face drenched, satisfied, ugly. Then Camila her stupid minion, stomped down the middle of the room tugging at Carmen, whispering loud
