The Southside Strories – Chapter 6

Our conversation turned to more mundane things like what was happening in my life, love life, and miscellaneous topics you talk about with your parents.

Then I asked what I didn’t think I’d have the strength or energy to ask.

“When is she being buried?”

“On Monday morning,” he said. “Are you going to be there?”

I was going to tell him, “I’ll try to make it,” but realized if I wanted to heal, maybe this would help me get closer to getting closure with her.

I paused. “Yes.”

“You sure you’re okay to handle it?” he said, his gently eyes probing mine.

“Yeah, Dad, I’ll be fine.”

That settled it and we said our pleasantries. I told him I’d be exploring more of the city on Sunday and that I’d meet him at the cemetery on Monday morning.

He got up to leave but I stayed in the same place.

“Te va’ quedar?” he said.

“Yeah. I’m gonna hang out here for awhile.”

“Okay,” he said. “Call me later.”

He kissed me on the forehead, gave me a half-smile that was his version of a friendly and reassuring gesture, and left the café.

Even with all the emotions churning over my mom, I was still thinking about Carlos.

I took the card out of my wallet and stared at his name in the bold black letters.

Scenarios raced through my mind of possibly getting my wish come true (universe, do not fuck with me, I need a win right now) or perhaps being okay with just having a friend during this hard time.

Resistance running through my veins, I put his card away and ordered a cappuccino. Even though I was full from lunch, I had to, had to get some caffeine in me to get the courage to call him.

Why hasn’t he called me? Oh right. I didn’t give him my number. Good job, Jazmine.

People watching, I slowly sipped my cappuccino. I saw many pale faced couples and families passing by. My neighborhood really has become gentrified. Jeez.

As I took a sip of my drink, I saw a blast from the past. One of the brief guys I’d dated in junior high school. Mark Lopez.

The breakup was amicable; we were only thirteen or fourteen at the time. Then our circles diverged. But we were still friendly with one another.

I thought he’d see me as so I had to tap on the glass window as he passed. He turned back and smiled. Then he walked inside.

His dark hair was short cropped; when he was thirteen it was longer, Hanson long. His physique was changed; he wasn’t necessarily overweight but pudgy. He carried the weight well.

When he grinned at me, his teeth were just as straight as in junior high school. Aww, the sweetness shone through.

I stood up as he approached my table and pulled me into his arms into a tight hug. He always did give the best hugs.

“Hi, Mark!” I said, as I pulled away. “Sit down.”

“Jazmine, girl! You look good!” He slid into the seat in front of me.

Girl? Is he? Well, that would make a lot of sense.

“How are things with you?” I asked, wondering if any answer he gave me would indicate that he was indeed what I thought he was.

“Things are good. I’m actually on my way into Soho to go shopping. My clothes are fitting me way too tightly. So yeah, it’s time.” His hands outlined an invisible line in front of him as he talked.

“Well, that’s kool but what have you done since I last saw you? I’m on Facebook but I’m not stalking everyone, ya know.”

“Oh well, I work at Columbia as a Communications Assistant for the President; you know, I’m his bitch but the pay is very good.”

His gaze landed on mine as he asked me, “What’s up with you?”

I told him about my mom’s funeral, moving to San Francisco to get my Master of Fine Arts at the University of San Francisco, attending the different writing workshops across the country, publishing a short story in a magazine no one has heard of (and I couldn’t even remember the name of the publication for the life of me, but I did have a few copies for myself), and staying in the city for a bit until I wanted to.

Then I told him how I saw Carlos Perez yesterday.

“Oh, he was always so cute,” he said.

I didn’t flinch because that comment told me everything.

“Wasn’t he? I always had the biggest crush on him,” I said.

“I don’t know any girl that didn’t at school,” he said.

“When did you come out?” I said, hoping I wasn’t being too presumptuous. I did live in San Francisco after all and hung out around The Castro pretty regularly. The gays may not be as hot in San Francisco than New York City but my gaydar is always accurate. Well, most of the time. Like the time a woman was hitting on me at one of the bars and I took that as friendliness. Needless to say, awkward night for the both of us.

He told me he came out in college.

“I never noticed in junior high,” I said.

“I didn’t know it then either. Even when I dated you for a second, I was attracted to you but there was a more friendly vibe than romantic-I-want-to-make-out-with-you vibe.”

“I guess I felt that way too but who am I kidding. My heart was always about Carlos Perez.”

Mark laughed at me and said, “I love how you keep using his first and last name. It’s hysterical.”

“You don’t understand, Mark. He was the dreamboat of that school. Like the Zack Morris of John D. Wells. I obsessed about him for so many years.”

“It’s cute, really it is.” He patted me on the shoulder. “You look really good.”

“Thanks,” I said, providing him with a half-smile. I hoped Carlos Perez thought I did enough to date me. Ohkay, Jazmine, chill out girl and focus on Mark!

We chatted about his partner, Seth, and how they met in college. They decided to move together to New York City (as they met while attending Syracuse University) and have been going on strong for five years now.

He looked at his watch and said, “Oh shit, look at the time. I gotta meet Seth in twenty minutes!”

“It was great catching up with you,” I told him as we embraced for a goodbye hug.

“Hit me up on Facebook,” he said. He flashed me his straight toothed smile and left the coffee shop.

Time had elapsed and I felt more at ease with my nerves; the anxiety was slightly on the surface and in my stomach but I knew I would be able to call Carlos and be okay. At least I think I was.

It was nice chatting with Mark. It’s so wonderful that he’s happy and finally at ease with himself.

Not that I would have noticed if he was uneasy in his own skin, being in the closet, but that he was happy and joyful.

I almost envied him because I’ve never had a mate I was very much in love with. What does being in love look like anyway? I didn’t have a clue.

People watching was getting boring at this point and I realized I’d been at Atlas Café for almost three hours. I had to call Carlos and then get out of Hipsterville.

To be considerate, I sat down in one of the empty tables outside of the café. As I left the inside, the table I formerly occupied was scooped up by a hipster couple who had their lattes and laptops in hand. I wondered if they were in school or just funded by their trust fund parents.

I pulled out the card from my purse and stared at his name again. Why didn’t I just email him? I have a Crackberry after all. No, the call is more immediate. I’m a wuss but I can do this!

I started dialing his number and a waiter asked me, “Would you like something to start with?”

“Oh, I’m not ordering anything,” I said, the numbers half dialed in my hand.

“These tables are for paying customers only,” he said in an assertive tone.

Without a word, I stood up and walked away from the café and sought out a bench. I searched my head for sitting possibilities. McCarren Park. Green grass. Rodney. Anything on Bedford Avenue. Then I turned the corner on Grand Street and discovered a bench in front of the Irish bar I never bothered exploring when I lived in the neighborhood.

I comfortably sat down, took a deep breath, and dialed Carlos’ number again. I was thirteen all over again.

The Southside Stories – Chapter 5

When I look at my wristwatch, I noticed that time had flown. I was going to be late. I hopped on the closest subway to go to Williamsburg. Oh, Williamsburg, Brooklyn – how I miss you but am glad that I live away from you. As the saying goes, distance really does make the heart grow fonder.

I stepped off the Lorimer stop on the L train and walked on Union Avenue to the other side of the Brooklyn Queens Expressway (we just call it the BQE). In the Southside, there are two sides because the BQE divides them. For a long time I lived on the Northside of the BQE but then moved to the less gentrified version (at the time, in the nineties) of the Southside.

As I walked toward my aunt’s house, I noticed the high rise buildings, the lack of empty space, the new shops put in by hipsters, the boutiques, and the glass windowed buildings occupying my old neighborhood. Where were the Latinos moving to in light of the heavy gentrification in this neighborhood?

I observed the storefronts and the neighborhood folk walking past me; I barely saw anybody with a shade past a tan. Where the Latinos at?

A short ten minute walk later, and I arrived at my aunt’s house. It was the mother of Liz, my best friend cousin back in the day. But Liz wasn’t there. My dad told me she had married Javier (the cute Javier from the block) and moved in with him somewhere in Spanish Harlem.

Before I step into the corner apartment building on South 2^nd, I stand outside and take in my old neighborhood. Across the street where there was a bodega with candy and is now a Laundromat. What’s happened to the bodegas in this neighborhood?

And right in front of me, the elementary school playground, which that I attended, had the gates open at all times for kids to take advantage of the space for kickball, football, or softball. Now, the gates are locked and it seems as if only are open when school is in session.

I shake my head to myself. What do the kids in this neighborhood have left to do for fun? I walk a few short steps to my aunt’s apartment building and notice the kids sitting on the stoop and playing handball.

Oh, that’s right. They’re doing the same shit I did when I lived on this block. Oh save them, please.

I step inside the vestibule and buzz my aunt’s apartment – 5C. I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve seen her. I don’t remember the last time I saw her. Maybe before I started grad school? I’m sure we’ll get into it.

I stepped through the glass door and stepped into the elevator. No renovations here. The elevator is still clunky and slow after many years. What the hell is the damn landlord doing in these buildings?

When I stepped off the elevator on the fifth floor, the smell of rice, beans, meat, and maduros filled my nose. I suddenly realized I forgot to eat something before I came down here. I’m sure there will be enough for me.

I looked at my wristwatch. Only 12:30. Yeah, not as late as I expected.

I pressed my finger on the black button for the door ringer. This as well has never changed. As well as the drab brown color on the door. Oh these nasty colors.

My aunt opens the door after a rustlin’ behind near the peephole (which I’m so used to, I don’t even notice it anymore) and embraces me in a hug.

“Sobrina, como e’ta?” she says.

“Bien, y tu?” I say. Doesn’t really work so well in Spanish with the rhetorical, “Hello, how are you?” The “Good and you?” just falls flat somewhere along the line.

I walk inside to the warm smells of food; my stomach growls with hunger.

“Hay, tia, tengo hambre. Queda para mi?”

“Claro, sobrina,” she said, with a warm smile.

My father stood up from the couch and hugged me tightly.

“How’d you sleep?” he said, his hand on my right shoulder, softly caressing me.

“I slept well enough. No dreams. Bien.”

I took off my coat and folded it out on the armrest of the gray loveseat couch which faced the TV. The living room was weird. There were three couches in the living room. There’s a large entertainment center made of wood – but not IKEA wood (this is way before IKEA even existed) with shelving. The TV is the main piece with pictures, ceramic objects, a videocassette player, and ceramic figurines cluttering the shelves including frames with my cousins’ pictures in them. The windows facing outside have the longest couch against them, a loveseat next to it, and another couch parallel to the window facing couch; the couches box in the entertainment center with some space in the middle, like a dance floor, but not.

The kitchen has a dining table big enough for only four occupants at a time with the rest filled with counter space and the other things kitchens occupy.

I sat down at the dining table as my aunt served me. My dad sat next across from me.

“Ya comi’te?” I said.

“Si. ‘Taba buenismo. Tengo un jaltura.”

My aunt placed the table with rice, beans, stewed chicken, and platanos maduros. Mmm…I took a bite of the orange sweet goodness, my mouth watered. I couldn’t recall the last time I ate some maduros. Not many Dominicans in my ‘hood in San Francisco.

“Tu te ve’ muy bien, Jazmine,” my aunt said, as she sat next to my dad.

“Gracias,” I said, before I ate a forkful of rice and beans. I had to slow down; I was ravenous.

“Que ha hecho, sobrina?”
I told her in the best Spanish I could muster since I don’t speak the language very often back home that I did a writing conference and I’m waiting on hearing about a teaching position. My dad knew all this. He interjected his knowledge of my career with beaming pride. I smiled at him. That’s why I love my daddy.

I ate my food slowly, savoring every spice, grain of rice, and bean on my plate. Eating this meal had me remember the brief good memories I had of my family.

There was a period from ages six to eight that I recalled my father, mom and I eating dinner at our dining table every evening. I felt safe and like a family. Even though I didn’t see many faces of color on the TV, I still felt my family life had the resemblance of TV families like on Family Matters and Step by Step. In hindsight, I thought of those families but at the time, the TV families were mostly atypical of TV sitcoms like Different Strokes, Good Times, and Silver Spoons.

Eating together became a habit and ritual I cherished as a child. Then when I got older, my mom’s drinking became more prominent and we separated as a family. I’d come home from school and head directly to my room, bypassing my mom in the living room.

My dad would watch TV in the bedroom. We were a family with a TV in every single room in the house. My present home only has the TV in the living room.

When I hear my classmates discussing their home lives including family game nights, vacations, get togethers, I wonder if I was missing something. I guess everything happens for a reason.

At the end of my meal, I told Dad we should leave. It was nice catching up with my aunt but I was over it. I wanted some quality time with my father. I asked him if he’d like to hang out at my hotel and then he’d be on his way.

He was actually sleeping at his brother’s house across the street so he preferred if we kept it local.

I looked at my watch. It was only 2:30pm. It wasn’t like I had much planned other than to hang with my dad.

I thought about where we could go to talk on our own.

I asked him if his brother would be home. He said yes. Then I suggested a coffee shop.

“Oh, eso e’ cosa de gringos,” he told me.

“C’mon Dad, let’s go,” I said.

He obliged me, we bid adieu to my aunt and went to the coffee shop on the other side of the BQE. The name of the place is Atlas Café.

The ambience is very much of yuppies/hipsters. A huge chunk (about ninety percent) of patrons on their Macs (very few PCs) tap tapping away with lattes, coffees, empty muffin or sandwich plates abandoned on behind their laptops. I knew this wasn’t the type of environment my father was used to but it was better than hanging out at a family’s home, where they were all in our conversation.

Surprisingly, at this time of day, we were able to find a seat. I was glad this place was still here. When I moved from the Southside to San Francisco five years ago, this place had just opened.

I remembered taking advantage of the free WiFi service many a time as I worked on my MFA submissions what felt like years ago. The map of the world on the wall as you walked in was inviting and the clientele were pretty friendly. There were a few regulars. Even a few cute regulars but I was always too engrossed in my writing to pay much attention enough to make friends there. A few friendly smiles of recognition were exchanged with the patrons as well as the employees there. At one point, I was on a first name basis with the staff because I frequented the place so much. There was a quiet but busy energy to the café I enjoyed and was able to let me work productively. At home, I just putzed around on the Internet and found ways to distract myself from the task at hand which was writing.

We sat down in a window booth; one of my favorite spots in the whole place because it was great for people watching when I needed a break from my computer screen.

I blinked to get me back in the zone and looked at my dad.

“How you doin’?” he said, taking my hand.

The touch brought me comfort.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I was thinking a lot about mom and the past.”

“Lo que esta en el pasado, dejalo en el pasado. Just think about the future.”

“I know,” I said, my gaze on the wooden table in front of me. “I haven’t forgiven her. This resentment is still raging strong, even more so inside of me.”

“Lo se,” he said. “But you have to try to get over it.”

“Dad, this doesn’t happen overnight,” I said, taking my hand back.

The gesture startled him.

“It’s not that easy. I’ve been carrying this around with me for years. I thought her death might make it go away but I feel heavy with it. It’s such a burden.”

“Just don’t think about it,” he said.

“It’s not that easy. I’ve been seeing a therapist for a year now and I thought I’d be able to handle this, but that’s not the case.”

Dad rested his chin on his hand.

“I just need time, Dad.”

“We both do,” he said. This time, I took his hand in mine.

The Southside Stories – Chapter 4

When I woke up the next morning, I saw my dad had called and left me a message. I didn’t feel like listening to it so I set the phone aside and checked my emails instead. I was never a fan of the Blackberry but when I got one, I understand why it’s often referred to as Crackberry – because it really is like crack! I can’t get enough of being plugged in twenty four seven. It’s not even like I’m working right now either.

I just got back from the Macondo Conference and I’m waiting on hearing if University of San Francisco will get back to me about teaching freshman English in the fall. Granted they would call me but it doesn’t hurt that I keep checking my emails, just in case.

After I check my emails, I check my account balances. So far, I’ll have enough to stay in New York for a bit before going back to San Francisco.

Before I saw Carlos Perez, I was set on leaving in a day or two (after some New York shopping and dining; there’s no place on the planet like my city!) and of course, chatting with my father. But it’s not as if I have anything but an empty apartment waiting for me back home. Oh yeah, and the boy.

The boy who’s really a man that I have nicknamed “the boy” has a name; his name is William.

The boy is like my stalker except I let him be my stalker, if that makes sense. I met him at a writing conference. He was friendly, a complete gentleman, smart, attractive, and completely five years younger than me that it was painfully noticeable and obvious.

I was chatting with a female classmate from my Masters in Fine Arts program at USF when he interrupted us.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Can I talk to you?”

Thinking he had recognized my work in a magazine or online somewhere, I thought he was a fan and was ready to talk shop or sign something.

“Is there something I can help you with?” I felt like I was volunteering at school again.

“I just wanted you to know that I find you very attractive and I would like to take you out sometime,” he said.

Surprised by his honesty and assertiveness, I had to oblige him. The catcalls in the intellectual world were much more along the lines of, “I love your work. I’d love to get together and write something with you,” or “Let’s chat about our favorite authors together.” Some of those lines were mixed in with each other but I figured out what was what by the end of my two years at USF.

We met two nights later. I was a busy woman with lots of things to do. So there was no way I was going to clear my whole schedule for just one guy.

He picked me up and took me to a restaurant in downtown San Francisco. He made sure to stay far away from Fisherman’s Wharf; only tourists hang out there.

The restaurant’s name was Clamshell; I loved seafood so I was happy he chose this place. I had passed by it many a time and never made the time to visit. The date started well.

Then he started talking.

“I love writing but I’ve never really taken myself seriously before. I can’t wait to get a literary agent and get published through a big publisher. Then I’ll be rich.”

I couldn’t believe his naiveté about the writing world. He had a lot to learn.

“After I get my degree I’ll probably teach and then get my Ph.D. and then I’ll really be making a lot of money. Summers off are going to be great. I’ll just write then.”

I didn’t have the energy to deflate his ideas and illusions of grandeur he had created about writing as a profession and career and even as a life. He was totally clueless. But he had the body of an Adonis.

That night, I took him home and I rode him like a cowboy running for his life. The sex was…exquisite. For someone who I thought was pretty dull, I was surprised he was so good in bed.

That was three years ago. He’s the boy I fuck; I can’t bear “dating” him because we have nothing in common and he’s a damn idiot.

So yes, he is definitely just a boy which I don’t miss.

I take a shower and think about Carlos. How should I come at him? Should I suggest lunch, dinner, or brunch? (I love brunch.) Or should I just play it by ear?

I can’t just play it by ear, this is Carlos Perez! The crush I’ve never forgotten. The guy that makes my feet tingle with anxiety. The guy that makes me forget who I am – Carlos Perez.

I have to get it together. Maybe I’ll relax once I get back to my father. Then maybe he’ll put things in perspective for a bit.

***

I walk downstairs of my hotel room in Midtown, by the Theatre District and head to the nearest Starbucks. I don’t care much for name brands but I like their products; I’m a sucker for their Banana bread.

Luckily, on this early Sunday morning, I was able to find a decent table by the window; perfect for people watching.

After I get my order, I sit down and place the delectable Banana bread I enjoy so much on the table. Then I pull out my Crackberry. I listen to my message left by my father.

“Jaz, call me when you get this.” I’ve only liked it when my father has called me Jaz. When my mom tried, it didn’t work. I remember when he first started calling me Jaz.

I think it happened when we moved and my parents were divorced. I was fourteen at the time. I was helping Dad move some furniture around and he needed help with something heavy like the red couch I have so many great and fond memories of to the other side of the living room. We were still experimenting with space.

He said, “Jaz, help me out here for a second.”

“Jaz?” I said, face distorted in disgust. Sometimes pre-teens can be so overly dramatic. Guilty as charged.

“You’ve never called me that before,” I said.

“Does it bother you?” he said, after the couch was moved.

“Um..” I let the nickname sit with me and thought long for two full minutes. Then I decided, “I like it.”

I beamed as if he awarded me with a trophy; it was our first private father daughter moments. One of the little gems I inherited when I moved in with my father.

But when my mother would attempt to use it, I scowled at her.

The incident in point was actually my fifteenth birthday party. I was too big for cake and candy but perfect for a McDonald’s birthday party! I loved the games and the happy meals. Maybe I was too big for the games but I liked them anyway.

My father was talking to my mom; he was polite, she was sober and I was playing in the big pen of plastic balls of blue, red, green, and yellow. I plopped myself as deep as I could where not even my parents could see me until I heard, “Jaz, get out of there. I can’t see you.”

She couldn’t see the big scowl on my face when I heard her use the nickname my father used on me. I’m sure she’d heard my dad utter it in her presence in the past or even refer to me as Jaz rather than Jazmine.

I re-emerged from the ball playing area and asked to be taken home. She had ruined my birthday party from me. And I didn’t even want her to come.

I called my dad and told him where I was. He told me I should come down to his sister’s house, in the Southside, for la comida at noon time. I told him I would but that I would probably eat before I got there. He knows me so well by now that it didn’t bother him. I am sick of the rice and beans and meat meal that most Latinos have. There is more to life than rice and beans and meat! I told him I’d be there around one and I’ll see him later.

I ventured out to shop at one of my favorite shops in the city – Sephora. I know that it’s a chain store but there’s something fabulous about shopping at Sephora in New York City. Or maybe that’s just me.

Since I love having soft skin, I always make sure I have enough body scrubs in my home; it’s called body maintenance. Don’t judge me.

In Sephora, I browsed the make-up section (which I barely use on myself) and remembered the first time I put on make-up was to hide the puffy bags under my eyes from the most I’d ever cried in my life. I cried the other day for my mom but when my father told me they were getting a divorce, I was devastated.

Even though my parents argued immensely during my pre-teen years, I always thought this was the norm. Arguing was how parents dealt with each other.

But in the summer months, the arguing was more explosive, louder, distracting, and obtrusive.

The day my dad told me we were moving out and they were getting a divorce, I had come back from a full day of people watching at my cousin’s house, Liz, across the street.

The sun had gone down but the neighborhood was still lively; most every stoop was occupied with clusters of kids, adults, and teenagers and the ice cream truck was parked in front of the corner bodega across the street from my apartment building. Normally, I’d probably convince Liz to sit outside her stoop with me until later but her parents are a lot stricter than mine ever were. So I came back home, wishing I would’ve stayed out later.

I put the key in the lock and heard loud yelling and crying. I shrugged to myself thinking it was just mom drunk and feeling sorry for herself. I braced myself for the scene either way as I opened the door. I saw my parents facing each other, standing next to the big dining table that occupied most of the living room, right next to the door of the apartment.

They looked at me, my mom’s face distorted as she covered her face and cried into her hands; I looked over at dad asking him the obvious question, “Is she drunk?” He shook his head no and then gestured to go to my room. I checked them out briefly as I passed them on my way to the bedroom; my dad gave me a tight lipped expression as he caressed my back lightly.

I was worried; I knew something was amiss and was going to affect my life. Little did I know, it would have a huge impact on my life from then on.

I sat in my room, with the TV on but not really watching, waiting for my dad or mom to come in and tell what the hell was going on out there.

Newsies was on Channel 11, back before networks didn’t pay attention to rights, companies and all that jazz; they showed the best movies on that channel. One of my favorites was Heathers. Oh and it was before cable became the norm in every household.

Christian Bale was singing in the street when my dad lightly knocked on my door.

“Can I come in?” he said.

I nodded yes.

He sat down on the only other chair in my room, which was right where the TV was on my dresser.

“I’m sorry you had to see that out there,” he said. His stern stare meant bad news.

I shrugged my shoulders. “What’s going on?”

“Well, you know your mother has a problem.”

I nodded in agreement.

“And she is not willing to seek treatment as I’ve suggested to her many times.”

“When? How? When did you suggest that?”

“After you were born. She’s been suffering from post partum depression which hasn’t yet been resolved. The alcohol takes the edge off. Well, that’s her story anyway.” His eyes focused on a spot on the wall behind me.

“You and I are leaving and your mother and I are getting a divorce.” A beat passed as he searched my face for an expression.

I understood what he was telling me but I wasn’t processing it.

“Okay,” I said, no emotion. “When are we moving and where?”

He was taken aback by my unemotional state but assumed I was in shock; I was only fourteen at the time.

“I haven’t figured that out yet but we’ll be here for another month until we move.” He grabbed my hands.

“I wanted you to know what was happening. It’s going to be rough for a while but we’re going to make it, babe. Okay?” His gaze settled on my eyes.

“Okay,” I said. My eyes involuntarily became wet.

On some level, I didn’t realize that I had always wanted to reach out to my mother and felt I was at fault for her sickness. I always thought that when I became older, I’d be able to help her and she’d be happy, like the mothers of other girls I see at school. Doting, loving, and caring.

My fairy tale of the perfect friendship with my mother was shattered and I was sad.

Before I could do anything, my father took me into his arms, as I sobbed into his chest. We stood in my room in the embrace for what felt like forever, but I think was only ten minutes. I wiped my nose with my hands and gave my dad a meek smile.

Even then I wasn’t much for telling him my emotional state in verbalized form; it came out in the form of tears.

He hugged me again and kissed me on the forehead.

“Te quiero mucho,” he said, looking down on me. “You know I’ll always be here for you, right?”

I nodded my head yes. Then he hugged me again, a little longer and tighter this time and left my room.

I pulled out my journal and wrote about the turmoil of emotions I was feeling. I expected mom to come in and tell me her side of the story, but she never did.

Actually for much of that month, I barely saw her. She took over the bedroom my parents shared together while dad pretty much lived in the living room.

Part of me was also upset with her. How come she didn’t want to take care of herself? Why didn’t she want to be good for me? Didn’t she care about me? Her only daughter? I didn’t understand and I wanted to. But when you’re only a pre-teen, adults don’t bother to explain things to you because they assume you don’t understand. Which I assumed was the case with my mother. I was so hurt and full of rage, I made sure to avoid her when I was home for those thirty days. It was like I lived in a house with roommates, except my dad and I got along while my mom’s energy hung like a dark cloud, pregnant with rain that almost fell but never did.

The Southside Stories – Chapter 3

When I was in junior high school, as most kids in my neighborhood, my summers were spent on the stoop. I had friends and cousins I hung out with. We played Uno, I Declare War, Gin Rummy (even though we knew it as Three and Two), Spit, and people watched.

While other kids went to Puerto Rico or Dominican Republic for the whole summer, I was outside on the steps of my stoop.

Some days, the guys on the block were entertaining. There were nicknames for the boys on the block my cousin and I would assign or learned from them while they shouted at each other while they played “Booty” – a handball game in which the loser would have a handball thrown against his or her rear end. The things that kids made up back them.

We had “Hacker” who was absolutely adorable, always wore blue or red, had a very close cropped haircut, looked no more than sixteen or seventeen at the time, and I don’t even know if he was in school. My cousin and I enjoyed his silence; he barely talked. And when we saw him open his mouth one day, we knew why. His teeth were busted! Jagged, snaggle-toothed, gapped, and all kinds of unattractiveness.

There were the two Javiers – one who was the hottest guy on the block but rarely hung out; he would greet the guys and work or be productive; the other, had a huge birthmark on his right cheek, the size of two polka dots in one. Birthmark Javier had a huge ass! The other Javier’s ass was just right.

Of course, how could I forget, Felix, the BFF of Javier, and also the shortest of the bunch standing at 5’6 (while the others were 5’10 and up).  And the last of the crew, who presently passed away a few years ago (suicide over a woman), Robert aka Bugs, who was the palest of the crew (Puerto Rican) and just as loud as Big Booty Javier. We’d laugh at their antics, their games of “Booty,” and their good looks. We didn’t have anyone else to look at. TV wasn’t as entertaining when things were happening live.

I’ll never forget when Bugs, Hacker, and Felix walked up to my cousin, Liz, and I to participate in a game of Uno with us. I don’t remember much of the game but I think I was the first person out as the game continued without me. They only played one round with us and never asked to play with us again.

After the game, all we did was discuss what Bugs, Hacker, or Felix said during the game.

“Remember when Javier said, ‘Shut up, fuckface; stop trying to show off for these girls.’?” We laughed at the many similar comments that were made. We learned that Felix was the bitch of the crew; they treated him like crap, used, abused him, and he was still friends with them. I’ll never understand how guys could be friends with assholes. I don’t have bitches as friends.

I thought about my junior high school summers, how much I laughed, played cards (so much that to this day, the thought of playing cards bores me to tears), and hung out with Liz. Our relationship is pretty much non-existent right now. A part of me likes to think that we provided a service of companionship to one another; once we grew older, not only did we grow apart but realized that we were friends for convenience, not by choice.

What did I learn in hindsight? That my parents didn’t know any better to put me in camp, sign me up for extracurricular activities in the summer to keep me occupied, keep my brain on point in the learning zone – but there were also those summer nights, I wished I could sleep on the stoop when Mom would drink.

It’s fuzzy when I first noticed her problem; I remembered coming home from a whole day of people watching and card playing – she was sitting on the couch, in the darkness.

Even though I was just thirteen, I could smell alcohol and I didn’t like the energy she was sitting in.

“Hi Mom,” I said, about to dart into my bedroom.

“Ven mi’ja,” she said. “Sit wif me.” Even though by then she’d been in this country for over twenty years, she never learned perfect English; her accent was pretty thick.

Reluctantly, I sat down next to her on the white Italian couch, covered in plastic. The material rustled as I placed myself next to this shell of a woman that was my mother. I don’t have any happy memories of her at all.

“Tu sabe que yo te quiero,” she slurred, her eyes glazed over, looking at me but not simultaneously. “I love you bery much,” she said, hugging me a little too tightly.

I pulled away from her.

“Okay, Ma,” I said. I got up. Standing next to her, looking down at her. “Me voy a dormir.” I kissed her on the cheek and rushed to my bedroom.

Changing my clothes, the tears struggled to be released but I held them in. This was my mother; my drunken mother that didn’t realize what she was doing to this family.

As I arrived in my hotel room, the tears I’d held in for years, flowed. I lay in bed, letting the salty water flow, flow, and flow.

I couldn’t bear seeing her in that state for years. I was glad I chose to live with my father after the divorce. Granted, my mother was not in any place to care for another, not even herself.

The funeral left an impression on me; something intangible that I couldn’t even fathom myself.

My mother is dead and gone; never coming back; never again.

Did I miss her? Will I miss her? I don’t know but I do know that I haven’t been able to heal for years. Maybe this is my time to fully heal and recover from the negligence a mother’s love has had on her daughter. Have I felt the effect of this? Definitely. I barely have female friends. I don’t even know what a female relationship looks like. I have many male friends; fifteen percent of them I’ve messed around with first and now we are friends.

Why am I thinking about friendships with my mom about to be buried in the ground? Grief plays terrible tricks on you, especially when you least expect it.

The Southside Stories – Chapter 2

In junior high school, I wasn’t fat or unpopular; I was a nerd but the nerd that people knew and liked. I was heavy into extracurriculars and liked being in the mix. I dated sporadically; less than more so my other female acquaintances.  The majority of the guys in my school were dirty, inappropriate, unattractive, straight up ghetto, superficial (well, boys at that age don’t believe in personality yet. You’re either hot or not), or just straight up stupid. Even at that age, regardless of looks, I couldn’t handle dumb boys. Plus, my vocabulary was expansive before I entered high school. I started at eleventh grade level English as a sophomore!

But Carlos Perez…there was something about him that made him memorable. Apart from his hotness – chiseled physique, height of six feet (I’m only average height but something about immense height was damn sexy even back then and more so now), honey skin complexion, Puerto Rican (cannot stand Dominican men especially as a Dominican woman; more on that later), hazel eyes, wavy black hair that I imagined running my fingers through, and he was in honors classes like me, but a year older.

I saw him roaming the hallways like the mayor of the school and I admired him. He was always friendly, courteous, and gentleman-like. And he was only fourteen! I was in a constant state of like with him but I kept it to myself. I wasn’t the only girl in the school pining away for his affections. Surprisingly, he never dated any of the girls in my school; I heard rumors he dated girls from Christ the King, the Catholic school in Queens that apparently had the “hottest girls.” I guess the girls in our grade (including me) weren’t attractive enough for the guys there.

My interactions with Carlos Perez were few and far in between. Since the school didn’t mix classes and grades, I mostly saw him in the yearbook club. He was the Editor in Chief while I was in charge of the culling all of the students’ pictures and providing a unique style to have illustrated the senior superlatives as well as any photos of senior events.

First conversation: “Do you want the baby pictures next to the current photos or on their own spread with their names on them?” I said.

“Their names on them works,” he said. He smiled politely. As did I. I slinked away to my station on the far corner of the room, by the doorway to duck out as soon as we were done. He always stayed late and I didn’t have the mental energy to control this immense crush that was more than me; he was a mystery, intriguing, nice, smart, and older.

Our conversations never went further than yearbook related stuff. Surprisingly, he even asked me to sign his yearbook when he graduated. I signed it, “Good luck in high school. You will go far. Yours truly, Jasmine Cruz.”

I couldn’t put down the “Keep in touch” that most people do because I barely knew him but I so did want to keep in touch with him.

After he read it, he hugged me, kissed me on the cheek and said, “Thanks. Take care.” I never saw him again. I stalked him on Facebook when the social networking site came on the scene; I learned he was married with three kids with a woman he met in college. A little part of me died but the crush never went away.

In college, I was so intensely focused on graduating (being the only person in my nuclear family to have a college degree was a lot of pressure) that I didn’t even notice men. Some guys tried; I had my share of short term relationships. My first boyfriend was in high school; it was my junior year. He was my first. I wasn’t in love but I did care about him immensely.

Even though I knew Carlos Perez was married with kids, I never forgot about him.

I was dumbfounded and forced myself to speak as we stood on the corner together, forgetting I had come from my mother’s funeral.

“Hi,” I said, hoping I wasn’t blushing hardcore.

“It’s so good to see you! What brings you back? I haven’t seen you since, what? Junior high school?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“You look great,” he said, feeling his eyes roam from bottom to my face. My body temperature raised a few degrees. And he aged so well. For a thirty year old, his physique was just as tight (I could tell on his arms as the veins flexed when he gestured while talking to me) and he was forming an adorable crow’s feet at his eyes. I couldn’t lose myself in his handsomeness right now; conversation, now.

“Um, I’m good. Well, actually, not really. I, uh, came back for my, um, mom’s funeral. She passed away uh, this past weekend.”

He hugged me again; I tried hard to keep my knees from buckling. I needed some hydration fast.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said. “What happened?”

“Liver failure.”

“Cancer?”

“Alcohol.”

“Oh,” he said, his gaze to the ground. He looked at me and said, “At least she’s out of pain, right?”

“I guess so,” I said. I didn’t want to go any further into how I felt so I said, “What’s up with you?”

“I’m on my way home,” he said. “Came back to the ‘hood. You know how it is.”

“No, I don’t. Tell me. Where do you live now?”

“Well, I don’t know if you know this, but I’m divorced now. We got joint custody, the house, and the car.”

Does he know that I stalk him?

“The whole suburb thing didn’t work out for you?” I cocked my head to the side, losing myself in his hair.

“I’m a Billyburg boy; I couldn’t handle the falseness, that whole world boggled my mind. And my wife, I mean, my ex-wife was sold on that universe. Like if that’s the way it should be, as if there wasn’t a choice to live any other way. It drove me crazy. So I let her have it all. But I call my kids and see them every other weekend.”

I couldn’t believe this. Was the universe playing a trick on me? I braced myself; I wanted some comfort but I didn’t want to push myself up on him and I needed to process this. Especially tell my father about him too.

I had to ask – “How long ago was the divorce?”

“A year ago; it was amicable. We are still good friends but realized we wanted different things.”

“Oh, I see,” I said. I didn’t know what else to do with myself at this point. Here I was, talking to my only school girl crush and I wanted to run away! What was wrong with me?

“Well, listen, I was on my way to my home…mourning and all..I’d like to catch up with you some time again, if and when you’re available.”

“Oh God, I’m sorry. I was talking your ear off and you just came from a funeral. I’m sorry,” he said, gesturing madly. “Here’s my card.” He handed me a sleek looking gray business card with Carlos Perez as the header and underneath, the title, Real Estate Agent.

“My personal number and email address are on there. How long will you be in town?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “I could stay for as long as I want. I gotta figure it out. Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Of course,” he said, smiling, politely. I remembered the smile very well. My insides were turning into mush. I had to get out of there.

“I’ll get in contact with you,” I said, hailing a taxi cab. Distraction will help me through this. The taxi cab was quicker this time around. Thank goodness for that.

“I look forward to your call,” he said. He opened the door for me. We exchanged a quick kiss on the cheek and hug goodbye.

“It was great seeing you,” I said.

“Likewise.” Smile. I needed to get to my hotel room, stat!

“I’ll call you!” I said out the car window and waved to him.

I held his business card to my chest and then put it away in my pocket book.

How the hell was I going to pull off a civilized conversation with him on the phone? I was in junior high school all over again.

The Southside Stories – Chapter 1

As promised, I have provided the first chapter of my attempt at writing about my native Williamsburg, Brooklyn neighborhood. Feedback is encouraged and appreciated.

 

I can’t believe I’m back here. Los Sures in Brooklyn. I swore I’d never come back here unless I needed to. Well, here I am. Attending Mom’s funeral. I can’t believe she’s gone. I don’t even remember the last time I saw her.

I’m looking at my makeup in my tiny black compact mirror and add some extra blush to my caramel skinned cheeks. The pink blush makes them look rosy; sexy with a conservative touch, which is just right for this funeral. As I’m about to put away my mirror, my cousin, Jesse, approaches me.

“Prima,” he says, as he hugs me, tears in his eyes. He’s sadder than I am. I’m sad she’s gone but it ain’t that deep.

He looks me in the eyes, expecting to see some moisture. He sees none but hugs me again.

“Como ‘ta?”

“Bien,” I say. “I haven’t been here in years; it’s weird.”

“Bueno, mucho no ha cambiado. Solamente el vecindario.”

“Yo, se,” I say. “Tu vi’to a papi?”

“No lo vi’to,” he says.

There is silence as we look around at all the mourning faces inside Baez Funeral. He pats my back and kisses me on the cheek; he nods a “See ya later,” and walks toward his mother. She nods to me, tight-lipped as she stands 50 feet away from me, talking to some other relatives I’m not interested in interacting with at the moment. I want to see my dad. He told me he’d get here at 4:30 pm and it was already 5. I couldn’t stand being around these people any longer.

I sat down on one of the folder chairs, two rows from my mom’s open casket. I couldn’t bring myself to look at her corpse. She did this to herself; she could’ve gotten help. She could’ve saved herself but she drowned her sorrows in the drink.

As I was staring at her corpse from a distance, I felt myself trembling from anger and resentment. She was so absent from my life, I never knew who she was. She was sick; and it made me sick. The tears slowly slid down my cheeks, as I sat there breathing slowly.

I reached into my pocket book and dabbed at the sides of my eyes. I reached inside my purse again and checked my makeup. Not too much smearing. Good.

I put my mirror away again and I felt the familiar warm hand of my father on my back.

“Hi baby,” he said as I took him in a tight embrace. Sobs uncontrollably racked my body in his arms. He held me for as long as I needed him there.

I finally pulled away, sniffling, and wiping my nose like a little kid. What is it about being around your parents that makes you regress?

We sat down in the same spot I was sitting in.

“Hey, Pa,” I said, still wiping the moisture from my face with my hands. I took tissue out of my purse and gently wiped my nose.

“You’re late. Where were you?”

“Anna was running late the whole day which made me late,” he said. “But I’m here.”

He kissed me on the cheek. Then he looked around.

“I should make my rounds here,” he said, standing up. “Tu no va habla’ con nadie aqui?”

I shook my head no.  “I think I’m going to my hotel.”

“Where you staying? I thought you were going to be staying with Jesse?”

I made a “You’re crazy” face, with squinty eyes and a scrunched up mouth and said, “No.”

“I gotta get outta here, Dad. I can’t stand this.”

His body stiffened but his eyes softened. He knew I was funny at family functions because I didn’t really ever fit in.

“I’ll call you later,” he said, as he hugged me and walked toward Jesse’s mom.

My eyes swept around the room and I briskly walked out of the parlor. I sucked in the cool fall air like I was smoking a cigarette.

The funeral parlor was right by the Williamsburg Bridge, which was perfect for hailing a yellow taxicab. I couldn’t wait to get to my hotel room, take a warm bath, and order a romantic comedy to wash away the day.

With my fitting black suit, I was the best looking woman on Havenmeyer Street so the familiar catcalls and “Hola mami” greetings ensued as I stood on the corner, trying to hail a taxi.

As one taxi cab finally rolled up, Carlos Perez, waved to me with an inviting smile, less than five feet away from me. My feet started to tingle; my stomach did somersaults and I thought I’d flub a simple hello to him. I cursed myself for not looking at myself in the mirror before I left the parlor.

I shooed the taxi cab away and plastered on a smile, hoping my anxiety and nervousness didn’t show on my face.

He walked toward me and kissed me on the cheek. I inhaled his musk infused with Calvin Klein cologne (I recognized the fragrance because I bought the same one for an ex; I loved the smell on him!) as we engaged in a brief hug. I never thought I’d see Carlos Perez again in my life; my one and only school girl crush to the maximum.

Screen Free Week – Last Day

My last day without visual media was a struggle. The weather was gorgeous, it was Easter Sunday (which doesn’t mean anything to me since I’m not religious), and I had plans to visit a friend’s house in the afternoon.

Since I’ve been walking everywhere to save train fare, I was going to walk to Williamsburg from my friend’s home in the Financial District but opted instead to take the train home. When I arrived, all I wanted to do was cuddle up with my Beatles biography book and read. However, since I did say I was going to show up to my friend’s place in Chinatown, I forced myself to keep the engagement. The purpose for this Screen Free Week is to be more social and connect with people after all.

I arrived later than I expected (talk about Huge resistance) but we had a blast. She made yummy sweet potato casserole, I brought cupcakes from Sugar Sweet Sunshine  and we played a round of Scrabble. I would’ve stayed longer but work in the morning awaited me.

When I left her building, the rain came down hard. I wanted to walk the bridge back (again, save train fare) but there was no way I’d make the thirty minute walk across the bridge dry. I took the train, got home, took a shower from head to toe, and curled up with my Beatles biography book. Still a fascinating read.

What did I learn about myself through this Screen Free Week?

1) I spend a lot of time watching moving pictures

2) When I spend time not consuming visual media, I spend time planning my future consumption of visual media

3) I don’t write as much as I should even when I’m not consuming visual media

Can you say movie addict? Just a little bit? Yeah.

The last fact is apparent when I recount a dream I’ve had, write down my thoughts, or peruse handwritten notes on other stories. I have so many ideas but there’s no execution or follow through. It’s easier to say, “Well then I’m going to have to change that!” and not do anything at all versus realizing that making writing a priority (like exercise) will be much more effective.

I guess that’s where I’m at. Consuming visual media can be accomplished without bingeing (when I go without time with a certain thing, I overdo it) and in small doses. And of course, making writing a priority.

Since I am part of a writing group, the upcoming meeting will force me to complete something before we meet. I need to have a piece of fiction completed by the end of this week. Pressure pushes me to work than on my own.

Today, I have many shows to catch up on! I can’t wait. And reading of course.

My next self-imposed ban? Chocolate. This is a hard one. My love affair with chocolate  has always been steady, intoxicating at times, passionate, delicious, and new. When I eat chocolate after the month again, our relationship will be even more solid. Until then, eat chocolate moderately.

Screen Free Week – Day 4

I had quite a day on my fourth day on this Screen Free challenge.

Since I love baking, I baked chocolate chip cookies for a friend of mine who’s in semi-traction (he had knee surgery) and visited for a while. The visit lasted a whole day! Completely unexpected but awesome.

He lives in Park Slope so I walked from Williamsburg to his ‘hood. The walk  took ninety minutes but the sun was out so it was pleasant.

After we chatted for many hours, we went to a nearby bar, Toby’s, for some grub and trivia night. I’ve never attended a trivia night anywhere so this was new to me and a total blast! I met his kool friends and enjoyed the atmosphere at the bar.

I got home at 1:30 am (the G train was doing this shuttle business between Bedford-Nostrand Ave) and fell out. I was tired, joyful, and proud that I didn’t turn my TV on once! Not even when I was at his place!

When seeking out social activities not including visual media, it’s quite easy to accomplish your goal. This day was perfect because I met different folks from a different social circle and it was grand. Every day is new for me. Every time I meet new people and am in different situations, I think, “How can I incorporate this into a story?” It’s what writing is all about. Then I come back to reality and engage instead of observing (I observe quite often in social situations). It seems like I’m having all these different experiences after I’ve declared a change in location for next year. Am I looking at my city through “graduation goggles?” Perhaps, perhaps not.

Until the next day!