Of Home and The Heights

I moved into the apartment I live in (and will soon be moving out of) when I was seven years old. My grandparents and I had just arrived from Chicago at my dad's urging. He lived in Washington Heights with his wife and my brother, as did my aunt with her husband and three children, so my dad thought it would be good for my grandparents and I to be close to all of them.

I must say, I was not too impressed with New York upon my arrival. For one, the apartment my dad found was tiny in comparison to our old place. (I would soon find out that tiny was the norm for NYC). Back in Chicago, we had such a spacious apartment that I was able to zoom down our hallway on my tricycle with plenty of room to spare when I was a toddler. My grandparents each has separate bedrooms, there was the TV room with the dining area, the kitchen and a separate room we used just to eat in. I remember hearing Juan Gabriel singing Querida on the radio in that room as I ate cereal before being walked to kindergarten. We had an enormous room we never even used! It had a fake fireplace, a whole living room set and an actual vitrolla that played albums, 45s and 8 tracks. My grandfather kept his Nat King Cole albums there and every Sunday morning my grandmother would clean the room and close it again. On those mornings, I was allowed to listen to my two Menudo albums and stare at Charlie's magnificent curls on the cover.

My kindergarten teacher Ms. Daisy lived next door and she'd talk to me through our adjacent living room windows. My best friend Bruni lived across the street with her grandmother Dona Ramonita who owned a small store on the first floor where my grandmother would visit her and buy yarn while Bruni and I ran from the beehive on the side of their house or tried to make each other fly in her backyard by attempting to hurl one another as hard as we could while sitting on a refrigerator box, Aladdin-style. (We were short on understanding aerodynamics apparently.)

From this idyllic scene, cut to Washington Heights in the hot-ass summer of '87. Yeah, exactly.

Our new apartment had a tiny bathroom, a narrow kitchen, the front door opened practically into the main bedroom, you had to cut through the living room to get to what would be my bedroom where all the closets in the entire apartment were. We left Chicago for this? I left my brand-new bike behind for this? I left Bruni behind for this? My Menudo albums? (No space for the bike or the vitrolla, my grandmother said.)

But eventually I settled into the new apartment and the neighborhood. My new school, Juan Pablo Duarte, was across the street. There were Saturday mornings spent doing compra at La Antillana on Broadway. Shopping on 181st with Mami (my grandmother) para especiales and getting frio frios once we were done. Visiting my dad's apartment on the corner of Dyckman and Sherman and dinners at my Titi Kenia's on Ft. Washington and 163rd. There were afternoons of playing Super Mario Bros at Elaine's house next to the library on 179th. Then there was waiting for the cheese bus on 181st and St. Nicholas to get to Mott Hall where I'd see Abdy who lived around the corner and Willie and his mom and Karina and her mom. There were walks home from the bus stop with Abdy and Willie where Abdy's obsession with Street Fighter would detour us to the arcade machine inside the Blimpies on Broadway.

If I close my eyes right now and think of each of the rooms in this apartment, I can see so many scenes playing out like a film -and it's a film I find hard not to cry through.

I remember my dad hooking up my first computer in my room and teaching me how to use Prodigy. I remember yelling at my grandparents everytime they knocked my internet connection by picking up the phone. I remember watching Motley Crue on MTV in my room and my grandmother with a perplexed look on her face asking me if Vince Neil was un hombre o una mujer? Here, in my old room, now my daughter's, I used to get up an hour early to primp in front of my mirror before class and my grandfather would knock on my door gently and silently slip me a few bucks every morning. I close my eyes and see his age-spotted hands. He had a desk in front of his bedroom window, where he'd always be doing math for some reason. I can see the neat rows of numbers in pencil and the sun spilling all over the pages, the pads, the horse-head paperweight. Before he died, in this same apartment, my grandfather would steal all of our toothbrushes and hide them in the same desk. He couldn't explain why - his eyes would just get bleary with tears.

In the living room, my grandmother would be sitting down, knitting row after row of baby blankets, cumbre camas, scarves, manteles - all after a day of errands and cooking and cleaning. I can see her as if she were still there, hands eternally dancing with the needles, the long string of yarn inching up from her cubo, and every once in a while adjusting her sliding bifocals. She'd laugh really hard at the TV sometimes, like when it was on Sanford & Son or Different Strokes. There were always like a dozen plants in the living room - tall matas, small leafy ones - and I'd absent-mindedly stroke the leaves and pinch them as I watched TV with her until she'd surprise me with a smack to the hand and, me esta' pelliscando las matas, eh? But she'd be smiling when she'd add, "just like your father."

In any Latino house, the kitchen has the most love, the most action, the most life and mine was no exception. I remember shelling shrimps in the sink and not being able to eat the arroz con camarones later on because I'd seen the shrimp with their legs still on and it creeped me out. Waking up to the smell of Bustelo, the taste of pan con mantequilla, and the sound of Radio WADO. The dishes my grandmother made were like the table of contents in a Dominican cookbook. Fuck that, they were the table of contents to my life. Sancocho on rainy days, pastelon de platano maduro for me to take to my apartment when I was an adult, potato salad for a family dinner, the avocado we always forgot in the fridge and didn't remember about until we'd eaten the last grain of rice on our plates, caramelized plantains she taught me to prepare with sticks of cinnamon poking through them, espaghetti, lasagna de vegetales, fettucine con salsa bechamel - the recipe to which I still have tucked away in a jar in her handwriting, pastelon de yuca, molodrones that I turned my nose up at, tayotas, locrio, moro and any other type of rice. All that magic happened in our kitchen, the one I'm writing this in.

Even the bathroom has memories. Of Elizabeth as a kindergartner after a bath, standing on the toilet with a towel wrapped around her and my grandmother teaching her to put powder on saying, enpolvate con la mota. Of finding my toothbrush with toothpaste already placed on it, waiting for me in the mornings, even after I was in my twenties and had to move back in temporarily and I told Mami she didn't have to do that anymore. She did it anyway.

The Heights is so alive, so vibrant with so many stores, sidewalk vendors, people who look like me and my family, come from the same place - even if my family left many, many years ago and has never once looked back - who chatter away in a familiar, comforting tone, neighbors who say, "buenos dias, vecina," even the music blaring out of the cars serves as a soundtrack for the summer, the smells of pernil in the hallways of the buildings, where your best friend lives right there en la 182, your homeboy lives alli en la 187, your brother is right there on one-six-two and your prima vive por Dyckman. It made me feel Dominican, even though I was born in NY, English was my first language and I wouldn't step on Dominican soil until my early 20s. This neighborhood has been a link to my heritage and to myself. My home.

Most of all, this apartment was so alive. All around me are almost a lifetime of memories for me: my childhood, my adolescence, my young adulthood, motherhood, marriages, separations, deaths are all embedded throughout these rooms. These walls have witnessed tears, laughter, fights, mistakes, redemption, love, celebration, mourning. It too has been not just an apartment but a home. Circumstances (some within my control, some not) are forcing me to move on and change can be a good thing - a great thing, in fact- but for right now, I look behind me with some regret and longing. With a heavy, disappointed heart I'll be closing that front door for the last time.

Fiscal Irresponsibility

When I was growing up, I thought my family was middle-class. In reality my grandparents, who raised me, were retired and supporting me off of their retirement/pensions checks but they handled money so well that I had the illusion that we were comfortable financially. I always saw my dad was financially stable too - always worked, supported his family, always had a car, things like that. My aunt was particularly fond of money so she hustled, whether it was working or doing other things when she got sick and couldn't work anymore. The point is, there was always food in everyone's house, no one ever had their utilities shut off or got evicted.

For many years I had it pretty good too. Once I was over the rockiness of being a teenage mom, then a single mom and a young adult, I found my financial footing pretty easily. My first "real" job was at 19 as a receptionist at an industrial supply company. I temped for a few weeks before they put me on their payroll. Raises and promotions came steadily after that and I stayed for 7 years. I made enough to support myself, my daughter, maintain an apt, travel every year, buy a car.

Things were good but I started to get the feeling that I wasn't doing what I should be doing. I didn't feel I was using my brain a whole lot and I wanted to do something with books. I'd loved reading and books since I was a child so yes, that had to be my calling.

I ended up getting a job in publishing and that was the first slight reality smack in terms of pay. Publishing is notorious for not paying well. Editors make less than the agents they cut deals with and editorial assistants/assistant editors make just above the poverty level. I lucked out and worked for a generous agent but it was still a pay-cut. But I was doing what I loved and learning about the industry. Besides, I was, at the time, part of a two-income household so it was only a small sting.

That is, until we got separated. The change in my financial situation was so drastic, I don't think I've recovered from it yet. All of a sudden I was kicking in all of the rent and utilities instead of half. My expenses doubled when my income only went up slightly. Still, I managed to stay afloat.

Then I lost my job. That really started a downward spiral in my pocket.

Unemployment wasn't enough to cover my expenses and I did what probably every financial advisor would tell you not to do: I tapped my credit cards. Of course, I had the full intention of paying them back down when I got a job which was sure to be as much money or maybe even more than I was making before. How wrong I was. The economy decided to implode at that moment and after 5 months of emailing resumes and going on only a couple of interviews I was more than scared. I was considering waitressing full-time instead of part-time like I was at my dad and cousin's restaurant, even though I hated it. I only had one more month of unemployment left, I'd drained my savings and maxxed out my cards. What was I going to do in another month when my unemployment ran out? (I had no idea the country's economic situation would get so bad that unemployment befits would be extended beyond a year instead of 6 months.) How was I going to pay the rent, pay the light bill or buy food?

I had one last interview but when I heard what the pay was, I didn't even want the job. I didn't bother with hand-written thank you cards like I had with the other interviews. Of course, this was the only company that actually made an offer of employment in 5 months. I actually cried when I realized I'd have to take this job. I was somewhat overqualified and would be severely underpaid in comparison to my previous job. It was the least amount of money I'd ever made in my life.

If I'd had trouble adjusting to my one-income household from two, then adjusting to this new paycheck was impossible. I failed miserably at it. I couldn't get used to cutting back on anything but soon enough I had to get rid of my car, and cable. Then my rent jumped up with the new lease and I did what I normally do when I have a problem: ignore, deny and if all else fails - run.

I ignored my expenses being larger than my income and the fact that I needed to remedy that as soon as possible whether it was by finding a way to slash even more expenses or increasing my income with freelance work or another job. I denied to myself that I couldn't live the same way I always had and of course, did the most unpractical thing - went out, spent money and built an alternate reality that didn't involve day to day grievances like rent. I promised myself I'd catch up with the rent the next month, or the one after that, or the month after that until my dad had to come over one day and shake me into the scary reality I had put myself in - possibly losing my apt. - and it felt like shit. Maybe not so much for myself but for Elizabeth because this was instability that I never saw growing up and we should be getting further ahead with each generation, not sliding backwards.

There were circumstances that were out of my control like the bad economy and the unemployment rate but there were also a lot of things in my control which I chose to not be smart about. It reminded me of something a guy told me one night out. He had sheepishly admitted that he was 38 and had just been forced to move into a roommate situation - something that he never thought he'd have to do and certainly not at his age. It hit home because if you'd asked me when I was 21 or 25 where I thought I'd be at 30, it definitely isn't here where I'm at today.

I won't say my situation has a happy ending - the ending is actually being written right now. The answers and options haven't been neatly packaged for me but options did open up for me and that's something to be grateful for at least.

One of These Things is Not Like The Others...No, Wait it Actually is

I usually don't walk around referring to myself as an artist, even though what I do - write - is technically a part of the arts. When someone else applies the term to me, I usually cringe a little inside because artists are...(to put it mildly) crazy. They do loud things to their hair and wear multi-colored scarves and don't believe in things like relationships or soap and shit.

Only in the last few years have I been able to say I'm a writer with a minimal amount of feeling like a total hoax. I mean, writers are kind of strange too. They can be either incredibly socially awkward and hermitic or...crazy like the other artists. Me? I like being social and meeting interesting people - it's like unwrapping a gift. I can talk to almost anyone about a wide variety of things with no awkwardness. I can barely get myself to wear a scarf when it's cold much less to accessorize and I like relationships. I don't see them as constricting - I see them as freeing. I like soap too. It smells good.

That's all to say that I don't wear my creativity on my sleeve so for some reason I usually feel inferior in a room full of painters, sculptors, musicians, singers, poets, etc. There are very few 'writerly' things about me. Okay, so there's the glasses and the penchant for drinking but I function pretty well within social norms. I don't walk around scribbling in notebooks and I refuse to sit in Starbucks with a laptop.

I didn't even think I was neurotic (which is a characteristic highly associated with writers) until recently when I realized there is a small, Latina version of Woody Allen in my head and the bitch is nuts.

She must be contained at all costs.

A recent conversation with a girlfriend made it all too clear that I suffer from Hamlet syndrome where I will overthink the smallest thing to its grisly death and then do little or nothing about it. The overthinking literally exhausts me from acting. This musician had been flirting with me and invited me to see him perform where more flirting ensued. At the end of his gig, I went over to say goodnight so I could hit my last stop of the evening with friends and he casually gave me his number. Well he tried to because from my reaction you would've thought he was trying to put a crack rock in my hands.

Him: Hey, you don't have my number. Let me give it to you...*reaching for his phone, presumably to get mine*
Me: *sheer face of panic* Oh no, you don't need to give me your number...we talk...I mean communicate...you know, we see each other around...
In My Head: (Shit. If he gives me his number, then the ball is in my court and I don't want the ball. I believe he should call. I mean he's the man, right? They biologically/psychologically need to pursue and all that shit. He should call me. That's how I know he's interested and then I can take the ball. Why am I using sports analogies? He should ask for my number, wtf? He's gotta know I'll give it to him, I've reciprocated his flirtation. If a guy likes you, he'll ask for your number, period. Shit, maybe he's not that into me. Or into me that way. Maybe he's naturally flirty...)
Him: *confused, hesitant look* You don't want my number?
In My Head: (SHIT. Now he thinks I don't want his number which I do but I want him to want mine. Shit this is all backwards. I know I'm gonna be freaking out about calling which is why I want to avoid taking his number. I can't tell him that either or he'll know I'm nuts. Must keep the crazy inside. I hate this shit...)
Me: No, of course I do. What's your number?

The next days found me twiddling my phone in my hands so I spoke to a girlfriend.

So I have his number.

Great!

No, it's not. He should've asked for mine. What did he give me his number for?

Because he wants you to call him. Sometimes they gotta know if you like them too.

Bullshit. I flirted back. That's enough. To call him is to pursue and I don't pursue guys I like.

Call him.

And say what?

Hi, how are you? Then he'll answer and ask something. Then you'll answer and ask how his weekend was and he'll answer...

When am I even supposed to call, like if I call too soon, I'm being thirsty and then if I call too late I'm being lackadaisical. What if I call him and he's busy. Will it be because he's really busy or because he doesn't like me enough to talk? This is bullshit...This is why I don't even bother...

Just call.

I don't even know if he likes me like that. Like how do you ever really know? Maybe he's just connecting on some 'creative' level. This could all be in my head although, I damn well know when someone is flirting...Ay, I think I just gave myself a headache. I'm overthinking this, right?

Yeah, you are.

A few hours later she checked back on me.

Did you call him?

Of course, not. I texted him.

Jeez, you and your texting.

I know, it's more impersonal. I like impersonal. It allows less of my freakishness out.

Did he answer?

Yeah. But now I get to obsess over when he'll call to ask me out.

He will. I'm sure.

She was right. He did. And we did meet up and hang out which was interesting and a whole 'nother post. The whole experience kind of served as the loose foundation for a fictional short story so yeah, I guess I should own the artist title and the neurotic writer one, after all. I should also invest in some scarves.

An AIMless Conversation with Elizabeth

glendaliz8: hey elizabeth

miickeymouse: hi! :D

miickeymouse: You would not believe what happened at school!

glendaliz8: what?

glendaliz8: btw, mr. malave didnt call me back, strange

miickeymouse: This is the letter: "This morning it was reported on various news channel that the air outside of our school building contains various chemicals. You're screwed and are forced to walk home without a gas mask, because we don't give a flying f*ck about your demon children."

glendaliz8: what letter?! o_O

miickeymouse: -_- I talked to mr. malave and he said someone called to say I was "absent" when I wasn't

miickeymouse: The letter we got today

glendaliz8: who called to say you were absent?

miickeymouse: He said he didn't know.

glendaliz8: someone called him to say you were going to be absent?

miickeymouse: Yes. something like that.

glendaliz8: well it wasn't me

glendaliz8: that's suspicious

miickeymouse: Indeed

glendaliz8: you know the only people allowed to get you out of school are like grandpa, awilda, irma or alta right?

glendaliz8: as a matter of fact we should have a safe word

miickeymouse: Cow

glendaliz8: ok

miickeymouse: XD

miickeymouse: A safe word for what?

glendaliz8: so if i ever have an emergency you ask them for the secret word

miickeymousexx3: Ask who for what? O__O

glendaliz8: and they have to say cow if it's someone who's not alta, irma, awilda or grandpa

glendaliz8: like emergencies

glendaliz8: try and keep up with the convo jesus

miickeymouse: Sorry, Ms. Bond

miickeymouse: So how would the conversation go? Give me an example.

glendaliz8: jesus christ eliz

glendaliz8: if someone shows up to your school and they say like oh your mom's in the hospital or something

miickeymouse: yes, go on

glendaliz8: or someone dropped dead and glenda sent me to pick you up

miickeymouse: Christ

glendaliz8: you ask em for the secret word

miickeymouse: xD "What the password Mudder fucka!"

glendaliz8: cmon eliz dont be a moron i dont have time or these long ass convos from work

miickeymouse: kk I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

glendaliz8: anything else i need to know about school

glendaliz8: and what freaking letter are you talking about

glendaliz8: why you always start stories in the middle?

miickeymouse: 1. There were various chemicals outside my school

miickeymouse: 2. cause you always change the subject

glendaliz8: well do you feel funny? O_O

miickeymouse: No, I think its just sog or some shit like that.

glendaliz8: smog?

miickeymouse: Idk

glendaliz8: and what's up with the language!

miickeymouse: It’s the internet

glendaliz8: I am seriously going to wash your mouth out!

miickeymouse: :D

miickeymouse: NO

miickeymouse: I DIDN'T MEAN IT!!!

glendaliz8: what is wrong with you! respect me! why do you feel it's cool to curse around me?!

miickeymouse: DONT HURT ME!

miickeymouse: NO

glendaliz8: I'm a grown up dammit!

miickeymouse: You sound like a potty child, Mom. lol

miickeymouse: Mom, ive been having weird dreams bout you!

glendaliz8: you're a potty mouth!

glendaliz8: like what?

glendaliz8: i had a dream my tooth fell out the other day

miickeymouse: Thats odd. I dreamed you were preggers with a lil blonde haired, brown eyed white boy.

miickeymouse: xD

miickeymouse: It was weird

glendaliz8: eww, jeez

miickeymouse: i know

glendaliz8: i can assure no there will be no preggering of any kind in our house

miickeymouse: -__-'

glendaliz8: you know the routine questions: hw? walk niko? fed niko?

miickeymouse: yes,yes,yes

glendaliz8: thank you

glendaliz8: did you pick up your laundry from around the house?

glendaliz8: and your room requires cleaning!

miickeymouse: yes and ill do it right now

glendaliz8: i went in there this morning and ran out screaming

glendaliz8: please clean that room

glendaliz8: like now

miickeymouse: ha ha ha not funny

glendaliz8: not when i get home so then i have to yell again

glendaliz8: repeat, not when i get home

miickeymouse: speaking bout yelling

miickeymouse: how r u?

glendaliz8: better

glendaliz8: still have a sore throat but I'll live to yell at you some more

miickeymouse: :D

glendaliz8: please clean that room, ok?

glendaliz8: I am begging you

glendaliz8: it will make me the happiest person on this earth

miickeymouse: fine,fine goddayum

glendaliz8: go clean your room!

miickeymouse: buzzkill

glendaliz8: eliz!!!!!

glendaliz8: go! now!

glendaliz8: if i could reach through this computer!

Elizabeth (In Her Own Words)

I was stumbling around in the folders on my laptop when I came across a piece of writing Elizabeth did. Well, it's not so much a piece of writing as it is a meme, you know one of those viral surveys where you reveal things about yourself. She'd probably be mortified if she knew I'd read it, much less posted some of it but sometimes she amazes me so much with her sense of humor, her maturity and her intellect that I cannot believe she's my kid. She's got this quiet strength and this bottomless ocean of unconditional love for me despite all my fuck-ups. And no, I really don't feel I can take credit for her being the loveliest almost-14 year old I know. That credit is due to her.

Elizabeth (In Her Own Words - and unedited):

-When I was thirteen, I was passing through a church and one of their missionaries came up to me and talked to me about not having an abortion. I told them I’m also against it, but I’m really pro-choice.

-People don't believe me when I say I'm Puerto-Rican and Dominican. The majority of the people who ask think I'm Native American or an African-American Asian. (Which I personally think is cool.)

-As a conclusion; I'm a descendent of the Tainos. Not Native Americans but natives of Puerto-Rico and Dominican Republic. Can you say kick-ass?!

-My middle name is Marie, after my biological father's sister.

-I have a teddy bear (actually, it's a rabbit/bunny) named Amy that's dressed in a red dress with a white collar. I've kept her since I was seven. My mother always tells me to throw it out, but I can't bring myself to do it. It's like throwing out my soul!

-I don’t find “The Godfather” exciting. I just don’t. I know it’s a classic and stuff, but I don’t see the magic, ya’ know.

-I love music from the 60’s through the 2000’s. I listen to anything from Elvis to Wu-Tang.

-I love Asian horror movies. They’re better than the crappy American B-rated remakes. *cough*OneMissedCall*cough*.

-I will never like cell phones. I believe they are useless and have no purpose on this planet. I would rather talk to someone face-to-face then on some cellular phone.

-When I was younger, I wanted to be a police officer…then a fire girl…than a futbol (or soccer as some may call it) player…and now a pediatrician. Most of my teachers say I should be a writer, but I don’t think it’s for me. I don’t have the talent. (Okay Mom note: Yes, she does.)

-I fekkin’ hate my hair! It’s curly and all over the place. I ALWAYS straighten it, but it just comes out wavy. I’m envious of people with naturally straight hair. Damn you, damn you all to hell! …or at least somewhere raining…

-I personally think Amy Winehouse is a good artist. She’s just surrounded by bad influences.

-Books are my passion.

-When I was younger, I used to play Piano. But my mother stopped taking me to the classes since my instructor’s dogs terrified the living hell out of me. I hate myself for that.

-I’m pretty proud being an Aquarius. I think it’s the greatest sign in the horoscope! And finally...

-A Bronx Tale; ‘nuff said.

Like the Guy with the Parrot

"Hey Dad, como estas?"

"Alli. Hanging in there. What's up?"

"I got a call from my doctor today. She wants me to come in for a biopsy on Friday. For cervical cancer."

"Well, you'd better go."

"Of course I'm gonna go. I'm scared though. You know Mami had that and it increases your chances..."

"Mami was old when she got it though. You're too young."

"You know Alta had to go to a wake this weekend for a friend that passed who was only 36."

"Well mija, death is always with us and when your mission here is done and it's your time, it's your time."

"I don't want it to be my time! I'm 30! I ain't done yet!"

"Well that's why I give you all that reading on spirituality because you can't be attached to things, even Elizabeth because even she is a separate individual with her own life."

Silence.

"Maybe you should put your affairs in order."

"Jesus Christ Dad, thanks." Uproarious laughter from my dad.

"Well obviously I don't want you going first, you're supposed to bury me."

"No one is burying anyone, ok?"

"Besides who would I leave my debts to? Between you and your brothers you can do a colecta and send me off in style."

"Jesus Christ, Dad." More uproarious laughter.

"Relax, you're jumping way too far ahead."

"Yeah, well I've been in the bathroom four times already."

"Te estas llendo en mierda. Ha!" Really uproarious laughter. I may have heard him slap his thigh in glee over the phone. "Listen, even in the worst case scenario, you've caught it early."

"I don't wanna lose my hair, Dad. You know that therapy knocks out your hair."

"It's just hair. It grows back." Pause. "Besides, have you seen your hair? Nothing's knocking out those grenas you got up there." You guessed it, more laughter. I laugh too.

"Why do they call you on Tuesday for something that they won't even do til Friday? So I can marinate all week? I had to go Friday anyway, why didn't they just let me walk in and spring it on me."

He laughs. "Ah pero, you want things your way like the guy with the parrot."

"What guy with the parrot?"

"This Dominican guy decides to take a trip to France so he tells his brother to look after his parrot. Gives him instructions and he goes. He's off in Paris, taking pictures and having a good time. After a few days, he calls home to check in on the parrot. 'So how's the parrot?' the guy asks. 'The parrot's dead,' his brother tells him. 'You're a brute!' the guy says. 'How are you gonna tell me just like that, so cold? I loved that parrot and you didn't even break it to me easy. You should've told me he didn't have much of an appetite at first, that he wasn't drinking his water...' The guy rants on for a few minutes with his brother listening quietly. When he calms down he asks his brother, 'So how's Mama?' 'Well,' the brother says, 'she lost her appetite at first and then she wasn't drinking much water..."

My Dad and I both laugh. "It doesn't really matter how you hear it, does it?"

"I guess not."

"I bet it's nothing. You know sometimes I get this pain in my..."

"No, Dad. Just no."

"Well, it's just to tell you it's nothing out of the ordinary."

"Got it."

Silence.

"Do you want me to take you? Do you want me to go with you or something?"

"Nah, I can do it. It's just a few blocks from work. But thanks."

"Asi mismo. Like a warrior." Pause. "Call me this same Friday, ok?"

"I will."

"Remember. Call me Friday when you get out, ok?"

"Okay, I will."

A Visit with La 21 Division

Preface. I am a believer of La 21 Divisiones. It's a form of Dominican vodou that is a mix of West African religion that the slaves in the Caribbean hid inside of Catholicism in order to keep practicing it. It has a hierarchy of spirits with an association to a Catholic saint e.g. Belie Belcan is San Miguel or St. Michael.

There are similar rituals influenced by the strong arm of Catholicism like prayers, offerings and baptism into the divisiones for those who have spiritual abilities so they can control them and channel them in a more regulated manner. Prior to a baptism a person with the ability to be a medium for a spirit will typically experience something like a seizure or a fainting spell, when the spirit takes possession and you can imagine this is rather inconvenient when one is at the supermarket, at work or at school so a baptism is necessary to allow the medium to assume some control over when the spirit can take possession. It marks the beginning of the medium working with their spirit and developing whatever particular skill they have be it reading tarot cards and such.

The spiritualist I normally consult for insight is a medium. The spirit she is a medium for, we typically refer to as the Old Man. Mediums are also referred to as a horse or caballo as the spirit is the rider or loa. As a spirit, the Old Man works under the command of El Baron del Cementerio (the Baron of the Cementary) or San Elias/St. Elijah who is in charge of all the dead. Most of the time I go to have my cards read and if shit is really hitting the fan I will ask her to speak to the Old Man but I've done that only a few times because frankly the process of speaking to a spirit still spooks my more American sensibilities.

I've tried to give you a foundation for some basic understanding but some of the concepts may be a little difficult to grasp or very foreign ideas, I realize.

Last week I went to see Milady so she could read my cards. The cards give you insight into things that have just happened, things presently happening and things about to happen. If you pay close attention and heed advice, you can change the things about to happen. I really have no personal drama going on right now which is usually the reason people go see her but I see it sometimes like a well-care visit. And while I have no man woes (one needs a man around in order to have said woes and I, while not lacking in wolves sniffing at my door, have no "man" to speak of), I do have the usual daily crap like financial concerns, work/career and family to worry about.

Milady has known me since I was about 12 years old so usually I get to her house and we chat for a few minutes about general stuff, have coffee, before she shuffles the cards, places the stack in front of me and asks me to pick out 3. She turned the the 3 cards over and began.

"You're going to lose something of value so you've been warned." I immediately thought of my flash drive that has all of my writing or my ipod or my debit card. I made a mental note to back up my work and avoid getting so drunk I lose one of those items.

"Are you protecting yourself? Because I see you with a barriga. And it's a boy." I thought it was an odd thing to mention since I wasn't having sex but believe me, stranger things have come true so I made a mental note to stay away from naked penises, just in case. Far the fuck away.

"You're going to get a check. Nada grande, but enough to resolve." I'm not expecting any monies but the last time she told me that, I got a completely unexpected check in the mail from child support. I mean the last time I got a check from them prior to that was years ago and it was in the hundreds - this was fatter than that. Needless to say, I have been checking the mail like a madwoman.

"I see you traveling but for work and look at that, you're gonna get up a bit in that job. Everyone likes you and you're gonna get a raise soon. Again, nothing huge but it's a few pesitos." I've only had to travel for work once so that was surprising but not totally inconceivable. I think most people actually do like me at work and honestly I do like the people I work with. The raise is about due.

"You're going to have a really serious argument with a man. Very serious. And it's imminent." That worried me a bit since it wasn't clear whether it would be personal, work-related or fam. Also, I hate to argue. I can get really worked up.

"You're going to do really well with your writing. I see honors. But, you need to do a levantamiento. At first, it's well received but then it fades. You need something to keep your work circulating and growing. You need to do this or everything will just be like a balloon that deflates quickly. " My writing has never turned up in the cards. "Apunta." She signaled for me jot a list of things I'd need like candles, a white blanket and a few other items. "Bring me those things and come in the morning. Wear clothes that you can throw away. Light colors. And before the 29th, the day of San Miguel."

"En el aspecto amoroso..." Of course, checking out what's jumping off in my love life is my favorite part! "There's a guy, short, light-skinned. He really couldn't care less if he's with you or someone else. But you know that already. That's faded." And yes, I knew who she was referring to immediately and yes, it was something that I'd completely closed the book on. "There's a guy that likes you but you're not too hot about him. That's going to pass too." Check. I knew who that was. "There's a guy you really like but he's got two women. Neither of which is you." I laughed at her way of putting it. "You'll confirm that soon. He's not important either though."

After a moment's pause she smiled. "That's Anaisa working that's got so many suitors around." Anaisa Pye is an extremely popular loa in the 21 divisions. She is associated with Saint Anne. She's a festive loa, very flirtatious, likes a good beer and a smoke, and is usually consulted for all things love related. "There is a man on his way though. You're going to think he's not really serious, that he only wants to toy with you but he won't." She gave me three characteristics of his that I would be able to see (which of course, I'll keep to myself.)

"You're going to find out about two very big lies and they're going to hurt you quite a bit."

She went on to tell me more. A few things about my daughter, her father. A health issue. A death in my family. A possible mentor. A material gain. I always leave her house in a quiet state. Not everything is apparent at the moment I see her so I always feel extra-aware and vigilant. It has happened on many, many occasions that things I couldn't add together or things I even thought were completely off will snap together in an instant. Sometimes days later, sometimes weeks. It'll be interesting to see how this last visit will pan out.