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Where do you keep your memories?
The ones that keep you up at night?
Like a small child you love, you want to be gentle, but the nagging is incessant and you need sleep.
The house was always hot due to bad insulation. But even in the winter when it should have been cold, my dad won his battle with the elements by blasting space heaters throughout the house. Watching tv shirtless on the couch eating raw tamarindo in December, I always believed he was trying to recreate Sinaloa on the east side.
Andrew lived next door with his dad and his grandparents. We used to play a lot until I hit puberty too early and cringed at the new attention I got from the older boys on the block. I swore myself to my bottom bunk in the corner of the room, but could still watch all the happenings from my window. Cradled by the safe walls of the small space, I hid secrets in cracks within the clutter that only I could come back to.
I would watch Andrew's grandparents walk down the street as they held hands. His grandma never said hi, her gaze was tightly fixed past everyone. I didn't understand it and allowed for it to settle within me as fear.
Doña Mere from next door told my mom Andrew's grandma wasn't always that way.
I flipped the pages of a dictionary and tried making myself even smaller to make my listening go unnoticed.
"Era muy bonita, tan simpática. Pero él era muy celoso..."
Doña Mere lived for the drama, so I'm sure she took liberties in her storytelling. But I remember seeing her face and feeling the weight of an undeniable truth. I saw her face change as she went back in time to invoke who Andrew's grandmother once was.
But Andrew's grandpa was so nice! So friendly to everyone, and treated her so softly. He would bring us fruit, make jokes with my grandpa, help my mom unload heavy things. The man was full of nice gestures. How could he be a reason for the disconnect with her surroundings?
It was another hot day when Andrew's grandma walked into our living room and yelled at everyone to get out of her house. She had wrath impressed on her cheeks but her eyes were terrified. My older sister stood up and and shielded my little brother and me as my dad slowly walked toward her and assured her she was in the wrong house. The shadow my dad cast on her made her angry again. I knew her small frame probably couldn't cause much damage but years of tension and pain made her grow in presence.
Andrew's grandpa ran over and gently put a hand on her back. "Vámonos a la casa cariño."
It was in that moment I realized they didn't hold hands, he always held hers as it layed tired in his.
Years later when my older sister began to fear the familiar and confuse dreams with waking reality, my mind would run back to that moment in the hot living room. Does she ever think of that moment too? My sister and a grandmother who both have so much to say to the men who tried to stop their growth, tried to muddle their beauty. A jealous husband, a heavy handed father, a selfish lover.
The peak of my sister's episodes has descended and my father is now nice to her. Empty hugs that try to make up for the past surface as nice gestures. The impressions on my sister's cheeks stay on my mind after seeing her. I close my eyes to sleep and they appear, reminding me of the grandmother from next door. Could we have saved her from him if that moment were different? Could I have protected my sister from all the pain that corralled her internally?
The memories and the questions seems pointless now. I sleep on the westside and find new cracks among the clutter to hide secrets. But they don't stay in place anymore.
The ones that keep you up at night?
Like a small child you love, you want to be gentle, but the nagging is incessant and you need sleep.
The house was always hot due to bad insulation. But even in the winter when it should have been cold, my dad won his battle with the elements by blasting space heaters throughout the house. Watching tv shirtless on the couch eating raw tamarindo in December, I always believed he was trying to recreate Sinaloa on the east side.
Andrew lived next door with his dad and his grandparents. We used to play a lot until I hit puberty too early and cringed at the new attention I got from the older boys on the block. I swore myself to my bottom bunk in the corner of the room, but could still watch all the happenings from my window. Cradled by the safe walls of the small space, I hid secrets in cracks within the clutter that only I could come back to.
I would watch Andrew's grandparents walk down the street as they held hands. His grandma never said hi, her gaze was tightly fixed past everyone. I didn't understand it and allowed for it to settle within me as fear.
Doña Mere from next door told my mom Andrew's grandma wasn't always that way.
I flipped the pages of a dictionary and tried making myself even smaller to make my listening go unnoticed.
"Era muy bonita, tan simpática. Pero él era muy celoso..."
Doña Mere lived for the drama, so I'm sure she took liberties in her storytelling. But I remember seeing her face and feeling the weight of an undeniable truth. I saw her face change as she went back in time to invoke who Andrew's grandmother once was.
But Andrew's grandpa was so nice! So friendly to everyone, and treated her so softly. He would bring us fruit, make jokes with my grandpa, help my mom unload heavy things. The man was full of nice gestures. How could he be a reason for the disconnect with her surroundings?
It was another hot day when Andrew's grandma walked into our living room and yelled at everyone to get out of her house. She had wrath impressed on her cheeks but her eyes were terrified. My older sister stood up and and shielded my little brother and me as my dad slowly walked toward her and assured her she was in the wrong house. The shadow my dad cast on her made her angry again. I knew her small frame probably couldn't cause much damage but years of tension and pain made her grow in presence.
Andrew's grandpa ran over and gently put a hand on her back. "Vámonos a la casa cariño."
It was in that moment I realized they didn't hold hands, he always held hers as it layed tired in his.
Years later when my older sister began to fear the familiar and confuse dreams with waking reality, my mind would run back to that moment in the hot living room. Does she ever think of that moment too? My sister and a grandmother who both have so much to say to the men who tried to stop their growth, tried to muddle their beauty. A jealous husband, a heavy handed father, a selfish lover.
The peak of my sister's episodes has descended and my father is now nice to her. Empty hugs that try to make up for the past surface as nice gestures. The impressions on my sister's cheeks stay on my mind after seeing her. I close my eyes to sleep and they appear, reminding me of the grandmother from next door. Could we have saved her from him if that moment were different? Could I have protected my sister from all the pain that corralled her internally?
The memories and the questions seems pointless now. I sleep on the westside and find new cracks among the clutter to hide secrets. But they don't stay in place anymore.
CRISTAL OLIVAS is a musician, writer, and cantautora from San Jose, California. She says: I am a first generation xicana, constantly navigating the in-between-ness that I find myself in, trying to build connections between my current space and and the parts of me that have been alive for generations. I strive to encourage and help build creative spaces for myself and peers, family and youth around me in hopes of taking steps toward active healing.
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