I know it was that way for me; nobody could tell me about nothing. Not my mother, not my brothers, certainly nobody at school. In those days, our whole universe was just a few blocks wide. We walked to and from school; Mami walked to work at the factory. Even so, by thirteen it was clear to me that our people—Black and Brown people—were treated worse by just about everybody. In class, the teachers favored the white kids. At home, as the whites left the neighborhood and the Puerto Ricans came, suddenly there were less cops in the streets, less garbage trucks cleaning up. I didn’t need anybody to point this out to me, I saw these things for myself and knew it wasn’t right.
For you, I expect this will be doubly true. When you were born, your Papi noticed your eyes, how they seemed to take in everything. They say babies can’t see much, but I thought he was right. You looked wise. And unlike when I was growing up, when girls like me and Lola were put in dresses and told to be polite while we sat like dolls in a corner, you’ve always been able to run wild and free. Where we grew up having to use our “inside voice,” to play our music low, you and Prieto grew up dancing and singing loud. Stomping up and down the stairs of a house your family owned, not getting policed by a landlord who wants your money but not the smells of your food or the sounds of your language.
Me and your Papi took great pains to ensure that you and your brother were raised with all the knowledge we’d had to seek for ourselves. To know that we came from kings and queens who lived off the land, from people who were raped and enslaved but stayed strong, kept their spirit. Things we were told to be ashamed of—my curly hair, your father’s dark skin—you grew up knowing that these things were beautiful. So, when I think of you at thirteen, I know how prepared you are for the challenges of the world. You are no ordinary little girl, but a beautiful young Boricua.
And so, Olga, you must see yourself and my absence not as one little girl missing her mother, but as a brave young woman who knows that in a world of oppression, achieving liberation will require sacrifice. You can’t stay in your room and cry. You can’t keep Abuelita up at night with your tears. You have to keep your head held high, you have to be strong. Like the revolutionary we raised you to be.
Life, you will unfortunately learn, is full of hard choices. For everyone, but especially for you, a Latina girl in America. Your options will be fewer and choices harder. The cost and value of your life decisions must be carefully weighed.
Nothing, Olga, is more valuable than people being free. Which is why, despite this being one of my own harder choices, I must leave you and your brother. I don’t know when I will return.
I need you to be strong. To behave. Not to fuss like a child. You are made of powerful stuff. And I don’t leave you alone, mijita. Your brother loves you and he has had three extra years with his parents to learn what’s right. You have Abuelita, my sister, my brothers. Your father has his troubles, but his heart is still full of love and his mind still has wisdom that will benefit you. Above all, just because I’m not there doesn’t mean I’m not watching. Just as the government watches our comings and goings, my Brothers and Sisters in this struggle will have their eyes on you. Your family is bigger and vaster than you can even imagine.
Querida, one day my work will make you proud. You will see our people take off the shackles of oppression and say, “Mami helped to do that.” And you can take pride, knowing your sacrifice was a part of it. This is my word.
Pa’lante,
Mami
JULY 2017
MORNING ROUTINE
In the morning Olga opened her eyes and wondered how expediently she could get him out of the apartment. The coitus had been remarkably satisfying, the proper amount of fast and slow, rough and gentle, biting and caressing. He was a confident man. This complicated things. Olga frequently had male companions, but rarely allowed them to spend the night. On the odd occasions that she did, she usually triggered a swift morning exit by delivering an ego-bruising remark in an offhand manner. Usually, she was comfortably alone again before the coffee percolated. This tactic was doubly effective as it not only drove the offended party from her abode, it usually saved her the trouble of then having to ignore their texts seeking further mediocre conversation as preamble to even more mediocre intercourse. This morning felt a bit different. She had enjoyed Matteo—both before and during—and wanted to keep her options open. That did not mean she didn’t want him gone now. She cleared her throat, loudly, in an effort to wake him up. She slid out of bed and into her robe, climbing over her black funeral/wedding dress, his rumpled button-down shirt, and, inexplicably, his Teva sandals. She looked back for visual confirmation that she had, indeed, just fucked a guy who wore socks and sandals. In the summer.