Oye What I'm Gonna Tell You. Cecilia Rodríguez Milanés
riding the bus or just walking through the chaotic hallways between classes, Roxana tried to sort out all the feelings reverberating in her head. Her parents always wanted to know where she was at all times, yet, Rafa and Kiki wouldn’t even answer when Mamá made her call their cell phones when it is really late. Celeste’s murder and Magi’s, within weeks of each other, knocked something loose inside Roxana. Of course, there had been grief counselors brought to school; everyone who had classes with Magi had to listen, but these people didn’t know her, know that she was popular even before Jova got to her. Everybody loved Magi though Roxana noticed afterwards that nobody was really that close to her. Except him. And wouldn’t you know it, that fucker survived?
The last straw for Roxana was when she learned that her neighbor, that nice lady Xiomara was dead; her suicide note left horrible details. All Mamá could say was “La pobre, you should go to the mass for her, mija. I won’t be able to get off work, but you should go.” It wasn’t even a special mass, only her name was read out, Xiomara Gómez Prado. Just like the mass when Celeste’s name was added to the prayers of the faithful—her mother and grandmother bust out in tears and wailing so loud they had to be escorted out of the church, they were that wrecked.
After hearing Xiomara’s full name out loud now, Roxana was struck by how little she knew about her too. She used to walk her small white dog around the block, always stopped to say hello to the neighbors sitting on porches or stoops. Roxana’s mother once commented on the pretty flower-covered tote bag Xiomara carried, and within a week, she painted one for her. Roxana sat immobile through the rest of the service, progressively getting agitated while thinking hard about her recent dead, killed, she reasoned, because they were defenseless females. Why in the hell did Xiomara let that punk in her house, anyway? Roxana was sure it had something to do with being nice.
She had forgotten the words to the prayers and ignored the collection basket passed around her. Roxana wondered why her own mother had tried so hard to make her into a niña de casa. She even believed now that Mamá had, in fact, prepared her for harassment—“Put on lipstick before you go out!” “Smile and don’t use foul language, that’s for loose women,” “Wear bright colors, nice young girls like you should always use colores alegres,” along with the numerous reprimands about her bad posture, chipped, unpainted hands and sloppily brushed hair. It was always something, and not just her looks but everything; she had to be a well-liked, nice girl, all while earning good grades, helping in the house, and above all, being respectable.
When the young man seated in front of her turned around to share the sign of peace, Roxana stared wildly. She shook her head and wondered aloud, “Why peace when there is war?” Good girls like Magi, Celeste, and even la pobre Xiomara, were casualties, groomed by some bullshit about being nice. Roxana understood this and its significance for herself. She immediately wanted to yell. To stand at the ambo and preach would be even better, to tell all the niñas in church, at school and in the street to listen up, and know that the rules of la casa weren’t made for their own good because they required unquestioned obedience. Putting up with so much shit (Roxana could already list a thousand stupid things) requires too much concentration.
Roxana bolted out of her seat and left the pew, muttering to herself; people looked at her contorted, grimaced face. She didn’t care to be pretty anymore; she knew that sapped energy she could use to read between the lines of the niña script. Better to learn how to kick ass, she thought; better to fight with teeth and nails and to see clear-eyed into danger. To understand the power of a scream, of the “No” she did shout out as she pushed open the big glass doors with a force that made the priest pause abruptly and the congregation turn in disapproval. As Roxana rushed through the church narthex and stepped purposefully out into the street, worries about what others thought did not even cross her mind.
My mother’s mother used to say that it took four generations to get the black out. I’m the fourth generation, so who I mate with will determine if our family racially advances or goes back. Atraso, that’s what mami says whenever she sees light skinned people with black folks and their mixed, swirl babies. And get this, she swears it was a law in Cuba. For real. Abuela called it la ley de atavismo. You can’t make shit like that up. If only she knew that I’m dating a Haitian dude. Not even fifteen fucking generations will get that black out!
Good thing abuela’s dead; the shock of seeing her muñeca con ese negro tinto would kill her for sure. She’s probably rolling in her grave all the way back to Cienfuegos where all her people are from. I could just hear her now: We left everything so that you would never have to struggle and what do you do but go with un hatiano? Dios mío! You don’t know what you’re going to endure! Don’t you know how you, how your children are going to suffer?
Abuela was hardcore and never held back. There was this one time when I was ten and playing jacks out front with Shelly and Lisa, the sisters from across the street, their mom and dad were teachers for chrissake. So abuela’s looking out the window and starts hollering: “Niña, ¿qué tú haces con esas negritas? Hazme el favor de entrar ahora mismo!”
“What she say?” Lisa was the smartest girl in fifth grade and Shelly had already skipped a grade. I was so scared they’d understand I started yelling back and causing a ruckus.
“Abuela! ¿qué te pasa? I swear to God, porque tú dices eso? I can’t believe this . . .”
“What’d she say? What the hell did she say,” Shelly was poking me even though she was younger. “She’d better not be saying nothing ‘bout us.”
“Ya, Abuela, voy, I’m coming. I gotta go. Voy, Abuela.”
The sisters were giving me the evil eye and I was breathing hard. I grabbed up the jacks and flew up the stairs without looking back. Abuela was still talking shit but thank God it was in Spanish.
I miss her but not her crazy-ass backwards thinking. For sure mami’s not gonna be pleased about Vital; she is after all abuela’s spawn. But Papi’s harder to figure. Who knows what Papi’s liable to do—just hope he doesn’t put me out. We’ll see.
My sister Neli, who’s only fourteen months younger than me, laughed her ass off when I told her I was thinking of bringing Vital home. “Girl, have you lost your mind?” She advised me to keep him to myself. She can say shit like that because she’s a lesbian so no man will ever “spoil” papi’s little girl. Bitch didn’t even get a hard time from the parents when she came out. Mami was all crying and shaking her head but she didn’t cuss her out or disown her or nothing. And what came out of Papi’s mouth just blew my mind (and made Neli run over and hug him tight). Something about how guajiros always say that a woman who goes with a woman first will never go with a man. Believe that shit?
Now she is the apple of their eye, always treating her tender, like she’s so frail or something. But truth is, she’s getting over on them. At least I think so because she quit school her senior year, saying she was so traumatized, pobrecita. Started working in a bike shop on the boulevard for her girlfriend who’s older by twenty years (mami and papi sure as hell don’t know that part) and Neli doesn’t even pay rent or give money for food or nothing.
Me, I got my own car that I paid for (granted it’s a piece a shit but it rolls) and I’m going to school days at Jersey State and work nights and weekends at Bonus Office Warehouse on route 441. I started giving my parents half my paycheck when papi was laid off. Mami says I shouldn’t and that they’ll pay me back when papi goes to full time again but I said no. I pay my cell, my school stuff, the car insurance, clothes, all the incidentals. I’m so glad to have my own room and not have to worry about doing laundry, cooking or buying groceries. I hate the thought of all that boring but necessary work. My goal in life is to have enough money to pay someone else to do that shit for me. I’m not even thinking marriage or kids. Just starting a business where I reap what I sow. That’s something papi always put in my head from when I was little; hija, he’d say, in this country you can be your own boss. I don’t have the language or the years so I have to work for someone else. Pero you, you can accomplish anything. Work hard and nothing