June

And so June has crept up on us, lovely lovely June. Now it's time for me to step up my game and begin a project. I vow to write every single day in June about something or other. I need to get out there and do one of the things I like doing most. It's about time.

Mami

I was young. Young enough that you wouldn't let me sit in the front seat of the car. I was old. Old enough that I remember. We went to the mall that day mami, and you held my hands and smiled.

I think I can hear you whispering behind me as I decided what movie to watch. I think I can hear you whispering behind me as I bought popcorn and other goodies we usually didn't get to have. I think I see a tear drop halfway through the movie. Don't cry mami, the movie isn't that sad. The movie ended, and you held my hands and smiled.

It was red. The chupi-chupi you gave me. The wooden stick that ran through the middle had a joke etched on it. What did one muffin say to the other muffin? I never got to find out because that's when you told me that abuelito Esteban had died. I dropped the Popsicle onto the plate after that, mainly because I needed you to hold my hands and smile.

You were so strong for me mami. All smiles and no te preocupes mi amor, mi reina, mi cielo. My love, my queen, my sky. You protected me from the monsters under my bed and from the thoughts in my head. You protected me from the people that wanted to hurt me but you understood that sometimes I needed to get hurt. And everything you did mami, everything you did for me, was with a hand and a smile.

Mami, I'm a little bit older now. Twenty. Could you imagine? It's my turn now mami. My turn to step up and protect you and do everything I can for you. Mami, there's nothing I would ever want to do more than to hold your hand, and smile.

Mangos cont.

Our tiny house was the hotspot during mango season. I invited you over once that summer, remember? No, wait, you had something else to do… maybe next time. I can clearly see that sticky sweet yellow juice dripping down the chins and arms of my family. Moms would jump up every chance they got to try and scrub yellow splotches off of their children’s clothing before admitting total defeat. The juice leaves quite a stain you see, and even though we tried oh so hard, our sticky fingers would find a way onto something or someone, somewhere.

In late August when the days got even more humid (if that was even possible), and our shirts were in a perpetual state of sick nasty sweatiness, Mami would bring out the mangos she had carefully sliced and frozen months before and make a delicious mango slushy, nothing but mango and ice from the little blue ice molds our old refrigerator had. Then the little air conditioner that couldn’t would clunk out and we’d press the cold glasses to our faces and stand by the windows hoping to catch an incredibly delightful breeze that so rarely knocked upon our door.

You remember that old scooter I brought to school once? The one with the green wheels? Sweat and blood bought those wheels baby. Well… sweat, blood and mangos. Papi asked us to come up with at least half of what a scooter might cost. Forget the lemonade stand! We sat out in the middle of Douglas park with boxes full of mangos. I bet he doesn't know that I still remember that. The biggest ones cost a dollar, naturally and the long and thin Filipino mangos cost 50¢ apiece. The viejitas would stagger on up to us, leaning on their bastones and would ask us to give them one for free. Call it ye olde Catholic guilt or what have you, but we ended up giving more mangos away than actually selling them. I don’t know how we managed to make bank that year, selling mangos in the sweltering summer heat.

You hadn’t been under my radar when the Naranjo family stayed at our house for a while. It was right after they had arrived from Venezuela. William had been a friend of papi’s for a pretty long time and they had worked together in the same orchestra back in the day. The Naranjos had four kids. FOUR! And they stayed in our two bedroom house with us. Guillermo and William Jr. were the youngest, our age. We would climb the Filipino mango tree all the way at the end of our backyard and knock down the young, bright green fruit by the armful. We would sneak the container of Morton salt and the glass jar of sugar out of the house and climb up onto the forbidden roof. We’d spend hours dipping the sour fruit in sugar, then salt, and then we’d wait for the explosion of flavor on our young taste buds. Our parents always wondered why we had such strong stomach aches after those days. Es el sol, they would say, sun sickness.

New Poet?

I wanted to feature a new poet today, her name is Valeria Lopez-Trujillo and she is actually my little cousin. 11 Years old.

The World Turns

Turning turning,
round and round
turns the world holding
beautiful shapes
and sounds
Through my soul
I am able to see
the world turning
within
me
A billion of times
the world
turns each day
the flowers dancing
the waves wave
the world will
turn forever
more
All we can do is look
and adore.

-Valeria L-T

Dance Esmeralda, Dance

Dance Esmeralda. Dance

Hear my metal hands twirling rays of light above your head
my sun brown feet pounding the earth with intricacies
your eyes are touching me, tearing at my clothing, wanting to be with me
stroking the back of my neck with aching breath and bloodstained teeth
not knowing that I can feel your every scratch across the dust

Faster

I just want to move my body against my own
and hear the rattling of golden bones against their jail cells
singing and keeping time with me
forgive me for not loving you

Faster

I can make my own light with the beat of palms against my dripping skin
my shadow making love with the brick behind it
while I demand more blood more sweat than it can give me

Faster

My hair is flying behind me and with it, your smell
I don’t want your putrid sense of keeping me from what I was meant to dance

Faster

Will you let me or will you watch the rust of my soul creep in spirals by itself?

more mangos please

Didn’t I tell you about it that one time? I could’ve sworn I did. Two summers ago when you held my hand and gave me the sunflowers that you had bought from a street vendor down Coral Way. Remember? I wanted to let you know that we weren’t perfect either but that every family has something that connects them together. You do remember the mangos… don’t you? I told you how papi used to give my brother and I black trash bags to take out to the backyard and fill up to the brim. It was always kind of nasty, stepping on the rotten fruit, green-orange ooze seeping in through our thin soled shoes, making us slip and fall atop more rotting deliciousness. We would return from the infested battlefield with sweat pouring down our faces, covered in muck and swatting away the vicious fruit flies that were mercilessly trying to nab a piece of our carefully collected prizes.
I told you about el recojedor de mangos right? The mango collector? Papi invented it one year when we got sick of having our soft mangos mating so forcefully with the hard ground. Two broomsticks sophistically taped together (black electrical tape mind you), with a basket and a hook on one end was all it took so that he could snatch the mangos right off the tree before they splattered. It was surprising how well it worked and how long the damn thing lasted.
I remember people from all over the neighborhood knocking on our door asking for mangos. Mami or papi would bring out the mango collector and hand it to them. ¡Disfrutenlo! Enjoy it! Others would just sneak into our backyard and take some. One year mami prepared dozens of baskets full of the delicious treats to give away to our family and friends. We went all over Miami delivering them. And the reactions? Unforgettable.

Mangos

My goodness, remember when we used to go to the beach together? We’d round up the gang and find an empty cabaña. The padlock on number 52 was perpetually broken so we’d sit there with cheapo Publix sandwiches, lots of oranges and maybe even a watermelon or two. Every once in a while someone would bring a little beer and a hammock and we’d have it made. I never thought to bring mangos. Maybe it’s because they usually weren’t in season during the school year and that’s when we could get everyone together to head out. Maybe I just wanted the mangos to be the precious jewels that I only shared with my family. Whatever it was, you never got to experience eating a mango out in the open sea, the light sea salt bringing out the intense sweetness. You never got to throw a mango peel out to the ocean and watch the waves devour it greedily, not wanting to give it back to you.

I don’t think we knew each other well when Katrina happened. Eramos bebes, babies, in high school and we had just started boot camp for the school’s Coast Guard Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps. We were out of school for a whole week. I was so upset the day after Katrina passed by, walking out to the backyard and seeing one of our strong, prized mango trees splintered in half. Our cacti had collapsed completely on top of our outside deck. A freaking mess.

Then I saw the news and I heard the stories, the horrors about what had happened in New Orleans. Suddenly, clearing up the wreckage that Katrina had caused in our backyards didn’t seem like such a burden. A week later and Wilma hit, a cute little storm compared to what Katrina had been. Our school flooded that time (maybe it wasn’t such a hot idea to have a school on the bay, especially in a state where hurricanes frequent). She gave us two weeks of no readin' writin' and 'rithmetic which, after clearing up the wreckage, were spent sleeping outside in the God given 65 degree weather. Mami would bring out the mangos she had salvaged from the backyard and we’d eat as many as we could, knowing that we wouldn’t be able to preserve them until the electricity came back on and who the hell knew when that would be.