I Am My Grandmother's Daughter

DIAGNOSIS:

Acute-Capta-Matrem-Caritis

JULIE WROTE HER NAME over and over again furiously as if with mere repetition she can actually change her name. She’d fill up a whole looseleaf of Julie Sanabria’s insisting that her real name is not Julie Torres. Sanabria is Grandma’s name, the only mother we knew until one day we were snatched from our Grandma.

I remember Julie packing over and over again because she wanted to go back home. Most kids run away from home. Julie kept trying to run away to home. 

I remember Julie’s hair falling out from the heartache of being displaced from the only mother she knew, our Grandma, our Gramita. 

I remember Grandma hospitalized from the heartache with un ataque de nervios.[1] Never really knew what un ataque de nervios was until now. Never knew it was near fatal. Until now.

I remember a stranger taking care of us.  I remember I got sick. Vomiting and sweats and fever, feeling as small as the pillow on the bed, because I was delirious.

I remember doctor visits to see what was wrong with Julie. But doctors do not recognize ‘broken-heartedness’. What's the prescription for shocktinitus caused by sudden-separation-anxiety? How does one diagnose a child with phobia of biological mother due to sudden-nana-separation?  Perhaps the medical term could be: insidious-acute-alopecia-due-to-agoraphobia. Or perhaps the medical term would be: acute-capta-matrem-carititis. That would be Latin for ‘suddenly taken from motherly love’.

This is how I remember my and Julie’s separation from the only mother we knew as a child, our Gramita. This is how I remember Las Nenas de Alicia,[2] as we were called, being uprooted from their apartment in the Bronx to live with their biological mother in a small house in Jamaica, Queens.

What I cannot remember is any indication that my mother was evil. I can't recall any slightest thing that would lead me to even fathom, even in my worstest of nightmares, that one day she would hurt Gramita. Neglect her. Torture her. Plot to kill her. Nor that I would be caught in the crossfire and damn near lose my life trying to save my Gramita.[3]

MOTHERLY LOVE

Thump

Four A.M.

Super Powers

La Gruta

La Farmacia

Meng

El Sueño

La Flecha

The Stairs

Poison

From El Barrio

to the Boardroom

Moments

Apex

THUMP

I RAN UPSTAIRS WHEN I heard the thump. I almost knocked my mother over as I ran up and she ran down. 

Who does she think she is! Flames flaring out her nostrils. She’s going to hit me?!

I paused on the stairwell to look at my mother.

She’s going to hit me?! Was she trying to convince me or herself that this was even possible?

I reach the top of the landing and see Gramita sitting on the edge of the bed with lowered eyes.

I hear her yelling from downstairs, There’s a lot I can deal with but not this! She is going to respect me!

I looked at Gramita for a clue because I’m sure Gramita knew that I would kill anyone who tried to hurt her. But what if that someone is your own mother?

I will not allow this to go on! she continued, trying to get a reaction from me.

But I focused on my Grandma, "Gramita, are you ok? ¿Qué pasó?"[4]

My mother did not let up, You are not going to allow this to happen, right? I will not be disrespected in my own house!

Gramita starts fidgeting with the buttons on her pajamas.

Mom? I yelled from upstairs. Mom! What happened?

I looked at Gramita for clues, I swear I did.  I knew Gramita didn’t hit anyone. It was physically impossible for a ninety-plus-year-old to hurt anyone. Did my mother hit Gramita!?! What was that thump? Everything happened so fast. Did my mother snap? How long has this been going on?  What exactly is going on?

Are you ok, Gramita? kneeling on the floor, looking up at her, searching her face for clues. My Grandma stared at the floor. I hug her. You are ok, right? I hug her again.

Mom? I head downstairs. I don’t understand. What happened?

Nothing happened. Nothing, as she clasped her hands on the kitchen table. 

You can’t lose your temper like that. Why did it always have to be me to confront my mother? Where was my sister when I needed her?

I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going to watch TV.

That might be part of the problem, Mom. All you do is watch those terrible crime shows.

Yeah well. Those things really happen you know.

No, they do not.

Those things happen all the time. You just don't watch the news but I do.

Maybe, but those crime shows are made up stories, Mom.

Those stories are based on real life. Your problem is you think everyone is nice. But they are not.

She had managed to change the topic. We were no longer talking about Gramita. I think Gramita went to sleep.

Thank goodness for that!

Why do you say it like that? Why can’t she just stay up and watch those TV shows with you until she falls asleep?

Because I need a break! She needs to go to sleep when I tell her! And that’s that! I need time to unwind! You don't know what it's like!

Really Mom? Who are you talking to? Am I not the one that took her in and cared for her for over a year? It’s not even hard, Mom. It’s a blessing! She’s a blessing! I get up to get a few cookies from the cookie jar. No cookies left?

No. Bring your own. I buy cookies for me, not for you!

OK, as I search the cabinets for something to snack on. What’s this?

Natural supplements.

Natural what? Look, you have to give me the names of your doctors and tell me when your doc appointments are and give me a list of all these natural whatnots you are taking and any medications and all that. I mean you take care of Gramita and I take care of you, OK? That’s how it works.

I do not need to be taken care of. I am fine.

I NEVER TOLD ANYONE what happened that night. Not even Julie. When I went home, I didn't even tell Vic. That’s how abuse happens, in silence as it passes on.

FOUR A.M.

MY LITTLE SISTER’S usual playful self was motionless on the bed as Gramita paced back and forth, back and forth. It was dark outside but it was four-o’clock. I never knew the night had a four-o’clock. I was about six years old.

Gramita poured Agua Florida[5] all over my little sister’s body down to her little toes. Swoop from my little sister’s hips, Gramita’s magical hands carried the Agua Florida down my little sister’s legs. Starting at her hips, down her thighs, to her knees, then ankles, then to the tips of her toes. I pictured all the pain collected in Gramita’s magical grasp as she shooed it away and out through my little sister’s toes.

Gramita wrapped up my little sister in a blanket and started pacing, back and forth, back and forth,  saying she had to wait till the five-o’clock of the morning. The morning having a five-o’clock was confusing to me. When did the night end and the morning start? Was Gramita gonna pace up and down till the night ended? Was my little sister gonna be sickly till the night ended?

I flipped myself over in the twin sized bed, feeling free because usually there was no room for me to spread myself out on that little twin bed. Usually I’d have stinky feet near my face. My little sister would sleep with her head one way on the little twin bed and me the other way. Gramita slept in the same room in the biggest bed I ever imagined that a bed could be. I couldn’t wait until I was a big person and have a big bed like Gramita had. Well today, my little sis was in Gramita’s bed. It’s usually a treat sleeping there. Even just sitting there. But not today. It wasn’t a treat today. Today she was really sick.

I don’t know where Gramita was going, but I heard the heavy metal pole unbolt the heavy metal door of our Bronx apartment and out the door she went. When she came back, she held two baby aspirin in the palm of her hands. She said thank God el bodeguero[6] was there at the five-o’clock hour of the morning and that hopefully those two aspirin worked on my little sis.

She held my little sis’ head up off the bed.  As her little head rested on Gramita’s shoulders, she took the two aspirin and Gramita made the sign of the cross on my little sister’s forehead and rocked her back and forth and back and forth. And I rocked back and forth and back and forth on my side of the twin bed.  Back and forth and back and forth.

Sure felt empty, my little bed, without my little sister. I swore to myself that I would never complain about her stinky feet again. They weren’t stinky anyway. We just used to say our feet were stinky because Gramita used to grab our feet together and rub them on her nose, make a funny face, and say ¡CHICOTE![7]  We’d