The Song

My husband before he's my husband plays me a song that he says reminds him of me. I am a little nervous to hear it, to see what it is that catches his attention. When he first plays the song for me I know that this will be the song I will walk down the aisle to. I am told by many that this is not traditional. In return I tell them that there is nothing traditional about us. WE do not conform. We make our own way, blaze our own trail. He is my partner and I his. Equally. His goals are my goals and vice versa. Every plan to succeed in our life together we meet head on. But he's only a man and therefore fallible. He makes mistakes, some bigger than others, and I make my own mistakes. The most important thing is that we work through them as a team…but…

Sometimes a person does something that seems unforgivable. We do not know why people do these things to hurt us, but they do. The moment we find out the truth we become victims, our souls experience pain never felt before, the trust is broken, sometimes beyond repair. In that very moment we forget why it is that we love this person. We wonder how could someone be so irresponsible with our love? So what do we do? Do we swallow the hurt deep inside and pretend that everything is fine? Or do we rant and rave and destroy something just so that we can give the world a glimpse of the pain that we are in? Is it ok to still love someone who has been lying to you all along? Or is omitting something not the same thing as lying? Can you continue to love someone who has kept a secret from you for years? Is it ok to rationalize it because this person told you finally? Or did they finally tell you because they couldn't hide it anymore and you were going to find out anyway? Do they get points for telling you first? Am I weak because I still will not walk away? But how can I forgive when I know I will never forget? I am broken into a million pieces. All the kings horses and all the Kings men will not be able to put me back together again. My trust is broken, my heart is torn. My ego is bruised and everything I knew to be true is tainted by lies. This hurt consumes me and I am unable to write for days. Every time I look at him I want to claw his eyes out…but I don't and I won't.

My grandmother once told me that no matter what we have to learn to forgive people or we will never be free. At age eight I did not understand what she meant by that. Now at twenty - seven I know exactly what that means. I am a prisoner to this hurt. I am the only one losing sleep and the only one crying. Everyone else is walking around living their lives as if nothing has changed. So why would I give someone that power over me? Why would I let something that isn't even worth it cost me a good night's rest? They say the past is the past and you have to keep moving. A part of my problem is that I tend to stay stuck in the past. I will never succeed in my goals if I continue to hold everything bad in my life bottled in. It will eat away from the inside of me. I know that he loves me. His actions tell me so. I know that even as hard as his demeanor is to the world, he has a softness for me. Even though he does not want me to believe that I am something special and unique the way he looks at me tells me otherwise.


I KNOW this man. I LOVE this man. This is the same man who rubbed my feet after I stood on them for eight hours straight in too small shoes. This is the same man who rescued me when I could not rescue myself. The same man who held me as we buried our child, and let me know it was ok to cry. The same man who has worried over me while I was sick. He knows my every mood, my every heartache, my every dream, every nightmare. He pays close attention to what brings me happiness and what causes my tears. I know this man loves me the way Adam loved Eve. That is why I know how difficult it was for him to keep a secret from me for so long. I know how scared he was to tell me, I know he thought I would leave. And for a second there I almost did. But we all have our secrets. Some buried deeper than others. How can I cast stones when I have done so much worse in the span of my life. So even though it hurts deep in the pit of my stomach every time I think about it, I know that everyday the feeling will fade, until it becomes another memory. But he and I will NOT fade. It's like that old Musiq song, "you were meant for me and I was meant for you…" We were meant for each other come what may.

The Tin Roof

I wake up and its raining. Even before I look outside I know it. The sound of the rain against the tin roof washes over me and it takes me a moment to remember where I am. In that small space of time I am transported back to a childhood now long gone. I half expect to hear my great-grandmother humming to herself while she fixes us our morning breakfast of Farina. I can almost here her gently scolding her small dog Pucho who must have been following her around the kitchen. Or maybe it is Sunday and we'll be having fried eggs, ham and toast along with the Farina. In this small moment I know its only a matter of time before she wanders into where I am sleeping and rouse me from my half slumber to help her get breakfast on the table. Instead, it's the sound of the T.V. that pulls me from my moments of confusion. I am in a small white house with a tin roof, twenty years away from my memories. I can’t help but feel melancholy settling into my heart. I know that it is my duty alone now to rise before everyone else and get breakfast ready. There is no Pucho here, no dog to scold. I shuffle into the kitchen and make my preparations to cook. I scold the refrigerator for leaking water all over the floor, threatening to replace it. Farina has been replaced by grits, ham by bacon, but the eggs stay the same. The husband and the kids like their eggs scrambled with cheese, but I'll fry mine and season them with my nostalgia. I hum a ditty from my memory while I wash the dishes. My five year old comes in the sleep still in his eyes, "is it Sunday?" he asks me. His question makes me realize that despite the fact that my great-grandmother is long gone now I still keep her alive with my habits born from tradition. Despite the fact that I'm am thousands of miles from my family, I am and will always remain the island girl that they raised me to be.

El Mercado

Growing up Puerto Rican was the most normal thing in the world. There are so many things that I took for granted. Piraguas for a quarter, Limbers de Coco for another. The smell of my grandmother's kitchen when the Sofrito hit the hot oil in the Caldero. Eating fresh Mangos off the trees. Kenepas that grew right outside in my grandmother's garden. Climbing trees to gather Carembolas that were both sweet as they were sour. We would chase my grandmother's chickens until she would spank us for agitating her prized fowl. We were wild, my grandparent's mountaintop land was an oasis for us and we never knew anywhere else in the world existed. When night fell the air all around us was full of the sounds of my native land. The Coqui would sing its sweet lullaby and lull me to sleep each night.

Now, twenty years later, all the way across the ocean that separates the states from the tiny island I called my home; I go to the local grocery store in search of some things I need to make dinner for my family. It saddens me that the foods I loved as a child are no longer available to me. My childhood has been reduced to one aisle, International Foods. Our Gandules, Habichuelas, Arroz, Sofrito (in a jar), Malta, Sazon, Adobo, are sitting on the same shelves as tacos, and Asian noodles. Mangos there were free to me everyday are two for three dollars. The platanos that we use to make tostones are already turning by the time they arrive to the market and if we don't cook them that very night they will go bad. Now don't get me wrong I love my life here in Alabama, I have a wonderful husband and great kids. Sometimes late at night when I toss and turn in bed unable to succumb to sleep, I can't help but long for the sweet song of the Coqui to lull me to sleep

Boricua in Alabama Land Part 1

They hear me speak Spanish and automatically assume that I am Mexican. They look down their nose at me as if I don't belong, as if I crossed the border illegally, as if I have no right to be married to my Black husband and raise my mixed children. They talk down to me as if I don't have a Bachelors degree in Business and two years of law school under my belt. All they see is Mexican. I get pulled over and they tell me that they are not even sure if I am supposed to be here, that my social security number is from someplace called Puerto Rico and it may not even be real. The look in my eyes ask the question that is burning to jump out, "are you serious?" If this was up north I wouldn't even have encountered this. I would walk out the door and every other person I saw shared my heritage, knew my culture. Every Puerto Rican Parade we would gather and shut the block down. Waving our mini PR flags in the air and showing the world how proud we were to be who we are. I KNOW who I am. I am one hundred percent, full blooded, I am Island bred, Sancocho fed Puerto Rican. The blood that flows through my veins is that of my Taino, Spaniard and African ancestors. I am a melting pot of kidnapped slave, raped Taino women, and domineering Spaniards. I switch between my native Spanish and my not so native English with such an ease that they call it Spanglish. So why would this be something I should be ashamed of?