Diary of a Lactose Intolerant Angry Black Latina

Stories, ramblings, musings to block out the noise.

[suspiciousempanada]

Alone at a bus stop

I thought passion would be there, if I showed up at the appointed hour. The street is empty. Maybe there was a sign along the way I missed? Could there have been something that would have slowed me down or turned me in another direction? Would I have accepted it as the truth? No. I was too desperate to find meaning and to call something "mine". Now I’m here, alone, freezing my tits off.

The bus shelter can barely hold back the wind from slapping me across the face. That will teach me. Maybe this time I’ll learn to never expect actions to function as words do.

I thought passion would be there, but it’s just me: cold, bitter and a little hungry.

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“Dreams don’t come true. Stop letting strangers feed you bullshit, kid.” She puffed on her cigarette before a coughing fit seized her for another round. I fell silent, trying to avoid eye contact. Unbothered by my reaction, she wrapped her wooly scarf around her neck, pulled down on her too small belly shirt with the words “Vibe” across and pushed her shopping cart full of street treasures down the busy sidewalk. Wow, Mary Poppins really let herself go.

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The first time I looked at death I couldn’t stop staring. I couldn’t remove my eyes from the dirt. I didn’t feel fear or even sadness, it was a gaping hole of nothingness.

[suspiciousempanada]

Hell has volunteers

I don't know who's in charge here, but I need to speak to a manager. "Oh you're one of those", remarked a low level demon hellspawn with a headset that made him look like an overly sexualized pop star. He gestured to a platform surrounded by Italian men selling hair straighteners. I'm definitely in hell.

I don't know why I'm here. I thought I was a good girl. I flossed daily. I donated every time I was pressured to at check-out counters. I pursued the career path that would give my parents a seat at the "My kid is better than yours" table. I didn't murder anyone even though I really wanted to. I didn't sleep with anyone's husband even though I wanted to. I didn't steal as much as I wanted to from work (honestly I should have stolen more). I've helped old ladies cross the street. What is going on here?

I get to the podium. "Name?"

"Umm, Minerva Jade?"

"Not your stage name, hoe! Your real name"

"Wingardium Leviosa Rodriguez"

"Damn. Alright, it say's here you're a volunteer."

"I volunteered! That must be a mistake! I would never agree-"

"Roll the tape Clarence!"

And like a page out of Real Housewives this mid level demon hell spawn ran me a series of clips of me repeatedly and in different contexts saying "I'm going to hell". After probably 20 minutes worth of soundbites from my lifetime, the silence was deafening.

"I mean I was just playing"

"Stop acting like you don't know what 'speaking into existence means! I mean you half read enough self help books to know better. Next!"

[suspiciousempanada]

Step yo game up, clone!

It was a regular degular shmegular Tuesday evening. My dad asked that I go with him to get a couple things from Shoprite. I was a rambunctious 11 year old who relished on any opportunity to go out and experience the world. So, I went with him, skipping around to the some Spice Girl lyric, making sure I annoyed anyone to come within 6 feet of me. My dad hustled a few paces ahead of me in typical dad fashion. Suddenly, I was tapped on the shoulder by a stranger. 

A girl maybe a few years older than me ran over, out of breathe. She said, “Hey! Your sister is over there. You should go talk to her” and pointed somewhere behind me. I was immediately confused. I don’t have a sister. Well, I do but we’re estranged half-sisters that stay behind our respective state lines. So it couldn’t be her! Could it? I didn’t care to find out. She could come up to me herself. I didn’t look in the direction she was pointing in. Why bother? I just turned my head, politely told her, “I don’t have a sister” and marched on to collect coupons I would pretend were dollar bills. 

It was probably some kids playing around, right? Or just a simple misunderstanding. ORRRRR it was a different version of me, someone from the future or an artificial clone of some kind on a mission. They traversed time for this moment to give me some information that will some how save humanity and my sister is somehow involved! 

This must be it. 

Well, if this were the case, why didn’t they try harder to complete their mission? Why didn’t they chase me down and force feed me Hotpockets, until I faced it? I can see some form of me completely giving up  at the thought of forcing me to confront a hard truth. She probably gave up super spy clone life up to open up a bakery after this incident.

I’m not deluded, I know I’m never good at tough conversations. I’m always on the verge of one final eruption, one that can wipe out the entire city grid. A Pompeii in modern times. I don’t want to be responsible for that. That’s that special black girl rage I wouldn’t want to deal with. Fuck that. World, you’re on your own. Find some other way. 

Epilogue ~~

It never surprises me to learn that even in my fantastical delusions I find some way to avoid accepting matters that will set my spirit free. Reality as it is, is hard to face. I guess future/clone me needs to step their game up. 

[suspiciousempanada]

What happens when you realize it was all a show?

So, I guess we’re enemies now.

It started off with morning texts and cute questions that only skid the surface. Lazy mornings in bed and awkward first kisses. I liked the sound of your voice kind of like how all the guys from Boys II Men all wrapped into one. You made me laugh so hard hiccups would bubble up in my chest. Cute. I would run to my phone every few minutes to see if your name was there. You told me you didn’t want to be like your father and that my eyes were the first things that catch your eye. It was all a jolly ol’ S Club video, that is, until I caught the wires. 

Long black wires jetting out from the edge of my bedroom  out into the hallway, all into a cement wall with a metal handle at the end. These can’t be internet wires. I never noticed it before, what with all the delusion I’ve been feeding myself, you tend to not focus on the details when you’re in such a state.

It was staged. My life with you was a show and I had no idea. You were pretending to be, you were pretending with me. People warn you about the perils of men. Guard your heart they would say. For some reason I ignored all my instincts because of that damn bastard feeling inside me.

There he was the man behind the door. Monitors lined the wall, tiny black flickering frames of different moments in my life. I thought they were memories but they turned out to be scenes.

What are you supposed to do when you realize your life was a lie? You were a pawn in someone’s bigger game. You were a doll almost life-like for someone’s entertainment, but still a doll.

The man was stunned to see me “You aren’t supposed to be here!” he shouts as his burrito dropped on the grown. I tell him to get the fuck out before I show him how monstrous people with unresolved childhood trauma could be. He stumbled out of the room leaving a perfectly good burrito on the ground. I take one good look at this farce I called a life. I should have trusted my gut. You always know when someone is just not quite right but you ignore it out of desperation. Next time I’ll be more patient I tell myself as I walk out the room burrito in hand. I have no idea where I’m going, all I know is that I need to get the fuck up out of here.

[suspiciousempanada]

My Daughter is no killer.

I just did another 12hour shift at the factory; my back is killing me. The sun is starting to set over the bricked buildings that used to be silk factories. This is the east in fall. The melody of Donna Summer pounds out of my speakers, delivering me to the 70s where I spent more time dancing than breathing. I was young and life was wide open. Now, it’s reduced to drowning out the noise of rowdy teenagers with my Spanish novellas in between shifts packing watches and sleep. I’m a few blocks from home when I see the red and blue lights flickering in the distance. The cars in front of me ease up, goddamn rubberneckers. I might as well take a look too.

Then I see it! I can recognize that wild mane, more of a nest really. My daughter has wild strong hair like her father. I didn’t know what to do with it, she knew less. So, when I saw this nest of wild curls bounce toward the back of the car lead by an officer in blues my jaw unlocked out of its place. I can’t believe it: she’s covered in blood.

My eyes burst wide. “She did it, She finally killed him”. All I can hear is the loud thud in my chest, it must be my heart, I think. It was supposed to be a normal day, just like the others. Yes, she was an angry little thing, violent at times, she had to be. You can’t be a weak girl in this world. I didn’t think it will go this far. I guess I always knew she had a strong fire burning inside her.  

Her brother was mostly quiet, stuck to himself and a small circle of boys. They clashed all the time. They fought like boys, they fought like men. I knew it was only a matter of time before things exploded. I knew it because that girl is gasoline. I knew what she was capable of, I knew all along.

I pull over in the middle of the road. “That’s my daughter, That’s my daughter,” I shout to a cop at the edge of the block near the trash cans. I welcome the tears rushing down my eyes as more sirens from more cops arriving at the scene. “That’s my daughter,” I whimper out this time it was so faint it was almost like an exhale.

“Mom! What the fuck?”

I turn to the large green dumpster where my daughter stands with a bag of trash in her hands. Her Darth Vader slippers are a dead giveaway.

“Aye No Inglish, No Inglish” I back away slowly from the officer and the crazed little brown girl in the patrol car who is definitely, 100 percent, absolutely NOT my daughter.

My bad.

[suspiciousempanada]

Dream-scape

It may be ungrateful for me to admit, but I’m happiest in my dreams. Unlike reality, the scales are tipped more in my favor in the dream scape. Society can’t assault me with it’s history and truth. There the dread of not hitting the mark like some lab rat caged in a perfectly symmetrical glass box does not exist. Fear has no place when you can win The Amazing Race and Supermarket Sweep at the same time. You don’t have to worry about anyone projecting their failures onto you, because who else matters but you here. It’s a narcissist wonderland.

What are expectations? What are responsibilities? What do gluten free bagel bites taste like?

The possibilities in this world are endless and the power is great. I am not tethered by insecurity whoever I am past, future, present shines. 

I was a ruler of an empire, forged by my own blade, with a six pack of abs from kicking so much ass. I was a lover uninhibited by the truth of love. I was a singer with notes out of the range of even Celine, Mariah, and Whitney. I was faster than Xena, stronger than The Rock, flyer than Rick Flare. I can have soul like Lauren, whit and humor like Dave. All the things I am not can come to life with the flip of a switch. It’s no wonder you never want to leave. You throw quick jabs at your pillow when the spiteful universe pulls you away and throws you back into boring old reality.

Damn I felt so close, I was almost happy and then I woke up.

[suspiciousempanada]

Advice I would give my younger self

-       Don’t be ashamed that you dressed like a lesbian gym teacher in elementary school. Your “swishy” sweatsuit game was on point.

-       That boy will go on to destroy the lives of dozens of women like a broke ass hood Godzilla. Stay away.

-       You do not need to eat a whole pumpkin pie by yourself every Thanksgiving. Stop calling it a “tradition”.

-       Your anxiety-induced butt clenching is giving you a strong shapely ass. Keep stressing.

-       Stop drinking so heavily, you are going to piss in your favorite pair of knee-high boots. No matter how many times you soak it, you will never get the smell out.

-       Embrace your adventurous side. The people who are holding you back just want to justify their poor decisions through you.

-       Don’t tell your guidance counselor you want to be in remedial math so, you can finally be in a class with hot guys. You won’t last a day.

-       Don’t shrink yourself to chase any of these motherfuckers. It will only hold you back.

-       Drink more water.

-       Maybe you should have hung out with those people you formed a drum circle with on Venice Beach a few years back. You’ll eventually grow a deep fascination with cults. Why not? What could wrong?

-       YOU’RE NOT FUCKING FAT CARAJO!

-       Worry less about how others view you and focus on who you actually are.

-       Yes, you do laugh like Beavis and Butthead, but that doesn’t define you!

-       Don’t let boys who’s jokes consist of quoting other comedians tell you that you are not funny.

-       Hechale ojo, mofos be creepin’.

-       You’re doing fine.

[suspiciousempanada]

BE FREE, WILD CHILD

Once upon a time there was a little girl who had great big hair and a great big smile. Most kids made fun of her because she was loud, feral looking and adventurous. She didn’t wear tube tops like the other girls or laughed at the humorless jokes little boys made. She liked to climb trees and make adults uncomfortable by asking inappropriate questions. They nicknamed her gremlin and laughed at her behind her back. She would wrestle boys her age and win, gaining more reproach from others on the block. “Be a regular girl”, they would tell her. “Do something with your hair”, they chastised. “Why are there always ketchup stains on your shirt?” Some boys would wait for her after school just to tell her she was worthless and ugly. One boy in particular swung her around by her backpack so hard she flew into a metal pole a few feet away. Truth be told, how people treated her started to take its toll. It made her feel like she had to be someone else. Who she was, was at the same time too much and not enough.

Then, the little girl grew up said, “Fuck these hoes” and kicked everyone’s ass.

The End.

[suspiciousempanada]

Say NO to drug dealers

One of the coolest guys in my neighborhood growing up was this Puerto Rican dude they called Scarface. No, not the guy from HALF BAKED or that guy from the world-renowned bro movie of the same name, or any other petite criminal in your family. This dude was coconut raspaito on a hot day. He was like Richard Gere’s performance in Chicago: dazzling. He would saunter into the Quickcheck, off Van Houten Ave, rocking an all red sweatsuit, gold chain, looking like a delicious Italian BMT sandwich. He entered any room as if Gangsters Paradise was his personal theme song. It’s a fitting vibe though. He started gangbanging in his teens, rose through the ranks to middle gang management and made quite a name for himself. Boys knew not to cross him or speak out of turn. Every time you saw him, he would have a different chic on his arm, each one a different shade of 2007 Jennifer Lopez. Despite a gang retaliation attack that left him looking like Meltman from Action League Now, all the girls salivated for him, myself included.

I knew it was wrong to like him. I went through the DARE program/pizza party; I knew better! He just seemed like he had it all: the money, the power, the women. I wanted to feel that sense of security. I was tired of the world kicking me, I wanted to do the kicking. It’s a dog eat dog world and I would rather eat! Fuck, following the rules. The game isn’t built for someone like me to win anyway.  This truth burns deep within me and probably the source of my internal rage. At the heart of it all, I was envious that he was able to command the world in the way that he did. It was easy to fall in love. He inspired me. Right then I decided: I should join a street gang.

While fun to fantasize, the truth is: no one in an actual street gang actually calls it a street gang AND you’re not as powerful as you think. The “power”  I thought Scarface had was an illusion. It was a short velvet curtain with fake wizard legs poking out from the bottom. Through time, as a passerby, I saw the violence and the drugs consume him. It stop being cool when people were dying from either bullets or powder (pick your poison). His violence increased exponentially. A man couldn’t accidentally brush up against his Air Force Ones without getting his jaw dislocated. The Chapiadoras who clung to his side, would appear with ugly bruises all over. His greed for money made him more reckless, the target on his back grew bigger. It all stop being cute and rap song exciting, real quick.

When he was sentenced to life in prison, all the money was gone, youngins weren’t scared to talk their trash, the women moved onto someone else. Poof! He was gone. Who he was as el mero mero just evaporated into legend. Parents will tell their wayward sons to not be another Scarface. Soon enough his legend faded off too, replaced by another. Now for the rest of his life, he will be reduced to a series of numbers and no name. What remains is the fantasy he left behind.

FIN. 

[suspiciousempanada]

Don’t you come back around here, hoe!

It was a shit day. Gray sheets of clouds blanketed the sky, dreary and melancholy. Straight out of the brain of Edgar Allen Poe or Pete Davidson. Why get up at this point? There is nothing for me on the outside world, but more opportunities to disappoint my hardworking immigrant parents. Still, I had to drag my unwilling body back to the office to file some things, type some things, and cry a little. Glad my degree at some pretentious university is coming in handy. Lunch time hits and I need something to perk my mood. Something that will lift my spirits and make me feel like everything is going to be alright…

I entered the Chipotle just one block away from my job. It’s my usual haunt so everyone in there knows me and my burrito needs. I see Harry behind the plexiglass pit station. He seems a little fidgety, very nervous to see me. “How’s it going, Chicharito?” I approach warmly. He stands there grinning like Jack Nicholson in The Shinning saying nothing. WTF is up with him? Ignoring Harry’s fuckery, I reorient my thoughts to matters of more importance: my burrito. “Steak burrito, white rice, black beans”, I say as if I’m singing “Priceline.com”. I’m unnerved he doesn’t know my order. I come here an unnatural amount of times during the week, he should know this. Alarms in my head start going off when Harry grabs his metal spoon and dribbles just a few pieces of steak onto a large bed of rice. Oh hell no! Harry knows not to play with my meat! Something is definitely wrong! Code Red, Blue, Green and Orange! “Harry are you ok? Is something wrong? What’s happening? Tell me!”

I hear the click of the safety being pulled back on a pistol right up against my left ear. “You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”, a voice behind me says. “I just want my fucking burrito man”, I bark right back. “Not today, bitch”. Their words ring through me like an ancient Chinese gong. I’m not sure what came over me, but I guess spending my childhood watching Jackie Chan movies paid off. My left leg shoots out behind me gliding against the floor, sending my assailant on their ass. I pounce on them quickly disarming them in the process. I tuck the gun behind me as I’m face to face with my burrito menace….

It’s my high school art teacher, Mrs. Ricenti, who called me a bitch in front of the whole class and told me I would never amount to anything!! “You!”, I shout. Mrs. Ricenti capitalizes on this moment of surprise with a quick kick to the gut that sends me across the Chipotle into the art deco wall that’s not really a wall. “Look out!” Harry shouts cowering behind a cart of cheese. I’m a little winded, but not badly hurt. “That all you got, puta?!” I hit her with a two-piece combo soda to the face! I do a swift spin move I would credit to Michael Jackson had I not seen the HBO documentary LEAVING NEVERLAND. Once I hit the air with a couple pelvic thrusts, I grab her by the throat and toss her out the doorway like Jazz on Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. “Don’t you come back around here, hoe”, I shout out to a busy sidewalk as Mrs. Rincenti slinks away in defeat.  “Yay! You saved us. You saved Chipotle!”, Harry shouts. “It’s the least I could do.” I say as I pat him on the back. “Now let’s get back on my burrito. Don’t play on the fucking meat this time!”  

FIN.