Ellathought

At 7 years old, I was praying for a Nickelodeon mom, whose main concern would be me and my after school snacks. Instead, my mom sat at the head of the table like a deer in headlights.

Doña Colombia threw her a homecoming party; in my mom’s house, scratching up her floors & breaking what was left of the wine glasses in the china cabinet. I was oblivious to the destruction because I was used to it. There were often parties at my house attended by people I never knew. I wondered if my mom knew them. She sat quietly at the kitchen table, responding to questions with nods of the head or a slight smile. Having already started to hone my ability to feel sadness in others, I made my way through the sea of adults and approached her slowly.

“Tu si ta flaquita,” she greeted me and at the same time pierced a hole in my young heart that would take decades to heal. “You’re so skinny” wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I wanted a TV mom embrace. She was supposed to have lifted me up above her head, swung me around the room, embrace me and tell me how much she loved me. According to the script, the rest of the room would go dark, the spotlight would be on us, all the strangers would disappear, and we’d finally be back to “normal”. Little did I know, nothing had ever been (or would ever be) normal for my little family.

She was concerned, she would later tell me. My mother had left her daughter and her home to the care of a friend. While she was glad her home and daughter were still standing, this was not the condition she had left them in. I can’t show you my class pictures from the 1st or 2nd grades because Doña Colombia didn’t buy them. I saw my 2nd grade pictures once because someone tagged me on Facebook. I looked like the kids I would later describe my city to be — hungry and neglected. I untagged myself from that photo immediately. I’ve tried to find it again (it was obviously posted by a former “best friend”) and can’t find it. I realize I’m not supposed to have a reminder of that version of myself.

• • •

The only good part about my mom going away was that I finally got my own room. Doña Colombia took my mom’s room, and I moved into my sister’s — and sometimes my brother’s. All of my clothes fit in a 2-drawer metal filing cabinet. I spent my free time searching through the leftovers my siblings had left behind, unconsciously curating a style of my own out of pure necessity. I no longer had older siblings to copy or learn from. I turned the dial on the radio station until I heard what I was looking for and had an empty cassette on cue, ready to record. I listened to KIX 106.3 for so long, I take full credit for its rebranding into “HOT 106”. I had created a world of my own in my mother’s basement and learned to be so comfortable alone, I didn’t know I was alone.

• • •

“That’s why you’re adopted!” she yelled. My mind (and my face) whirled up in confusion but before I could respond, we heard the police sirens and everyone took off running in different directions. One of my “best” friends was about to fight another girl over a boy they both liked. I liked him once, too. My city is one square mile so we’ve all either been best friends, enemies, crushed on each other or fought each other. We were only 7-8 years old and absolutely no one I hung out with was ever dropped off or picked up by their parents. We didn’t all walk home because it was “safe”, we walked home because the city was small enough and all of our parents were at work (or on drugs) — if you had parents, that is.

“W..wait…” I stuttered for a moment before I realized I was the last man standing. I’m not getting caught looking stupid twice, I thought to myself, and took off towards home. When I got into the house, I looked at the old family Christmas photo that lived in a red picture frame and hung by the front door, and realized — they’ve never seen my mom or dad. I always referred to Doña Colombia as “The Lady” who took care of me. I never pretended she was my mother or my family. I had full faith my mom was coming home, even though I didn’t know how long it would take.

I don’t recall if I actually said anything in the childish argument, but it felt like this girl [we’ll call her Julie although she’s much more Dominican than that] had been holding on to this juicy bit of information and finally found the opportunity to say it out loud… and to my face. She was the most popular girl in school (meaning all the boys liked her) and thought she might have a chance bullying me.

Another time, Julie and her bestie [we’ll call her] Victoria cornered me to ask me if my Timberlands were real — they were not, they were from PayLess. I balled my fists tight as I could and responded, “Yes,” without breaking eye contact. Silently, they both stepped back, turned around, and walked away. Later on, I would become friends with these girls (reminder, I’m barely 8 at this time) but these interactions would stick with me for the rest of my life.

I never wore the fake Timberlands again but my mom did. For years, she shoveled Rhode Island snow in those thin, pleather boots. Instead of being grateful, I asked my mom if we would have Christmas that year. She replied with a “maybe”, which I translated to, “No”. As I pause and reflect on little me, it breaks my heart that I knew to ask. It breaks my heart that my mom felt she had to answer me (semi) honestly. I was so busy trying to understand the world on my own that I couldn’t see anything from my mom’s perspective. It took me a long time to put myself into her worn, tired, and scared shoes.

• • • 

That Christmas, my mother was deported for the first time. She asked for time to get herself and her family together… but she never left. Instead, she arranged places to live and hide with family and friends. For a while, she shared a bedroom with Doña Colombia. When I was 10, she faced her shame, reconnected with family, and lived in my Tio Marino’s attic. That Christmas (and for many to follow), my mom put toys on layaway early and paid them off slowly. She let me pick them out… I think she was trying to make up for… everything. I mostly picked out Barbie dolls, and I always got those. One time, I asked for a Barbie Jeep but she couldn’t keep up with the payments and I never got that.

“Navidad es cualquier dia que un tiene dinero en su bolsillo,” is a saying we’ve taken from my great-grandfather — translated it means,Christmas is any day you have money in your pocket. Joaquin Fung was a determined man from Canton, China who married a woman from Dominica, Providencia Lawrence, and together they were raising children and grandchildren in the Dominican Republic. They opened a restaurant by buying rice and meat on credit and paying it all back. My mother was their first grandchild, from their first-born son. What they taught my mother was character, and that is what she has passed down to me.

• • •

By the age of 10, I wanted my own job with my own money and would literally cry about it. My mom thinks it’s funny and adorable, but I just knew we were poor. We’ve never exchanged expensive gifts or fully filled the bottom of the tree with things that were just for us. When my mom lived in Tio Marino’s attic, my Tias would come in with trash bags full of toys from the dollar store for the little kids and socks (my fav gift of all time) for the teenagers. I got my first job when I was 13. Decades later, I still look forward to new socks for Christmas. New house slippers make me feel like a Queen.

During holidays, we have always just been glad to have each other. Holidays at Tio Marino’s would grow to be something we looked forward to… until my brother died on August 14th, 2006, and Tio Marino passed away a few weeks later, on September 1st. Those losses would shake my family to the core, but the hits just kept coming. One of my best friends from high school, Gianni, passed April 3rd 2008, just 2 days after my birthday. Grandpa Pat died in 2012. My cousin, Junior, passed in 2019 and another uncle passed in 2023. While most of my family has recovered… & sometimes I indulge in the beautiful distraction only family can provide… I still prefer a quiet, private holiday.

To me, holidays mean family and time. Not gifts and not matching pajamas. I don’t care what anyone else does or gets. I am absolutely irritated by mass text messages from people who don’t actually give a shit about me or my well being — people I don’t actually miss or who don’t make themselves present enough in my life to be missed. I do not find any joy in spending an hour copying/pasting the same messages or collage photos to a distro list.

Nowadays, people seem to have strong feelings about whether you send a text or reply to theirs. Also seems most of my peers want nothing more than beautifully staged photos that wipe away the year’s misery like the Wizard of Oz. I prefer to disappear during the holidays. I refuse for anyone to claim friendship with me because we text ‘Merry Christmas’, ‘Happy New Year’ or ‘Happy Birthday’.

Even if I am breaking all social-norm rules, I’m okay with disappointing people on Christmas by not sending or responding to their messages. I think people need a reminder to mind their own business, be with their own families and leave people alone every once in a while. I don’t know when holidays became the perfect time to reconnect with strangers or people you haven’t spoken to all year.

What I want for Christmas more and more, every year is peace & quiet. Not attention nor obligation. I prefer people who are understanding of my need for space and time, particularly during this season. I don’t actually don’t think too many people will understand, no matter how much I try to explain. I really don’t need Christmas, but when it does come, what I need is space. But just like I don’t need gifts or text messages, I realize I also do not need understanding.