Juliet Takes a Breath (2 page)

“We apologize for the inconvenience,” said the automated, white, male robot voice used by the MTA to assure us that they feel our pain. Cop-outs, bullshit, I just wanted to get home. I was leaving that night for Portland, Oregon, and I still had to finish the mix tape I was making for my girlfriend, Lainie, who was already away at her internship with the College Democrats of America. I still had to pack, shower, get ready for my goodbye dinner, come out to my family, and then hopefully still be able to hug my mom so hard that I could feel her on my skin for the whole summer. I didn't have time for traffic to be stalled.

“Seven times three is 21, seven times four is 28.” Across from me, a young girl and her mom, both wearing bandana dresses and headwraps, reviewed times table flash cards. Three dudes stood in the doorway. They bragged about their conquests over “some bitches from last night.” When boys talked, it sounded like feral dogs barking. They fiended for attention, were always aggressive, and made me wish I could put them down.

I pulled out my worn copy of
Raging Flower
, a nonfiction book about the almighty power of the
punani
, written by Harlowe Brisbane.
Raging Flower
pushed my senses into overdrive. Every part of my body felt inflamed, alert, full of the burning awareness of Eve. All of a sudden I was given access to information that I'd been shielded from my whole life. Within the pages of
Raging Flower
, I learned that tampons are dipped in bleach and evil, that no man should ever be allowed to tell me what to do with my body, and that I should take a mirror and look at my vulva. Like, look all in between the folds and, oh my god, what an afternoon that was. Weird at first, but afterwards it felt like a barrier between me and my body had been breached by an investigation, a peaceful protest.

So I emailed Harlowe Brisbane. I told Harlowe things that my mom didn't know about me. And she wrote me back. She offered me a summer internship as her research assistant and a place to stay in her home in Portland, Oregon. I cried, happy holy-shit tears, knowing that for a few weeks, I'd get the hell out of the Bronx and dive into whatever hippie world Harlowe Brisbane came from.

Still stuck in between stations, I re-read the passage that gave me life on a day when I felt so stuck in myself, in my closeted, privileged, no-risk-taking self:

 

You must walk in this world with the spirit of a ferocious cunt. Express your emotions. Believe that the universe came from your flesh. Own your power, own your connection to Mother Earth. Howl at the moon, bare your teeth, and be a goddamn wolf.

 

Ferocious cunt. I circled that phrase in neon purple ink. Was I a ferocious cunt? The next night, I'd be in Harlowe's home, not on the train in the Bronx. I planned my escape—chose to come out and run off into the night. What kind of wolf did that make me?

I needed air. I wasn't ashamed of myself. I wasn't ashamed of being in love with the cutest girl on the planet, but my family was my world and my mom was the gravitational pull that kept me stuck to this Earth. What would happen if she let me go? Would my family remain planted to terra firma while I spiraled out and away into the abyss?

We all lurched a little. “Nine times five is 45. Nine times six is 56.” The mother and daughter duo beside me packed up their flash cards and led the way off the train. The train doors closed with a high pitched, two-note signal.

At the corner of 238th Street and White Plains Road in the Bronx, the #5 and #2 trains split ways. I got off the train and stood on the corner of 238th and White Plains Road, staring at the fork between the elevated train tracks. A bent, metal, corroded rainbow, it curved above and beckoned the #5 train in another direction, away from Mount Vernon and into the unknown. But nothing likes to be split in half and that feeling echoed from the train tracks. When the #5 train hit that bend, sparks flew out and landed like mini-meteors onto the sidewalk. The wheels ground hard, metal on metal, and sent out a screech: a torturous yell that could be heard for miles. The sound shredded the fibers of my bones. I felt it in my cavities, heard it in my daydreams. When something splits apart, the whole world needs to know about it, and the only sound that suffices is a wail in the night.

I made a left after Paisano's Pizza Shop and watched the sun set over the neighborhood. Black and brown bodies were in full motion. A solid line of people shuffled in and out of the liquor store. It was owned by Mrs. Li. She sent flowers to my Uncle Ramon's wake when he died two years ago from cirrhosis. Jamaican men stood in zigzag patterns on the block, shouting “Taxi, miss?” No insurance, some without a license, but damn if they didn't get a person where they needed to go. Sirens sounded as ambulances rushed to the nearest emergency to transport the bloody and wounded off to Our Lady of Sacrifice hospital. The block was never silent. We lived loud and hard against a neighborhood built to contain us. We moved like the earth pushing its way through cement sidewalks.

I pulled a dollar out of my pocket. “Robert,” I said to the man crouched in between the liquor store and Paisano's. He didn't move. Jacket over his head, he stood still as death. Robert existed in a plume of crystal white smoke. “Robert,” I said again, louder. The jacket shifted, his wide brown eyes peered out from the sleeve.

“Hey ma,” Robert said, not-blinking. I put the dollar in his coat pocket. He nodded thanks and pulled the jacket back over his head. I didn't know how else to reach out to this man who's been smoking crack in between the same two buildings for almost 20 years. Even on Christmas morning, he stood like a sentry dedicated to crack rock. I've asked him if he needs anything. All he ever asked for was a dollar. That was our relationship. Past his smoke spot, past the row of cab drivers, past the 17-year-old prostitutes and their 18-year-old pimps and I was almost home. My cell phone buzzed in my back pocket. Mom.

“Nena, pick up some recao, cilantro, and tomato sauce. Oh, and something sweet. I love you,” Mom said, shouting into the phone. In her mind, her shout was the softest indoor voice; good luck to whoever said otherwise. I held the phone away from my ear instead of ever telling her that she was, in fact, shouting.

The Imperial Supermarket never had fresh fruits or vegetables. Every package of meat had a greyish tint to it. Everything in that place was mad suspect, but it was the only market we had within walking distance from the house. The group of bro-dudes from the train passed me in the canned vegetable aisle and one of them said, “Hey, mami, you lookin' good. What's up with your number”?

I didn't answer him. I focused on the can of 65-cent tomato sauce in my hands. The boys stared directly into my skin. Their eyes were on the seams of my dark blue jeans. I felt them unhooking my bra with their gaze. Every way this group of man/boys could possibly assault me flashed through my head. I backed up further as they formed a semicircle around me.

“I
said
you lookin' mad good. What's up, you too good to say hello?” he asked. His cheap, tattoo-party tattoos showed from beneath his beater T: A lion on his right arm, a crucifix on the left, and the name “Joselys” across his neck.

“Hi, I'm gay and I'm not interested.” My cheeks flushed bright red, I couldn't breathe. Why did I say that? Jesus. I gripped the can of tomato sauce. With fluorescent lights above me, stained white tiles under my feet, and a circle of machismo incarnate around me, where was the space to run?

“That's a damn shame. Maybe you just need that good D, like the one I got,” he said as he grabbed his crotch. He gave himself a good up and down stroke, staring directly at me. All his boys gave him a pound. They laughed, salivated, and tightened their circle. A woman with a stroller pushed past their group and caused them to break formation. Tomato sauce in hand, I bolted, got the rest of the items Mom needed and headed for the checkout line. His words and gestures covered me in shame, like maybe it was my fault. I left the house that morning wearing tight Baby Phat jeans and a denim halter top that was maybe half a size too small but made my breasts look amazing. At 5'3, 165 pounds, I had all my short, brown, and thick on display and my curls were loose. I thought I looked cute, maybe too cute. Maybe I should have stuck to cargo shorts and a baggy T-shirt.

My shame seeped into a frothing rage. The type of rage that can't be let out because then you'd be that crazy chick that killed three dudes in the bodega and no one would even light a damn candle for you. I wondered what dudes like them really expected of girls like me in those situations? Like, did they want me to drop to my knees in the middle of the supermarket and orally worship their Ds? I prayed that La Virgen would get me out of the hood forever.

I'd never said I was gay out loud to anyone I didn't know. What was happening? Was I practicing? God, now those dudes were always going to know me as the dyke on the block. I imagined that they'd be offering me their “Good Ds” forever. I hated that damn Imperial Supermarket. Home, home, just had to get home. Just had to lock the doors behind me and breathe.

My head seemed like the safest place to be most of the time. Maybe that's a bit hyperbolic. I felt safe in my house. Our three-family home on Matilda Avenue was my fortress. It was made of red bricks and cemented together during the 1930's when someone decided that this would be a good neighborhood for families, specifically Jewish ones. My grandma, Amalia Petalda Palante, moved into this house pregnant with my father and married to her third husband, my Grandpa Cano, in 1941. They were legit the only Puerto Ricans on the block. Everyone else was either Jewish or Italian-Catholic. But according to her, “
A los Judios y los
Italianos no les importaba que estábamos puertorriqueño
. They cared that we kept quiet and kept the front of our house clean.” I'm sure it didn't hurt that she brought food to her Jewish neighbors on the left and the Italians on the right. Bricks were used to build the house, but it remained standing because of her: because she scrubbed its floors 'til her knuckles bled, because she planted hydrangeas in the front yard as an act of solidarity with her neighbors and because she didn't let anyone tell her that Puerto Ricans couldn't live there.

I climbed the steps to our three-story home and ran into the kitchen. Mom and Grandma Petalda held court over food simmering in
calderos
and
pilones
filled with mashed garlic and spices. I dropped the requested items for
sofrito
onto the counter and kissed them both on the cheeks. They snuggled me. Grandma wore her favorite purple
bata
and wooden
chanclas
. My mother was dressed in loose-fitting blue jeans and a souvenir shirt from our last trip to Miami. They were deep in dinner preparation mode so it was easy to head up to my room. All I wanted to do was finish Lainie's mix tape and be weird with Lil' Melvin, my kid brother, so I didn't mind. I didn't even care that he was already in my room, slobbering over a book and some Twix bars.

“Don't ever be an asshole on the streets. Don't ever tell girls that you wanna grab their bodies or corner them in supermarkets while you touch your junk,” I said, kissing his chubby cheeks. I stole one of his candy bars and ate it to keep the tears away.

“That is uncouth and also, gross, sister. Rabid animals get put down. Those types of heathens should, as well,” Lil' Melvin said, looking up from his Animorphs book. “Glad you're home. Time for you to play me those depressing white lady songs that you're adding to Lainie's tape.” I hugged him tighter than usual and went to work.

I obsessed over which Ani Difranco song to add to Lainie's tape. When we first started dating, I had no idea who Ani DiFranco was. Lainie, shocked to baby-dyke hell, made it her mission to convert me. And yo, it took a lot of work. Ani was crazy white girl shit. Her music evoked images of Irish bagpipes and stray cats howling in heat. Her garbled singing voice made my eyes water and I couldn't ever be sure of what she was singing about. But with enough practice and encouragement from Lainie, I broke down Ani's gay girl code and understood that I too was just a little girl in a training bra trying to figure shit out. Lainie's mix tape needed some Ani. Lots of Ani. Enough Ani to make Lainie think of me all summer long. Five Ani songs in, I added some Queen Latifah, Selena, and TLC for balance. I wrote the names of songs and artists in black sharpie. The mix tape was for her and only her, but I still played Lil' Melvin every song twice. If he approved, he would hold up the Live Long and Prosper sign. If not, he would give me a theatrical thumbs down. The idea of leaving him for a summer made my heart ache.

Lil' Melvin believed in the possibility of humans shifting shape but only into other mammals. He also knew months ago that something dark and sad was brewing inside of me. I cracked one night after a fight with Lainie and told him that she was my girlfriend girlfriend and not just a friend. He put his chubby hand on mine and offered me an unopened package of Twix. It was the best offering of acceptance a 14-year-old boy could provide. He knew tonight was the night I'd planned to let the family know that I was a big old homo. The Animorphs book series entered his life at the right time. A little shape-shifting and fantasy all helped in him being down for me and open to the possibilities of this evening. “You sure about this, sister?”

“It has to be tonight, brother. I'll die if I don't speak up but they'll kill me if I tell them.” I decorated the I's in Lainie's name with black bomb stickers. I'd never made a girl a mix tape before. Lainie was my first girl anything. I'd written a free verse poem about her in the margin of my purple composition notebook. It worked better in pieces, so I used it as love filler for the liner notes of the mix tape.

“I doubt they'll kill you. It's not like Mom and Dad are cyborgs that'll disintegrate you with death rays.” Lil' Melvin slid one Twix bar into his mouth and measured the other. If they weren't the same size, he'd email Mars and complain about their apparent lack of quality control.