Ordinary Girls

by Jaquira Díaz

  All these years later, I’ll be back on that dance floor. I will be swaying and the music will fill me and I will be a girl again. My friends will be there, and we’ll dance all night, one song after another, and we will be laughing and laughing in each others’ arms. I will be thirteen again, or fourteen, or twenty-six, or thirty, breath and rhythm, everyone awkward and ridiculous and perfect. We will be young, we will be alive, and I will be deeply grateful for these friends. I will know that I was lucky to find them, the kind of friends who bring you halfway across the world, who fly with you to Puerto Rico, who hold you at your grandmother’s funeral, who invite you into their home, invite you into their families, take care of you, check on you, fight for you, who make you want to be better, who give you their time and attention, share their secrets, their dreams, their communities, who show up, who see you, who hear you calling from hundreds of miles away, and slowly, slowly, love you back to life.

  Ordinary Girls

  Sometimes in dreams, I return to those places where we spent our childhoods, where we started our lives, where we dreamed of being women. Sometimes I can see us: girls walking down Lincoln Road in their Halloween costumes, ballerinas and punk rockers and brides of Frankenstein; girls twisting and twirling each other on the dance floor at the Miami Beach Community Center on Ocean Drive; girls chasing each other on the PE field at Fisher; girls fighting at the bus stop across from Nautilus Middle School. And sometimes it’s just me: a girl holding her father’s hand in the Ciales town square, a girl reading her father’s books, a girl running her fingers over moriviví.

  We’re not girls anymore. We are women now. China is a medical assistant in a cosmetic surgery clinic, and a single mother, raising three kids on her own. Boogie is a nurse, her kids already grown. Shorty is the general manager of a resort in the Florida Keys. Flaca is an executive assistant at real estate firm.

  But some of us didn’t make it: Beba. Chanty. I think of them almost every day. I carry them with me, their smiles, their loud as fuck laughter rising above the bleachers in the school gym, the way they dove into the pool and made a splash that was larger than our entire group. The way Chanty’s nostrils flared when she smiled. Beba always turning something into a cartoon.

  This is who I write about and who I write for. For the girls they were, for the girl I was, for girls everywhere who are just like we used to be. For the black and brown girls. For the girls on the merry-go-round making the world spin. For the wild girls and the party girls, the loudmouths and troublemakers. For the girls who are angry and lost. For the girls who never saw themselves in books. For the girls who love other girls, sometimes in secret. For the girls who believe in monsters. For the girls on the edge who are ready to fly. For the ordinary girls. For all the girls who broke my heart. And their mothers. And their daughters. And if I could reach back through time and space to that girl I was, to all my girls, I would tell you to take care, to love each other, fight less, dance dance dance until you’re breathless. And goddamn, girl. Live.

  Notes

  1. Page 13: Nelson A. Denis, War Against All Puerto Ricans: Revolution and Terror in America’s Colony (New York: Nation Books, 2015).

  2. Page 186, 188: “Lightning in our limbs.” From John Murillo’s “Renegades of Funk” in Up Jump the Boogie.

  3. Page 187: “We knew nothing but what eyes could see.” From John Murillo’s “Renegades of Funk” in Up Jump the Boogie (New York: Cypher Books, 2010).

  4. Page 188: “All of us.” From T Kira Madden’s “The Feels of Love” in Guernica (December 12, 2016).

  Acknowledgments

  First, foremost, always: Abuela. A black Puerto Rican woman raised me, loved me, carried me all those years. Carries me still. Te quiero y te adoro.

  For your generous support during the years it took to write this book, thank you to the MacDowell Colony, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, the Ragdale Foundation, the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing, Kenyon College and the Kenyon Review, the University of Central Florida Creative Writing Program, the University of South Florida MFA Program in Creative Writing, the Ohio Arts Council, the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, the Tin House Writers’ Workshop, the Center for Women Writers at Salem College, the National Endowment for the Arts, the Hambidge Center for the Creative Arts and Sciences, the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation, the Mrs. Giles Whiting Foundation, the Elizabeth George Foundation, and the Florida Individual Artist Fellowship.

  Thank you to the faculty at University of Wisconsin–Madison’s Program in Creative Writing: Amy Quan Barry, Ron Wallace, Ron Kuka, Amaud Jamaul Johnson, Sean Bishop, Jesse Lee Kercheval, and Judith Claire Mitchell. What a dream it’s been to come back and finish this book in Madison. And thank you to the staff, fellows, and my students. You all are amazing.

  I am so grateful to my agent, the brilliant and wonderful Michelle Brower, who sits down with me every chance she gets and listens to my dreams and then works her ass off to make them come true. I am so lucky to have you. Thank you to my generous editor, Kathy Pories, for her guidance, for listening, and for believing in this book. And huge thanks to all the folks at Algonquin Books who rallied behind this book, especially Lauren Moseley, who heard it and believed in it before it was even a book. And to Michael McKenzie and Carla Bruce-Eddings. Thank you!

  Thank you to the editors and magazines who supported my work, especially Jonathan Franzen and Robert Atwan at The Best American Essays, Celia Johnson and Maria Gagliano at Slice Magazine, Krista Bremer, Molly House, Derek Askey (you were right about Nicki Minaj), and all the folks at The Sun Magazine, Sari Botton at Longreads, Lance Cleland, Michelle Wildgen, Thomas Ross and all the folks at Tin House, The Pushcart Prize Anthology, Dinty Moore, Jessica Reed at the Guardian, Chekwube O. Danladi at Ninth Letter, Dinah Lenney, Cara Blue Adams, the Kenyon Review, Marcia Aldrich, Karl Taro Greenfeld, Ryan Rivas and Shane Hinton at Burrow Press, The Fader, Deesha Philyaw and The Rumpus, T: The NYT Style Magazine, Dr. Ivelisse Rodriguez, Kathie Klarreich, Jennifer Maritza McCauley, Rolling Stone, TriQuarterly, G.C. Waldrep and West Branch, John D’Agata and The Essay Prize at the University of Iowa.

  For your friendship and unconditional support during the darkest times, Margaree Little and Rebecca Seiferle (and Oso!). Thank you, Geeta Kothari, Dr. Clara Román Odio, Dr. Ivonne Garcia, Dr. Sarah Heidt, for all your support. Thank you to the University of Miami, the Miami Book Fair International, the Center for Writing and Literature at Miami Dade College, the Betsy Hotel, Books & Books, Siân Griffiths and Weber State University, YoungArts Foundation, Dana DeGreff, Andrew Boryga and PageSlayers, Write a House, the Notre Dame Arts & Culture Center, Kyle Dacuyan and PEN America, Rosebud Ben-Oni, Nicole Cullen and Mehdi Tavana Okasi, Jill Talbot and the University of North Texas, the Blue Field Writers House in Detroit, Jamie Lyn Smith, Ru Freeman, Nita Noveno, and Sunday Salon, Lilliam Rivera, Kima Jones and the entire Jack Jones Literary Arts team. Thank you, Miami. To the writing teachers and workshop leaders who saw something, even when I didn’t: Douglas Williamson, Cecilia Rodríguez Milanés, Jocelyn Bartkevicius, Terry Ann Thaxton, Dan Wakefield, John Henry Fleming, Rita Ciresi, Ira Sukrungruang, Jo Ann Beard.

  There were so many friends (too many of you to name) who’ve kept me going all these years, during the writing of this book, in ways large and small: Walton Muyumba, for your friendship, for your words, for believing in me. Karen Russell, my Miami hermana, for your warmth and generosity. Sheree Renée Thomas, the world is a better place because of you. Adriana Páramo, for your generosity. Sharon Pinson, Shima Carter, M.J. Fievre, Adeline Oka, Amina Gautier, Anjanette Delgado, Melissa Chadburn, Jonterri Gadson, Joseph Earl Thomas, Yesenia Flores Díaz, Laurie Thomas, Melissa Falcon Field, Angela Palm, Shamala Gallagher, Kimberly Elkins, Tiana Clark, Chaney Kwak, Phillip B. Williams, Rion Amilcar Scott, Chelsea Voulgares, Christina Askounis, Randall Tyrone, Michelle Peñaloza, Kavita Das, Tabitha Blankenbiller, Jeremy Hawkins, Julie Bloemeke, Julia Ridley Smith, Julie A
lpert, Destiny Birdsong, Christina Stoddard, Kateema Lee, Courtney Sender, Doreen Oliver, Elisha Wagman. Thank you, Eric Sasson (Hilarious Ambassador of Gay). The MacDowell Queer Coven, Guinevere Turner, Naomi Jackson, Amy Lam, Melissa Sipin, and Kristin Dombek, who made me dance, laugh, and feel all the human feelings. Patricia Engel and Jennine Capó Crucet, for your Miami stories. We are lucky to have you. Aurielle Lucier, Kimberly Reyes, Erica Anyadike, Rebecca Fisseha, Nicole Sealey, John Murillo, you all made Nairobi and Loita Hills better, so much better. Maaza Mengiste, Marco Navarro, Jenny Zhang, and Gabriel Louis, for the crazy days and nights in Tbilisi and Istanbul. A heartfelt thank you to Luis Alberto Urrea and Cindy Urrea, who helped me see what this book could be, what I could be. And to my Bread Loaf homies, who gave (and continue to give) so much: Jen Choi, Aurvi Sharma, Elena Passarello, Laura Wagner, Casandra Lopez, Katie Moulton, Nick Robinson, and Char Gardner. Thank you. To Vanessa Mártir, for your friendship and encouragement and your light. I can’t wait to see your book in the world. Kenyatta Rogers, for all the hours we’ve spent talking shit and dancing and laughing. Keith S. Wilson, my homie, YA writing partner, best friend. You stole my alien socks. But I forgive you.

  Thank you, T Kira Madden, John Murillo, Sandra Cisneros, Nelson Denis, Audre Lorde, Julia Alvarez, and Karen Russell for your words.

  Lázaro Figueroa. Que en paz descanses.

  Gracias a mi pueblo, y gracias a toda mi gente del caserío. Pa’lante, que Puerto Rico se levanta.

  To my girls, to my family, to Cheito, and all of you I haven’t named, or whose names I’ve changed, for privacy: I’m alive because you loved me. Thank you for trusting me with your lives and your stories. For the good days and bad days, for all the days that were full of joy. Thank you for forgiving me again and again. Sister, I miss you, always. Papi, thank you for the stories. Cheito, you always believed in me, always supported me. Thank you.

  Lars: You gave me skies, torpedo fish, so much music. You are every river, every ocean, stingray, seahorse. Swan and minotaur. Electric. Ultramarine. Every single shade of blue.

  About the Author

  Jaquira Díaz was born in Puerto Rico. Her work has been published in Rolling Stone, the Guardian, Longreads, the Fader, and T: The New York Times Style Magazine, and included in The Best American Essays 2016. She is the recipient of two Pushcart Prizes, an Elizabeth George Foundation grant, and fellowships from the MacDowell Colony, the Kenyon Review, and the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing. She lives in Miami Beach with her partner, the writer Lars Horn.

  Published by

  ALGONQUIN BOOKS OF CHAPEL HILL

  Post Office Box 2225

  Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225

  a division of

  WORKMAN PUBLISHING

  225 Varick Street

  New York, New York 10014

  © 2019 by Jaquira Díaz. All rights reserved.

  Excerpt from “Bien Pretty” by Sandra Cisneros from Woman Hollering Creek. Copyright © 1991 by Sandra Cisneros. Published by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House, New York, and originally in hardcover by Random House, Inc. By permission of Susan Bergholz Literary Services, New York, NY, and Lamy, NM. All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available: https://lccn.loc.gov/2019009593

  eISBN: 9781643750163

  Versions of the preceding stories have previously been published as follows:

  “El Caserío,” as “Malavé,” in the The Los Angeles Review

  “La Otra” in Longreads

  Excerpts of “Monster Story,” as “Baby Lollipops,” in The Sun magazine, and as “Monster Story,” in Ninth Letter

  “Ordinary Girls” in the Kenyon Review and The Best American Essays 2016

  Excerpts of “Fourteen, or How to be a Juvenile Delinquent,” as “Fourteen,” in Passages North, and as “How to be a Juvenile Delinquent,” in Slice Magazine

  Excerpts of “Girls, Monsters,” as “Girls, Monsters,” in Tin House’s Flash Fidelity, and “Season of Risks,” in The Southern Review

  Excerpt of “Beach City,” in Brevity

  “Secrets” in The Southeast Review

  “Mother, Mercy,” as “My Mother and Mercy,” in The Sun magazine

  Excerpts of “Returning,” as “Bus Ride, 1999,” in Juked, as “How Memory Is Written and Rewritten,” in the The Los Angeles Review of Books, as “Inside the Brutal Baby Lollipops Murder Case that Shook South Florida,” in Rolling Stone online, and as “You Do Not Belong Here,” in Kenyon Review Online

  This is a work of nonfiction. But it is also a work of memory. I’ve researched the story to the best of my ability, and in some cases consulted newspaper articles, court documents, and trial transcripts. I’ve changed most of the names and details of friends and family in order to protect their privacy and anonymity. I’ve rendered the events to the best of my recall—this is how I remember things happening.