My Broken Language

by Quiara Alegría Hudes

  Mom pulled yams from the oven. Burned. She jabbed the hardened molasses with a knife. “Well? There’s two versions of how Big Vic died,” she said. Here we go again. Exactly as I remembered. Ask a question, get a labyrinth.

  “The first is that Guillo, Tía Toña’s husband, had a kept woman back in PR. Guillo thought he was slick, giving her Toña’s empty house like he had property to spare. But that was my papi’s home, not Guillo’s, and everyone in Arecibo knew. My papi had been a respected man. Tía Toña was all set up in Philly so Guillo thought she’d never find out. Pero tu sabes, Boricua news travels fast. A neighbor tracked down Toña’s Philly number, called her and asked, ‘Who’s the lady going in and out your house? Just curious, wanted to make sure it’s not a squatter.’ The neighbor was putting on a polite front, to not embarrass Toña. Bueno, Toña flew back, put the bitch out, threw her stuff in the street, sold the house immediately, and pocketed the take. Not a penny to Guillo. But the HIV was already in his bloodstream.”

  I tried to untangle exactly what mom was saying. Female-to-male HIV transmission is difficult to pull off. When I mentioned this, mom raised an eyebrow: “This woman was a well-known prostitute, a total hussy. She’d probably been infected by multiple partners.” That dubious assertion did not increase the slim occurrences of female-to-male transmission. Mom sniffed my doubt. “I’m telling you what I was told, Quiara. Anyway, Guillo got sick fast. Big Vic, being Guillo and Toña’s only son, moved in with his father and became his caretaker.” The image struck me, it was almost biblical. Big Vic the hustler, the macho, his neck ringed with 24-karat rope, as live-in nurse. Son dressing father’s mosaic wounds. Son bathing father with a damp cloth. Son emptying father’s bedpans. Son repositioning father so bedsores wouldn’t worsen. Guillo’s body becoming the locus of father-son interdependency. “It was early days, no one had heard of AIDS. To most people, it was a gay disease. And Guillo wasn’t gay so it wasn’t AIDS, right?” She shot me a glance. “And even if it was AIDS, which they refused to admit, no one knew about preventative measures. Rubber gloves? Please. That’s opposite of how we learned. We were taught there has to be a laying on of hands. Entonces, many fluids were exchanged. Dressing the sarcoma, emptying urine and feces in the bedpan. Many, many fluids. Big Vic took such good care of his father, Quiara. He never left his side.”

  “I was sure I had made it up somehow. But I was right. Big Vic had AIDS,” I said.

  Mom shrugged and mumbled, “Maybe.” As if her entire explanation had suddenly dissolved. “I’m telling you what I was told, Quiara,” she said. Guillo had died in ’89, Big Vic in ’90. Hardly early days. HIV prevention ads wallpapered the city in those years—mom had done some of the wallpapering herself. Silence Equals Death was the mantra back then. But why prevent transmission of something you don’t have? It’s amazing, how strong our secrets held. Had Guillo even known or had he kept the secret from himself, refusing testing?

  Mom launched into the next version of Big Vic’s death, but I was fatigued by the first. No doubt she had saved the more salacious tale for second. I no longer wanted to hear it. I felt ill, depressed; that rumbling adolescent helplessness came rushing back at forty. “You know Big Vic was a dealer, right? He was associated with a vicious network, the most violent and feared drug ring in Philly, but he was low-level, he didn’t participate in any of that.” Her characterization of Big Vic as some bit player made me nearly laugh the burnt yams out my mouth. Decades later, were we that committed to our fairy tales? As if I hadn’t seen how Vic used to walk el barrio like a goddamned emperor, gold chains stacked, hairline crisp as a hundred-dollar bill, with his girl Monica in fly shades and rhinestone manicures. It didn’t make me love him any less. I could hold the reality of his income and heart in a single glance. Christmas Eves, Big Vic parked outside Abuela’s in a Santa hat, popped the trunk, and let the kids go at it. He could fit half a toy store in his car. “Choose what you want!” and he’d smile as we went to town.

  Mom continued. “So. Big Vic got locked up for some minor offense. One eight ball, they had nothing. It was all a setup. Use the pawn to get the queen. He traded down jail time for info.” She didn’t use the word snitch. “The police knew the ringleader’s name and address. They had been trying to nail this woman for a long time, but their raids came up empty. But Big Vic knew where the stash was.” Mom’s voice grew animated, she started laughing through the tale. “So, in bust the cops, storming the woman’s house, and they head straight for her altar. She’s like, ‘No, por favor! Anywhere but there! You can’t touch the Orisha!’ They lift the lid of her Obatalá sopera, which you can never do, you must never open an Orisha like that! And what do they see? A mountain of eight balls. Just like Big Vic told them! The woman made a whole scene about it. ‘Ay, that’s cascarilla! Ay, that’s ceremonial chalk!’ ” Mom was cracking up now. “Coño, you gotta admire the creativity, meng! Only en el barrio, tontería como así! Entonces, once she was locked up, Big Vic knew. His days were numbered, they were prepping for war. He went into hiding, got more elekes for protection. But her associates were into the dark arts.” She said “the dark arts” like a gat dang movie trailer. “They found the kind of Palero who, for the right price, would kill a guy. The curse they chose has a very high success rate. You drain a person’s blood, spiritually speaking, and give him a certain amount of days to live.” She muttered what the number of days was, but I was pissed and had shut down. Was she really telling me Big Vic was jinxed to death? “I know you don’t believe in that stuff,” mom said. “But there’s a lot you don’t understand, Quiara.”

  “Whichever version you believe, he went quick. It took him fast.” That much I remembered. On Memorial Day he was strutting through el barrio, a blinged-out T-rex. By Christmas it looked like a hatchet was stuck in his neck, that’s how far his Adam’s apple protruded. Knees so knobby the cane hardly kept him upright.

  We placed the gravy and cranberry sauce on the table. Called the kids in from the TV room. Time was approaching to say our thanks.

  Possession’s Voice

  There was a turtle in my bathtub.

  “Can we get a terrarium?” I asked. When mom didn’t answer, I followed up. “Is he a pet?”

  “Don’t get too attached,” she said. “Don’t name him.”

  For a week the turtle and I exchanged glances. He was suspicious of my power, I of his fate. Out of our mutual distrust, a strange camaraderie emerged. A shared perplexity at our divergent lives in unexpected juncture. A week into his stay I lifted him from the tub. He hissed and retracted, a sharp claw grazing my wrist. It startled more than hurt, but I dropped him and he hit the tub with a bang. I cursed mom and tried again, this time holding his shell at the midsection, my grip more assured. I set him on the floor gently. Soon his head poked out, he cautioned a step. Then he was off. Darting beneath my bed, lumbering into the closet and out again, looping around the brass legs of my nightstand. He could’ve beat the hare by a length—a turtle in a rush is a marvel to behold. His relief was mine, too. His knobby legs and cumbersome torso made the sprint admirably ridiculous. The poor creature was hardly capable of walking on the tub’s slick linoleum. Now he reveled in the friction and grip of my bedroom floor.

  * * *

  —

  The turtle kept being in the tub. The length of his stay kept surprising me.

  When high school friends came over and used my bathroom, they emerged quickly, spooked. “Were you gonna mention the turtle?”

  “Oops, sorry. Our terrarium tipped over and shattered.”

  “Where do you shower?”

  “In the downstairs tub.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Mom’s directive loomed, gave me pause. “Turtle.”

  “Your turtle’s name is Turtle?” I tried to play it off as ironic, a cheeky meta-name.

  At night he tried scaling the tub’s porcelain walls to his freedom
. Instead his claws merely fluttered, scratched, tapped, and rested. Over and over, driving me mad and then numb. After months of the turtle’s nocturnal clawing, the sleep deprivation had me desk-drooling through dreams all first period. I damned the creature, cursed my mom. I jammed toilet paper into my ears, covered my head with the pillow till I choked on my own exhales.

  Then one afternoon I strode into the kitchen to discover mom hunched over a cutting board and bowl, tugging hard. One hand gripped a half-hollow turtle shell, the other pulled at maroon flesh inside. The bowl was filled with wet raw meat. Mom’s knives were no match for the turtle’s sinuous, belligerent musculature.

  Why was I the kid who knew death like an old knock-knock joke? Why hadn’t the reaper chosen my white friends to toy with? First Guillo then Big Vic then Mary Lou and now the turtle—minus an open casket and undertaker’s stitches. Just reptilian flesh clumped in a mixing bowl.

  That night no sound came from the bathroom. There was no flutter of claws requiring me to blast a tape. The quiet hooked my neck, lassoed my lungs till they breathed shallow. I got up in the dark and walked toward the bathroom. The floorboards creaked beneath me, filling the room with a little bit of sound. I walked in, cold tile beneath my feet, enshrouded in silence once again. The tub loomed, empty and shadowed. A slick sepulcher without its entombed. I sat on the floor, back against the porcelain, and cupped my head in my palms. I owed the creature that much. A few hours of night watch, a few hours too late.

  I forced myself to stay there all night, trying to pinpoint the start of mom’s Philly awakening. When had the altars appeared in our living room? When had she allowed god to flood her days once again, or been initiated into what laypeople and horror flicks called Santería? Why hadn’t she invited me to reprise my role as witness, an honor I had savored out on the horse farm? It was not forbidden that I watch the toques and bembes, but direct invitations had never been extended. Instead I was told something would be happening downstairs and if I didn’t want to see, best to stay in my room. Here in the city a network of venerable Afro-Caribbean theologists thrived. In a community that looked more like mom, I was no longer needed as ballast.

  When I discovered mom in the kitchen—pure dumb luck—curiosity flooded me. Mom, why a turtle? What’s the significance? Tell me what blessing this is meant to bring. Questions piled up in my closed mouth. But explaining herself, I knew, often required self-diminishment. A concession to a world that kept pointing fingers.

  * * *

  —

  There was a goat in the basement. I hopped down the steps, twirling my bike’s U-lock key. My thrift-store Schwinn was a forty-pounder, equal parts red paint and rust. Two speeds only and trash-truck sturdy. I pumped a few squirts of air into the old tires and suddenly felt eyes on me. There stood a goat, plain as day, its head angled inquisitively. A chewed-up strip of Inquirer dangled from its beard. He seemed pleased by my company, as if he’d been expecting me. “A spot of tea?” his keyhole eyes seemed to ask. I backed up the stairs, closed the door gently, and decided the 34 trolley was faster than my Schwinn. “You should have a sleepover tonight,” mom said that afternoon, casually sorting through mail, not glancing my way. Then she added for clarity, “At a friend’s house, not here.” So, I left with a sleeping bag. Returning home the following day, I called out and discovered an empty house. I beelined for the basement door but, gripping the knob, lost my nerve. I wobbled to the sofa and threw myself down, listing my grievances, craving the decency of a goddamned explanation. Eventually I traversed the living room again, turned the knob, tiptoed down. Every bit of hesitance, I thought, might reverse time. But the goat was gone. The newspaper, too. The piss was mopped up and the floor, usually dusty and dull, gleamed.

  * * *

  —

  There was a chicken in the backyard, inside a cage. Its wattle was flaccid as a crushed worm, its beak a sickly pink. I cursed its orange tripod feet, how the toes were coarse and speckled brown. Every detail was one whose demise I must anticipate, unless, of course, I freed the creature. So I would. White feathers thrashed at the cage, whipping up a cloud. Our cement backyard became a snow globe with every flap. I crept toward the cage, studying how to unlatch it without getting pecked. We established a groove, the chicken joining my silence. He fell still. At last I reached out, unhooking the door with a click. Wings now exploded in a whup and a whirl. Feathers burst like backyard fireworks and beak pounded palm with the force of nails. I dashed into the house and darted up the steps all the way to my bathroom, where I slammed the door and cursed on the toilet. The chicken had not broken my skin, nor had I freed it.

  That night I was determined to watch. Was I not complicit? Did I not owe the bird the decency of witness? When its guttural plea pierced the house, I raced down the stairs in time to see the bird suspended by its legs, jerking wildly, then falling limp. Its blood ribboned out, a molasses stream, into a dish. Death’s hush came quick and a metallic whiff of blood flew at me. I crouched at the first bend in the stairwell, out of view. Limbs afire, tears cutting. Strong hand over mouth, I remained undetected as spit gurgled through my fingers and fell in pendulums. So now the tears came. For a bird. When I hadn’t needed a Kleenex for my cousins’ funerals. Nice, Quiara.

  Eventually the tears grew bored with themselves. Still, I watched. Even as I disavowed this Lukumí offering, thick was my compulsion to see what scared me the most. Was it god I feared? Or my implicit connection to mom’s spirits, my single degree of separation? This numinous impulse was rooted in her at birth. She had entrusted me with tales of her five-year-old visions. Was I an heir, too? Were mom’s ceremonies lurking, dormant, in my marrow?

  * * *

  —

  Mom did entrust me with some menial tasks, which I executed dutifully. Monday mornings, I was to place espresso at the feet of Eleguá, who lived near the front door. I returned last week’s demitasse to the kitchen for washing. When mom cooked, the first plate was piled high until beans pooled at the edge. “The Orisha eat first,” she said, handing me the feast. I carried it to the sunroom, where the soperas lived. There I stood in awe of the majestic altar mom had built. Halved oranges covered with honey and cinnamon for Oshun, an indigo urn housing Olokun’s secrets, for Changó a red crown and mahogany axe. Babalú Aye leaned on a crutch—his woeful, pathetic eyes offering me kindness. La Caridad del Cobre was a Brown virgen atop ocean foam, waves cresting at her ankles, multihued cherubs hovering at her crown. Hills of fruit were arranged on the floor, while rattles, brass bells, and coconut shells mingled on various perches. In English the word was altar but in Spanish the word was throne. At the foot of el trono, I placed the dinner plate.

  On occasion, I was the recipient of blessings and protections. When my depression raged until mom feared I’d hurt myself, baños y limpiezas were prepared. She mixed flower petals, oils, powders, and perfumes into water, praying over the swirling bowlful. Or she brought me to revered elders, where I’d step into unfamiliar bathtubs to receive cleansings. They would tip the large mixing bowl over my head, and the downward cascade would wash away bad energy. The baños reminded me of mom’s old shiatsu massages with eucalyptus oil. Afterwards, stinking and messy, I savored a dual sense of groundedness and expansiveness. I squeamishly picked flower petals and herbs from my hair, but the patient touch of female elders lingered. Other times mom enlisted me to participate in fruit ebós. Her energy was soft and luminous on these excursions. After driving to Wissahickon Creek and hiking into the woods, we left a sealed brown bag with specially prepared fruit near water’s edge, tucked into a tree’s roots. Another day, during a crowded Odunde procession, we stood on the South Street Bridge and dropped melons into the Schuylkill River, alongside neighbors throwing money, flowers, y miel. That Philly afternoon, aché rained down.

  When mom and I visited elders in Philly’s Lukumí community, I was welcomed into living rooms with grace and warmth. Hands-down the most
diverse spaces of my youth, Benetton would’ve paid top dollar to snap pics. Of mom’s two closest padrinos—both Cuban—one was dark-skinned Black, the other ruddy-cheeked and fair. Ceremonies and celebrations were primarily Black Latino gatherings, with shades of Brown and White present, too. In an African-rooted philosophy and practice, I knew a gringa couldn’t just saunter in, cavalier. Invitations, mom always said, were never to be presumed. But time and again, greeting me at the door of tenements, apartments, and row homes, elders saw my skin and my spirit and told me, entra. With wise eyes, in one soft sustained glance, they seemed to ascertain and warm to my core. I often wondered what did they see and hoped I’d see it one day, too.

  “What’s Ainalode, mom?” I asked her the afternoon I received protective spiritual beads. My clothes and hair were still a bit damp from the limpieza and I slowly pulled slender pompom petals from behind my ears. “Is Ainalode like, god bless you? Is it the same as bendición?” Since all the priests and priestesses there addressed mom with the word, I figured they were bestowing aché or something. “I am Ainalode.” She laughed gently. “Ainalode is me. That’s the name I was given when I was crowned with Changó. Everyone who does santo receives a name.” Aha! So much for my self-diagnosed name amnesia. Previously, she would introduce me to an elder and I’d develop instant anxiety about addressing them, certain I had already forgotten or initially misunderstood their name. I’d hear others calling them something different and shrink into paralysis, cursing my bona fide name-retention disorder. I’d go to all lengths to avoid addressing elders directly and in the rare instance where I had to, I’d use formal awkward Spanish—Don this and Doña that. Now I understood. “So…Tía Toña and Titi Margie. Do they have Ocha names?” I asked. Those were two of mom’s older sisters who were also advanced in the religion. “Yes,” mom said, carefully peeling a tiny flower petal from my clavicle. “Tía Toña is Obanyoko. Titi Margie is Ochalerí.” And she asked me to repeat, checking my pronunciation, as she lifted the shoulder strap of my training bra and pulled a flower bit from beneath it. Her smooth acrylic tips gave me chills as she fished away the petals.