When Billy stole my Play-Doh during recess and used it to artfully mold a green penis, I swung. When Omar followed me home because he had a crush on me, I made him regret it. When Helen said she could hit harder than I could, we spent fifteen minutes of our lunchtime welting each other’s bodies to try and win the argument. And when Javier called my father a “junkie,” I convinced two of my guy friends to hold him down while I placed an actual bucket over his head and repeatedly kicked it. I was getting a bit out of control. It got so bad, teachers started to hear tales of my volatile nature. They couldn’t believe their star student could be living such a double life but decided to give my father a heads-up just in case.
“Do you have any reason to believe April would be prone to violent behavior?” one concerned teacher asked Dad when he picked me up from school.
“Absolutely not. April’s a good girl,” he assured her.
As we walked off school grounds he turned to me and asked, “Did they deserve it?”
For a second I was confused, until I saw that exciting, familiar glow of pride shine from his eyes. “Hell, yeah, they did.” I smiled as Dad held his hand out for a high five.
Growing up, my greatest desire was to be able to breathe. I felt like my world was in perpetual motion, my breath trapped anxiously in my throat. I wanted nothing more than to sit still. Exhale. And rest my tired eyes in that elusive place called home.
My family experienced being evicted almost twenty times. Almost twenty different buildings, twenty different bedrooms, twenty different ceilings when I opened my eyes in the morning. Every time I woke up, I hoped that it had all been a bad dream. That I would get out of bed, open the door, and be inside of a real house. With furniture that wasn’t someone else’s trash. With clothes hanging in a closet instead of preemptively readied in a packed duffel bag. But that hope would never be realized. Instead, every day we lived in fear of having to leave on a moment’s notice. It seemed once a month we would struggle to find the next place to safely sleep. Eventually my parents tired of the struggle and made the decision to move in with Robert’s parents in Rincón, Puerto Rico.
Meeting my grandparents at the age of nine for the first time was a shocking experience. They were unlike any of the city slicker adults from my mother’s side of the family in New Jersey or New York. I had been told they once visited when I was a baby, but any memory of that meeting must have been lost alongside the story my mother likes to tell of baby me pooping in the bathtub and shouting “M&Ms!”
Grandma Anna and Grandpa Jesus were islanders and farmers. Their massive farm in Puerto Rico, over fifty acres of rolling fields, was home to dozens of cows, chickens, roosters, and a two-thousand-pound bull that acted like a puppy. Every morning, with the gentle bull walking beside him, Grandpa Jesus would pick grapefruit off one of the dozen colossal grapefruit trees and gather eggs from the chicken coop. Grandma Anna would hand-squeeze juice and whip up omelets, and the seven of us would eat breakfast together like a cheesy sitcom family. I loved every second of it.
My grandparents were pretty hard-core. The two-floor farmhouse we all shared was built with Grandpa’s very own hands. At seventy years old, he maintained a sprawling farm and preferred to lift cement blocks over his head rather than sit in a rocking chair. Grandma was a stone-cold killer, perfectly exemplified by the day she found out one of her roosters had roamed over to a neighbor’s farm. Taking this as the ultimate sign of betrayal, Grandma walked him the half mile back home, holding on to his feet and completely ignoring his blood-drawing pecks at her hands. “You never betray a Mendez woman” she instructed me in broken English and proceeded to chop his head off with a machete. I wish she would’ve also instructed me to look away. We had rooster for dinner that night, and I decided I would stop naming the farm animals. Poor “Home Boy” never saw it coming. Coincidentally, I would be a vegetarian for the next thirteen years, but at least I had learned a snappy catchphrase and a swift solution to disloyalty that would terrify all future boyfriends.
Dad promised this move was only temporary until he could get some money together, but I was in no rush. Life in Puerto Rico was magical. A video rental store in town had a Cruisin’ World arcade game, and my grandparents had a seemingly endless supply of quarters. Robbie saved up his quarters to buy Mortal Kombat 3 and Samurai Showdown, and we lost hours in those games delivering brutal deaths to each other.
When I wasn’t gaming, I actually enjoyed going to school, mostly because of the dress code. Our new school required us to wear uniforms. For once it was normal and accepted to wear the same few items of clothing every day. And I look pretty rad in plaid.
Each morning I would secretly climb the farm’s trees with Robbie and Erica in tow. When I would inevitably fall into a red ant hill, and require about a hundred spots of calamine lotion all over my ravaged legs, the secret was out. But that didn’t stop me from continuing to play the role of Tarzan every day. Having spent all my years in concrete jungles, I was simply astounded by the majestic, lush trees in actual nature. I couldn’t believe anything that wasn’t man-made could ever be so tall. In the afternoons I would scour the pea plants for rotted pods that were bound to be inhabited by beautifully colored caterpillars. I would collect a rainbow’s assortment of the sticky bugs and line them up on my dresser, giving each a name and backstory. “Cher lives with Dion and their best friends are Kitana and Mileena…son of a bitch, that lizard is eating all of them! It’s a massacre!” I was learning about the circle of life pretty hard and fast.
Every night I would lie on the cool cement of the front yard and stare up at the sparkling sky. I had read about light pollution in my science textbooks, but it was hard to believe there were millions of stars hidden to us busy city dwellers. Here, in the miles of open fields and farmland, the dark sky glittered with diamonds. Every night I was joined in my stargazing by three stinky, transient dogs: Bobby, an all-white twenty-pound pit bull mix; Pitusa, a miniature pinscher mix named for a local furniture store; and Leal, a monstrous part dog, part Clydesdale whose name fittingly meant “loyal” in Spanish. Grandma had taken in the strays a long time ago and converted them to faithful farm dogs. They would wander from home, exploring the hills of Rincón, but would never travel too far. She would cook bowls of chicken just for the pups and let them sleep inside on cool nights. I wondered if that was how she saw us. Another clan of dirty strays she had rescued. It was in this shared dependency on the kindness of a practical stranger that I came to understand the little mutts. We all could use a good bath, and our ribs protruded a little from lack of nutrition. We were all wary of our surroundings, wondering when the rug would be pulled out from under us, forcing us to find a new place to rest our heads. But we were all so appreciative, so content to have the simplest comfort and sanctuary for as long as we could. We were rough around the edges, but that didn’t make us worthless. Being a little damaged does not make someone broken. It just means they have better stories to tell and cooler scars. It was here, lying among ants on the dirty slab of concrete, that I found my soul mates. My furry, stinky soul mates. This was true happiness.
And that is why it absolutely broke my heart to learn we would be leaving Puerto Rico. After a short time, my parents had grown bored with the monotony, with the comfortable predictability of farm life. Wild horses would rather take the risk of running free than live in the safety of confinement. At the time, I couldn’t understand this. I relished boredom. I lived for uneventful days of calm bliss. I did not confuse drama and chaos for passion and adventure. And I had dogs, dammit! Big, beautiful, loyal dogs that seemed to enjoy my company more than any human friend ever did. Leaving Puerto Rico felt like being ripped away from my first real [animal] friends, my first sense of peace, and my first real home. What were they rushing back for? And more importantly, what would be different for us this time around?
ANYWHERE BUT HERE
After six months in Puerto Rico, we moved back to New Jersey in the winter, I assume to make the transition
as painful as possible. Walking through bustling, crowded streets was a stark contrast to the tranquil isolation I had become accustomed to on the island. But I was determined to make the best of it. We still had our Sega Genesis, and I tried to re-create the bloody magic. “Let’s see if we can beat Shao Kahn with Sindel this time! I bet she’s pissed at him for bringing her back from the dead.” I tried to pitch a gaming session to Robbie, but he wasn’t having it. “We already beat the game ten times. Let it go.” Robbie wasn’t taking the return to the city well either. He too had trepidations about our parents adjusting to paying bills again, and he seemed to wistfully pine for the island’s adventures. “I’m going for a walk,” he said as he snuck out of our new, empty apartment. Erica and I tagged along. We had all gone on numerous walks together through the mountainous roads of Rincón, catching bugs and feeding stray dogs along the way. I was sure we could find some sort of similar escapades on the Jersey sidewalks.
About ten minutes into our excursion we were almost run over. The car, speeding out of a McDonald’s parking lot, honked at us for getting in its way. While a stream of expletives flew out of Robbie’s mouth, Erica noticed a gray cat at the far end of the lot. “Do you see that? That poor baby!”
“What is it doing out here all alone? It’s so cold out!” I was not yet familiar with the concept of resilient stray city cats. To me this was a Bobby or a Pitusa, just waiting for a kind stranger to take her in.
“Let’s take her home! We’ll hide her under the bed for a couple of days so we can prove Ma is faking when she says she’s allergic.” This plan seemed foolproof. Robbie finally found something that excited him, we were about to have an awesome new pet friend, and we were about to get a solid burn on our mother. It was a good day.
Carrying the chubby cat inside of his jacket, Robbie successfully snuck her past Dad, who was on his way outside for a smoke. Now we just had to figure out how to get her into the apartment without Ma noticing. His arms having grown tired from smuggling a wriggling cat inside of his clothes, Robbie placed her down in the building’s main vestibule. “What do we name her?” he asked the group.
“How do we even know it’s a her?” I pondered.
“I didn’t see a cat dick,” Robbie responded.
“Eww, don’t say dick,” I yelled.
“It’s called a penis,” Erica helpfully chimed in.
“Eww, that sounds even worse!” I yelled again.
The cat began to nervously pace around the tiny, enclosed foyer.
“You need to grow up,” Robbie mocked.
“You’re thirteen!” I mocked back.
“You both need to shut up and name the damn cat,” Erica helpfully chimed in again.
The cat gently pawed at the glass door.
“What about Bobby II?” I was a genius.
“That’s the dumbest fucking idea of all time.” Robbie was mean.
The cat aggressively pawed at the glass door.
“How about Bobbi with an ‘i’? That’ll make it a girl’s name.” Erica was on a roll.
The cat backed up and then ran full speed at the glass door. Its tiny cat skull made a loud wallop upon contact.
“You guys are both so stupid she’s trying to kill herself to get away from you!” Robbie had enough. He reached down to try and pick Bobb(y? i?) back up into his arms, when she surprisingly turned to face him, springing onto her hind legs. Making a hiss that would frighten a boa constrictor, she exposed her claws. The cat swiped at the air like Baraka performing a combo. Her tiny, scary paws viciously sliced through the air as fast as she could move them.
“She’s trying to kill us!” Erica screamed as we all simultaneously flattened against the claustrophobic room’s walls.
“We just wanted to help, you ungrateful dick!” Robbie yelled as she swiped in all our directions. She was a blender’s blades, and we were the food desperately clinging to the sides of the plastic. We were going to be a bitch to clean off. Inching along the wall, he managed to reach the entrance’s door handle and push it open. The cat darted out, and presumably would’ve flipped us off if her little cat paws were capable. I quietly looked around in astonishment. Oh, is that how it’s gonna be, New Jersey? I see you. Clearly, our transition back to civilization was going to be rougher than I thought. What we needed was a way to ease that transition. What we needed was a pet. Preferably one who wouldn’t kill us.
—
Admittedly, during this time, my dad had his faults. I wasn’t sure if being impetuous enough to move us away from his parents and a guaranteed roof over our heads was one of these faults, or if it was a brave, independent choice that should be admired. But what I know for sure is his most admirable quality is his love for animals. I feel like his devotion to all things furry and feathered was somehow passed down in my DNA. While others see pigeons as flying disease-ridden rats, he is the kind of guy who finds one flying low to the ground, notices it has an injured foot, and takes it home to nurse it back to health. He even converted an eyedropper into a baby bottle to feed it water. When our own parakeets, Rocky and Cindy, were on their way out to that great big birdcage in the sky, he improvised cribs out of shoeboxes, so they would have a comfortable place to spend their final days. One apartment we lived in had a fenced-in parking space behind it. When I came home one evening, I found a minihorse wandering inside of it and damn near crapped my pants. “Why is there a horse out back?! And who shrunk it?” I asked, bewildered. “He just needs somewhere to stay for a few days,” Dad calmly explained while really explaining nothing at all. Dad’s love for animals far exceeded his means to properly take care of them, but his heart was always in the right place.
Dad’s greatest soft spot is for dogs. Any pup could turn the burly, tough guy into mush. If he saw a stray dog wandering the streets, he would find a way to scrounge up some food scraps for it. Several times he would open our home to pit bulls who needed to be fostered for a few months. Even though we didn’t have much in the way of food or square footage, he found a way to share it with animals in need. On one trip into Manhattan to score some drugs, he found out his dealer was participating in illegal dogfights. The dealer introduced him to a pit bull puppy he was planning on raising and training to participate in the brutal, unconscionable bouts. Appalled and heartbroken, my dad immediately offered the asshole fifty dollars to take the dog home with him. Hungry for cash, he quickly accepted, and a sixth member officially joined the Mendez family.
Mugsy Mendez was a chubby little guy with a giant melon head, a black-and-white-tuxedo-patterned coat, and a white stripe running down the center of his forehead, nose, and chin. We called it his racing stripe. He was the first puppy I’d ever had, and he was an adorable, chaotic handful. At first he terrified me. His penchant to nibble at exposed toes would cause us to warily wear sneakers at all times, even immediately after stepping out of the shower. You never knew where or when he would pop up and snack on your feet. He had boundless energy. One afternoon I brought home a handful of schoolmates to show off my new pup, and he spent a whole forty minutes chasing all five screaming kids in a circle.
But eventually his undeniable cuteness wore me down. I had missed cuddling with Bobby, Pitusa, and Leal and it was as if little Mugsy could sense that. His first week at home, while I sat cross-legged on the floor doing my homework, he gently crawled into my lap. He curled into a small, cuddly ball and was snoring in ten seconds flat. I stared at the warm, precious soul making piglet noises. All snuggled up, trusting in the safety of my lap. In an instant, I fell head over heels in love. I thought of the life that was originally laid out in front of him, a life of violence and pain—a life my dad had saved him from ever being forced to live. How could any human with a functioning brain and heart ever think of being so cruel to something with so much trust and unconditional love to give? I stroked Mugsy’s velvet smooth fur and silently promised to protect him from pain for the rest of his life. I had heard a song on TV a few hours earlier, and in this moment it popped back in
to my head. As I caressed the sleeping pup I sang,
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
You make me happy when skies are gray.
You’ll never know dear, how much I love you.
Please don’t take my sunshine away.”
Mugsy viciously cuddling me and Eri. Also Exhibit A that I am a starfish sleeper.
Mugsy snored in approval. For the next fifteen years, this would be our special lullaby.
Another quality I truly admire in my father is his ability to treat every human as equal. I always wondered how every person in the neighborhood knew his name and would joyfully greet him as he passed by. Even the homeless, huddled in an abandoned convenience store’s entranceway, would wave and shout out “What’s up, Rob?” as we walked the street. He would always tell me to smile and greet them back. They would occasionally loiter around our apartment building, waiting until he came outside to smoke. If he had a spare dollar, they knew he would give it to them. And if not, he would at least always gift them with a lit cigarette. Like most kids who hide a parent’s carton of cigs in a microwave, I loathed the fact that my dad smoked. I resented anything that could possibly hurt him and take him away from me. But the fact that he would try and make sure there was at least one extra smoke in the pack in case one of his displaced acquaintances asked for it was possibly the most adorably generous action I have ever seen in my life. Robert Mendez can really have a heart of gold when he wants to. He would talk to a bum on the street in the exact same manner he would the president of the United States. It’s just who he naturally is. It’s who we should all be. No one is less human than anyone else. It was an invaluable lesson I took with me throughout my life. The president of any corporation I’ve worked for gets the exact same smile and greeting as the janitor who mops the building’s floors. Do me a personal favor and try this in your life. You have no idea how much it’ll mean to someone who too often feels invisible. Everyone just wants to feel seen.
Crazy Is My Superpower: How I Triumphed by Breaking Bones, Breaking Hearts, and Breaking the Rules Page 4
