Scandalosa

As the seventh of eleven, my mom had to figure out what her role was in the family. ‘El Cantante’ was already taken by my Tio Mario and my Tia Chayo was already ‘The Model’. Tio Ruben, was ‘The Artist’ and Tia Rosa fue ‘La Mas Major’. After settling into her ninez, my mom by default became ‘The Caretaker’. Helping her brothers get their football pads on, ironing creases into their pants, haciendo mandados for my Ampa (grandpa), Ramon ‘El Remendon’ and picking up a pack of cigarettes for my Mamo (grandma), Maria, ‘La Doña’. So you could imagine her elation when she found out she was pregnant with me and officially stepping into ‘Official Caretaker’ she had prepared her whole life for this and she’ll tell you herself pregnancy and motherhood were things she felt were “so beautiful and couldn’t wait for!”

On July 9th after being in labor for 23 hours, I became her first born. A few weeks later on a hot summer day her and my Mamo had put me down for a nap. They had been arguing in hushed tones at the foot of my crib about hanging a rosary on the railing. My Mamo queria que me soñaba con los angelitos but my mom was afraid I’d grab the rosary and accidentally strangle myself. My Mamo in true ‘Doña’ fashion snuck the rosary onto my crib before she set off back to her own home in Boyle Heights. Back to the home where alongside ‘El Cantante,’ ‘The Model,’ ‘The Artist,’ ‘La Mas Major,’ and all the others my mom learned the extremes at which our emotions as Latinxs exist. Never were we sad, we were morose and we weren’t happy but rather, exuberant. We gasped in spanish when seemingly small things happened and shouted at things we loved. My Mamo taught her the entire embellished emotional spectrum.

She played the radio softly in the kitchen so as not to wake me from my nap as she began preparing dinner for my dad who would be home from teaching summer school soon. She was in love and absolutely elated. Windows wide open, she danced barefoot back and forth between the refrigerator and the stove.

By the time all the fixings were just about done I awoke from my nap babbling. She let me be and when I grew needy began to fuss. My fussing quickly turned to painful crying and into my room she rushed to find my Mamo’s rosary broken and its glass beads strewn about my crib. She did her best to soothe me as she hurriedly gathered the beads. My cries grew harder as she continued gathering and counting the beads with one hand, making sure none were missing, lest I choke on them. With the other hand she cooed and shushed and bounced me on her hip. My cried came to an abrupt stop at the same time realized the crucifix of the rosary was missing.

“She must be choking on it!” she panicked. She did all she had been trained to do as an early childhood educator to clear my airway but still no trace of the crucifix. Panicked and with me in hand, she sprinted down the stairs of our apartment building and through the street towards the fire department at the end of our block.

When she got there she was hysterical and the men on duty were more concerned with her than crying me. Once she explained the situation they checked me out. I was screaming at the top of my lungs and the firefighters moved nonchalantly. When she yelled at them to do something, they explained that if I had indeed had an obstructed airwayI wouldn’t have been able to be crying so loud. They made sure we both were okay and sent us on our way.

My mom, overjoyed and grateful, walked us back home and called my Mamo to tell her the story. Through this incident, and at less than a year old, I began learning how to emote as a Latinx in our family, the same way my mom had learned from my Mamo. The learning has been cyclical and symbiotic, their emotions spark mine and mine, theirs. Its a bond and form of connection that ties me to my own. I carry and share them and their teachings with me every time I feel anything.