I don’t write fiction but writing too much about my life and the people in it is something I don’t like going overboard on either. Naming names makes me cringe. They didn’t ask to be a part of this, this is my story! But I can’t exactly write my stories without including others.
Recently, I had a bad brush with Junior, one of my cousins (well a cousin of my dad’s, who has about 40 of them, at least). In an agitated huff, I started writing a little about my father’s family, trying to sort things out and become more objective, analytical. A lot of them have this old school Bronx-Brooklyn swagger to them, (since that’s where most of them grew up, so… yeah), armed with wiseguy mouths like my dad’s Uncle Wito, who has been compared to Leo Gorcey characters. During one of our (many) big family gatherings when I was little, he made some “crack” at me, causing me to run away, up the pea soup green, carpeted stairs in embarrassed tears. He tried making up for it by cracking more jokes at his expense which caused others around him to laugh. I can’t remember what it was he said exactly, I only remember the crying and running away part on my part. Feeling put down and defenseless because I absolutely had no worthy comeback. No shield, no weapon, no self-deprecating sense of humor. I mean, I was really young, definitely an age you can count with your hand and maybe the other one as well. So since then, I would emotionally prep myself when getting together with that side of the family. These get togethers were always full of loud, outgoing men and women, sharing a passion for recreating entertaining stories for everyone and spewing trivia (usually about movies and singers. And certain sports). Nuyorican Spanglish terms got thrown around here and there as opposed to my mom’s family, whose full fledged Dominican Spanish often went over my head as a child. Eventually with the help of school, friends, boyfriends, and songs, I started grabbing those words from “above” and pulling them down so that I too, could understand, and contribute.
Back to my dad’s side; the wisecracking, lively storytelling Nuyoricans. Junior was always kind, funny, and charming towards me. Once I noticed that my great-grandmother Tita, our matriarch, was talking about how she stored her leftovers. It was all in Spanish and she spoke about it for a long time. I gave Junior a "wow!" look about it, and he understood. He smiled, shrugged, and said "we're Puerto Rican, we always talk about food!" He took part in Tita's food conversation as well as poking fun at it. Whenever a salsa number came on in a family wedding, he'd always ask me for one dance; he who used to see Tito Puente, Eddie Palmieri and Fania All Stars type performers live, back in the day, dancing with me before I really, truly learned the basic steps to salsa.
“I don’t know what I’m doing!” I’d joke on the dance floor, moving in time with the music best I could.
“You’re doing just fine” he’d reassure.
Afterwards he would kiss my hand like a gentleman as his thank you, as if he were taught that that is how you treat a lady, any lady. That was one thing I was able to count on in a wedding until he felt too old and weak to dance anymore.
One of our uncles, my great uncle Raymond, has lung cancer and it’s spreading. So my Titi Janis reached out to a lot of us on facebook to schedule a big conference call in order to plan out our care-giving strategy. Thanks to my faulty cell phone keypad, I misdialed the conference call code by one number. Distracted by my daughter at the time, I realized the mistake about 20 minutes later. I called again, this time paying attention to my screen, ensuring that the correct numbers would appear. I entered the call late, announced my name as the automated voice instructed me to do, but I don’t think I was heard because Junior was talking, informing everyone of what was required and finding out who would be able to help out with what. When the floor was open for questions or feedback, I asked for a recap. Junior asked me who I was and snapped at me for joining in so late. When I tried to explain myself, he didn’t want to hear it and completely talked over me. He then started to act condescending by telling me something we all already knew, “OK you wanna recap? Here’s the thing. Uncle Raymond has lung cancer”, emphasizing the term so that even a late, inconsiderate dimwit like myself could understand. Void of his sweet humor I’ve always counted on, I was besides myself helpless, wounded. I defended myself to no avail. Then I sucked it in, aware not to make this all about me when we were trying to help Uncle Raymond. One of Uncle Wito’s daughters, cousin Alli, stepped in, answering my initial question for my sake, probably taking pity on me and shedding some mercy my way. I called Titi Janis later that night crying. She listened and empathized. She let me know that he was actually late for the call too and explained that he was under a lot of stress having Uncle Raymond move in with them. She said that he indeed has this side to him that’s off putting and has even put her in tears once too, recently. I wanted to know what it was he said but I didn’t want to be a bochinche nor take the focus away from my hurt. I didn’t want to turn this phone call into a “Let’s trash Junior tonight” session either. So after the phone call I wrote Junior a cordial facebook message and gave him my contact info so that I can be included in the care-giving schedule. A few minutes later he called and apologized and we had a brief heart to heart.
In a weird way I'm glad he lashed out and exhibited this side directly to me. Not that I like abuse nor am I a glutton for punishment but it was a wake-up call or reality check that if anything, emphasized that I am family and not a stranger to only be polite to. He unveiled a mask with me and bared his stressed out, rude side. And then I got to understand and forgive. What I take away from this is that inclusion familial, real love inclusion, is so vital in our day to day. And well-being.
