Josué López, Education
No funcionó porque no funcionó
“Pero ¿por qué no?”
Again with the same questions. I look up at her, and she is standing next to the table, texting away on her new smartphone. I showed her how to text a couple of months ago and now she has the ability to bombard the entire family with messages at all hours. I would wonder how she got so fast at texting, but the answer is obvious: text all the time and eventually you get pretty fast.
She repeats the question, not looking away from her phone. “¿Por qué no?”
I look down at my plate of food so she doesn’t see me roll my eyes in case she looks away from her phone. I take a breath and look back up. “Es que así es la vida,” I answer.
“Ay, no. Es que me llevaba muy bien con ella.” I hear the noise of her putting the phone down on the table. This conversation is always so much easier when she is distracted.
I fill my mouth with more arroz y frijoles, hoping a mouthful of food will keep her from going on. That obviously doesn’t keep her from pushing forward.
“Pero ¿qué pasó? Es que no entiendo.”
I saw her shadow loom over the table as her body leaned forward, and I knew she was expecting an answer this time. I chew just enough to slide down a mouthful of food before speaking. “Ma, es que no funcionó. ¿Qué más quiere que diga?” I go to take another forkful of food, but I don’t. Instead, I play with the food on my plate, suddenly not feeling very hungry.
“Pero mijo, ella es muy buena.”
“Sí, Ma. Es super buena.” I put my fork down.
“Y muy amable.”
“Sí, Ma. Es muy amable.” I take a sip of water.
“Entonces, ¿qué pasó?”
I take a deep breath, finally making eye contact with her. It ap-pears that today she is not going to give up. “Ma, es que no funcionó porque no funcionó. Algunas cosas no se pueden explicar.” I look up at her, hoping we can just stop at the usual intersection of incessant questioning and my modified version of because I said so.
Her expression softens a bit and I can tell that she is not looking at me anymore, but searching in her mind for memories. I hate to think they are memories of her, but I’m sure they are. “Es que a veces uno tiene que luchar por el amor.” Yep, definitely memories of her.
I sigh, not knowing what else to say but knowing the conversation was not over. “Sí, Ma. A veces hay que luchar.”
She ignores my comment and goes on. “Es que ella siempre me saludaba, me llamaba, preguntaba por la familia y cómo estábamos. This time she sighs. “Y era de nuestro idioma, eso es importante. O ¿prefieres una gringa que no hable español?”
I couldn’t help but scoffing, and I immediately broke eye contact. If I was going to be disrespectful, better her not be able to see into my soul. I was just tired of this fight. It had been six months, and every time I came to visit it would result in some compilation of the same questions and comments: “¿cómo está ella?” y “¿has hablado con ella?” y “ayer alguien me llamó de un número privado. ¿Crees que fue ella?” y “fíjate, anoche soñé con ella” y “ay, me hace falta ella.”
What did she want me to say? No sé cómo está, pero la pienso todos los días. No he hablado con ella, pero quisiera hacerlo. No sé si le ha llamado, pero sin duda alguna no me ha llamado a mí. Fíjese, que yo también sueño con ella, todas las noches. And the worst one: Ma, ella me hace falta desde el momento en que suena esa puta alarma en la mañana y así sigo hasta que el Bacardí me duerme.
I could say those things. I know that I could. But I don’t. Because that would mean explaining that I fucked everything up. I would have to tell Ma that she asked me if I was a good guy when we first started dating, y no como esos mujeriegos que entran con una y salen con otra. I would have to tell Ma that I replied by explaining I hadn’t been a good guy in the past, but that I changed, that I grew, and that she was getting the new-and-improved me. I would have to tell Ma that I added the frescura of saying she could even be the first to test-drive and own this new me. I would have to tell Ma that she rolled her eyes and said esto no va a funcionar, debo de irme, but that I knew from her body language she wasn’t going anywhere, that she had already bought the charm that came along with a nice smile, good conversation, and a few drinks at the bar that only the blanquitos go to. I would have to tell my mom that I actually meant what I said when I said it, but that it just didn’t work. I would have to tell my mom that I needed to clarify and explain that the problem was not that “it” just didn’t work, but that I made it not work.
I could have said those things. But I didn’t. Instead, I say “Hay que trabajar mañana, me tengo que ir.” I stand up from the table and grab my keys, phone, and wallet with in one quick swoop with my left hand that it looked like a magician’s sleight of hand trick. I turn and make my way to the door, unwilling to sit in this conversation any longer.
As I reach the door, I hear “Espera, espera. Deja que te ponga comida para llevar.”
She goes to the kitchen and starts rumbling through the plastic containers, grabbing each one and holding it eye-level, doing some sort of mental Euclidean geometry to calculate the amount of grains of arroz and quantity of frijoles that she could fit into the container. I never understood why she did that since she ended up packing the container with so much food that she needed aluminum foil to cover it ya que la tapa no le quedaba. She would blame it on having the wrong covers for that tray, but even she knew she was lying when she said it.
She reaches down into the cabinet for the plastic bag she saves from her trips to the grocery store, places the container with two sheets of aluminum foil to hold in the mound of food in the bag, and holds the bag, arm outstretched, waiting for me to grab it.
“Gracias, Ma” I say as I take the bag. I meet her eyes, and I can’t register the feeling I see. Compassion? Pity? Pain?
“Sabes mijo, que los hijos se hacen para regalar.” I have heard her say this for years now. “Cuando te cases, ya no eres mío. Ahora tú y tu pareja estarán ahí para cuidarse.”
I notice in her face the exhaustion, the creases in her forehead, the ever-deepening lines around her eyes. The stress that started by falling in love with a broken man who, rather than dealing with his own fractures, decided to break everything around him. The stress that continued after she left him, raising three kids by herself. The stress that was revived every time a tío or tía would say “ese niño se parece mucho con su papá.” The stress that was alleviated when ese niño escaped the shadow of his father through staying in school, getting his college degree, and finding a job to take care of himself, to help out his mom with the bills, or to send money to abuela for her medication. And then the stress that was added when ese niño began to act like his father and either couldn’t keep a single relationship, or was keeping three relationships going simultaneously.
I say nothing, and my entire body aches as if I was hit by a truck. I should say something. It’s time to say something.
“Ma.” I search for words, finding none. My eyes water, and I feel... broken.
“Ma, tengo algo que –” My throat chokes up.
I can’t do this.
I turn to the door, open it, and walk out into the hallway that connects all of the apartments. It’s only 20 feet or so to turn the corner and I’ll be out of sight.
“Cuídate, mijo,” I hear Ma say from the doorway. As soon as I turn the corner, I stop. I hear her close the door and lock the deadbolt.
I start walking again and take my phone out to distract myself from, I guess, myself. I don’t even make it to the car and my phone vibrates twice with new messages.
The first: Llámame cuando llegues para saber que llegaste bien.
The second: Y si hablas con ella, mándale saludos de mi parte y dile que la quiero mucho.
I could have gone back and explained everything to her. I know that I could. But I don’t. Because that would mean explaining that I fucked everything up.
No funcionó porque no funcionó
“Pero ¿por qué no?”
Again with the same questions. I look up at her, and she is standing next to the table, texting away on her new smartphone. I showed her how to text a couple of months ago and now she has the ability to bombard the entire family with messages at all hours. I would wonder how she got so fast at texting, but the answer is obvious: text all the time and eventually you get pretty fast.
She repeats the question, not looking away from her phone. “¿Por qué no?”
I look down at my plate of food so she doesn’t see me roll my eyes in case she looks away from her phone. I take a breath and look back up. “Es que así es la vida,” I answer.
“Ay, no. Es que me llevaba muy bien con ella.” I hear the noise of her putting the phone down on the table. This conversation is always so much easier when she is distracted.
I fill my mouth with more arroz y frijoles, hoping a mouthful of food will keep her from going on. That obviously doesn’t keep her from pushing forward.
“Pero ¿qué pasó? Es que no entiendo.”
I saw her shadow loom over the table as her body leaned forward, and I knew she was expecting an answer this time. I chew just enough to slide down a mouthful of food before speaking. “Ma, es que no funcionó. ¿Qué más quiere que diga?” I go to take another forkful of food, but I don’t. Instead, I play with the food on my plate, suddenly not feeling very hungry.
“Pero mijo, ella es muy buena.”
“Sí, Ma. Es super buena.” I put my fork down.
“Y muy amable.”
“Sí, Ma. Es muy amable.” I take a sip of water.
“Entonces, ¿qué pasó?”
I take a deep breath, finally making eye contact with her. It ap-pears that today she is not going to give up. “Ma, es que no funcionó porque no funcionó. Algunas cosas no se pueden explicar.” I look up at her, hoping we can just stop at the usual intersection of incessant questioning and my modified version of because I said so.
Her expression softens a bit and I can tell that she is not looking at me anymore, but searching in her mind for memories. I hate to think they are memories of her, but I’m sure they are. “Es que a veces uno tiene que luchar por el amor.” Yep, definitely memories of her.
I sigh, not knowing what else to say but knowing the conversation was not over. “Sí, Ma. A veces hay que luchar.”
She ignores my comment and goes on. “Es que ella siempre me saludaba, me llamaba, preguntaba por la familia y cómo estábamos. This time she sighs. “Y era de nuestro idioma, eso es importante. O ¿prefieres una gringa que no hable español?”
I couldn’t help but scoffing, and I immediately broke eye contact. If I was going to be disrespectful, better her not be able to see into my soul. I was just tired of this fight. It had been six months, and every time I came to visit it would result in some compilation of the same questions and comments: “¿cómo está ella?” y “¿has hablado con ella?” y “ayer alguien me llamó de un número privado. ¿Crees que fue ella?” y “fíjate, anoche soñé con ella” y “ay, me hace falta ella.”
What did she want me to say? No sé cómo está, pero la pienso todos los días. No he hablado con ella, pero quisiera hacerlo. No sé si le ha llamado, pero sin duda alguna no me ha llamado a mí. Fíjese, que yo también sueño con ella, todas las noches. And the worst one: Ma, ella me hace falta desde el momento en que suena esa puta alarma en la mañana y así sigo hasta que el Bacardí me duerme.
I could say those things. I know that I could. But I don’t. Because that would mean explaining that I fucked everything up. I would have to tell Ma that she asked me if I was a good guy when we first started dating, y no como esos mujeriegos que entran con una y salen con otra. I would have to tell Ma that I replied by explaining I hadn’t been a good guy in the past, but that I changed, that I grew, and that she was getting the new-and-improved me. I would have to tell Ma that I added the frescura of saying she could even be the first to test-drive and own this new me. I would have to tell Ma that she rolled her eyes and said esto no va a funcionar, debo de irme, but that I knew from her body language she wasn’t going anywhere, that she had already bought the charm that came along with a nice smile, good conversation, and a few drinks at the bar that only the blanquitos go to. I would have to tell my mom that I actually meant what I said when I said it, but that it just didn’t work. I would have to tell my mom that I needed to clarify and explain that the problem was not that “it” just didn’t work, but that I made it not work.
I could have said those things. But I didn’t. Instead, I say “Hay que trabajar mañana, me tengo que ir.” I stand up from the table and grab my keys, phone, and wallet with in one quick swoop with my left hand that it looked like a magician’s sleight of hand trick. I turn and make my way to the door, unwilling to sit in this conversation any longer.
As I reach the door, I hear “Espera, espera. Deja que te ponga comida para llevar.”
She goes to the kitchen and starts rumbling through the plastic containers, grabbing each one and holding it eye-level, doing some sort of mental Euclidean geometry to calculate the amount of grains of arroz and quantity of frijoles that she could fit into the container. I never understood why she did that since she ended up packing the container with so much food that she needed aluminum foil to cover it ya que la tapa no le quedaba. She would blame it on having the wrong covers for that tray, but even she knew she was lying when she said it.
She reaches down into the cabinet for the plastic bag she saves from her trips to the grocery store, places the container with two sheets of aluminum foil to hold in the mound of food in the bag, and holds the bag, arm outstretched, waiting for me to grab it.
“Gracias, Ma” I say as I take the bag. I meet her eyes, and I can’t register the feeling I see. Compassion? Pity? Pain?
“Sabes mijo, que los hijos se hacen para regalar.” I have heard her say this for years now. “Cuando te cases, ya no eres mío. Ahora tú y tu pareja estarán ahí para cuidarse.”
I notice in her face the exhaustion, the creases in her forehead, the ever-deepening lines around her eyes. The stress that started by falling in love with a broken man who, rather than dealing with his own fractures, decided to break everything around him. The stress that continued after she left him, raising three kids by herself. The stress that was revived every time a tío or tía would say “ese niño se parece mucho con su papá.” The stress that was alleviated when ese niño escaped the shadow of his father through staying in school, getting his college degree, and finding a job to take care of himself, to help out his mom with the bills, or to send money to abuela for her medication. And then the stress that was added when ese niño began to act like his father and either couldn’t keep a single relationship, or was keeping three relationships going simultaneously.
I say nothing, and my entire body aches as if I was hit by a truck. I should say something. It’s time to say something.
“Ma.” I search for words, finding none. My eyes water, and I feel... broken.
“Ma, tengo algo que –” My throat chokes up.
I can’t do this.
I turn to the door, open it, and walk out into the hallway that connects all of the apartments. It’s only 20 feet or so to turn the corner and I’ll be out of sight.
“Cuídate, mijo,” I hear Ma say from the doorway. As soon as I turn the corner, I stop. I hear her close the door and lock the deadbolt.
I start walking again and take my phone out to distract myself from, I guess, myself. I don’t even make it to the car and my phone vibrates twice with new messages.
The first: Llámame cuando llegues para saber que llegaste bien.
The second: Y si hablas con ella, mándale saludos de mi parte y dile que la quiero mucho.
I could have gone back and explained everything to her. I know that I could. But I don’t. Because that would mean explaining that I fucked everything up.