Border-Line Personalities

Michelle Herrera Mulligan, Robyn Moreno

• Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
• Year: 2009
• ISBN:
  9780061882173
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literary Essays
• Index: Literature

A collection of essays from some of the best writers in America, about what it means to be a fully functional, and sometimes fully dysfunctional, 21st–century, born–in–the–USA Latina

Tired of the trite cultural clichés by which the media has defined Latinas, the editors of this collection of personal essays by both established and emerging authors, have gathered them with the intention of representing their varied experiences, through hilarious anecdotes from each of their colorful lives. While there is no one Latina identity, the editors believe that by offering a glimpse into these writers' dynamic lives, they will facilitate a better understanding of their unique challenges and their dreams, and most important, their oftentimes shared histories.

The contributors to this collection mirror the compassionate pleas Latinas usually reserve for each other over conversations in dark bars and late night gatherings. "Do they have to think that just because I'm a Latina that I can speak Spanish, curl my hair, paint my toe nails, and dance a rumba--all at the same time?" This, along with other interesting questions, results in a spectacular line up that has Latinas musing on their battling the world, the men that have done them wrong, and of course the mothers who, more often than not, just never understood that their daughters were more Americanas than not.

I

“Me and My Family…”

A PICTURE OF US
BY ROBYN MORENO

I’m not sure exactly whose idea it was to celebrate my mom’s fifty-fifth birthday at Graceland. But somehow I found myself standing in front of Elvis’s rather modest mansion with a candle in my hand, along with my family and the thousands of other lunatics who had come to pay homage to the King. After three hours of worship, I was fantasizing about fried peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches when my older sister, Nevia, snapped me out of my reverie. She asked me to take her picture with a suspiciously effeminate Elvis impersonator. Like a true king, he grabbed her by the waist and started serenading “Love Me Tender.” Her squeals of delight caught the attention of my other two sisters, Yvette and Bianca, who ran up and joined in the fun. After the impromptu performance, they cheered and clapped loudly. “Elvis” bowed his head humbly and mumbled a “Thank you, thank you very much.” As they huddled into a photogenic position, I realized this particular Elvis had breasts. Hmmmm. Either no one noticed or, more likely, no one cared. As I peered through the camera at the three girls and the lesbian Elvis, I saw the truth. No matter which road I travel, all paths lead me back to my crazy family.

We weren’t always lesbian Elvis worshippers. The second of four daughters, I had a pretty typical Mexican-American childhood in San Antonio, Texas, replete with dance classes, annual road trips to California, and even a pet goat. I was always thought of as the good daughter. At parties my mom was fond of boasting to friends and relatives about my straight A’s and other achievements, as Nevia dug through my mom’s purse to steal the car keys.

Nevia is six years older than I am, so while I was playing with dolls, she was toying with boys. My little sister Yvette is three years younger, and Bianca, the baby, is seven years younger. I’ve always thought we were spaced perfectly. Close enough to play together, but not so close as to suffer the horror of actually attending school simultaneously. We got along as could be expected. After school Nevia smoked cigarettes and hung out with her friends. Without her as our babysitter, I improvised, emceeing our eighties version of American Idol. (Yvette and Bianca were particularly fond of belting out bal-lads from Whitney Houston and Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam.)

If I was feeling particularly evil, I would inflict tickle torture on them, or give them nightmares by telling stories of La Llorona, a woman who drowned her kids, or La Chusa, a crazy devil bird that ate children. When I felt especially sisterly, we would scrounge the house for change and run to the corner store for dill pickles and chamoy.

Those carefree afternoons ended when I was thirteen. My dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I knew him as a hardworking man who barbecued every Sunday and took us to the park on his motorcycle. He had two degrees, in political science and biology, and in his day he was into “Brown Power” and the Chicano movement. My good grades put me in his good graces, and he enrolled us both in an evening computer course. Every Tuesday after work he would come home and change, and we would take off in his van to the local high school. We always stopped for a snack before, usually donuts and coffee (Coke for me), then attended the class, where I was the only kid. Having to always fight for attention with my three sisters, I truly treasured this time spent alone, this special attention he paid to me. I relished my role as a good girl.

At the end of my eighth-grade year, my father complained of stomach pains and was initially misdiagnosed with gall-stones. When they operated to remove them, they discovered it was in fact a malignant pancreatic tumor. They informed him and my mom, who eventually told Nevia; they felt that, at nineteen, she was old enough to understand. Nothing was ever explained to me and my little sisters, but intuitively we knew. I would round the corner in my house to find my sister and dad embracing. On the way to school, my mom would cry in the car. My dad’s religiously fanatic sisters would come over with a bizarre entourage, forming a prayer circle around his bed. We began to live in hospitals. Once, I was ordered to keep him company and, as I sat by his bed, we watched TV in silence. Bored and uncomfortable, I excused myself and climbed onto the roof from a waiting area window, where I read for the rest of the afternoon. When I came back my cousin was with him, so I went home. He told my mom not to bring me back. I was a worthless sitter. He died on Valentine’s Day, ten months after being diagnosed. He was forty-seven.

It was a violent and unexpected departure in the framework of our family, and our lives would forever be characterized in terms of before and after. Before our father’s death, we seemed to be a relatively normal family. After his death, we five girls (Mom included) were left alone, and we developed a serious dependence on each other that formed the basis of our relationship. To this day, I have spoken with either my mom or one of my sisters (or all of the above) every day of my life.

After the death, we moved, and I was transferred to a predominantly white school that seemed like 90210 to me. They had school-sponsored ski trips, huge pep rallies, and kids named Sunny and Tyler who drove BMWs. It was a huge change from the all-Mexican high school I just left.

I went from being vice-president of my old school’s freshman class to eating lunch by myself. Eventually, I created a role for myself as a smart, well-mannered girl and eventually fit in by joining the debate club and dating a Jewish boy named Mitch. I wasn’t the only one having a hard time adjusting. Since my father’s death, Nevia had basically locked herself in her room with a stocked mini-refrigerator and a duffel bag full of drug paraphernalia. When she did crawl out of her cave, she or one of her druggy cohorts would inevitably embarrass me in front of my new friends.

My little sister Yvette, who was only about eleven or twelve, fell in with a bad crowd and ran away from home. She was not just a run-to-the-grocery-store-and-then-call-your-mom-to-come-get-you runaway, she was actually gone for two weeks. Of course I was concerned, but I was also super-embarrassed by the flyers that were posted everywhere. Her picture was even on the news. Classmates would ask, “Is that your sister posted at 7-Eleven?” To which I would reply with a sympathetic “No, but I hope they find that poor girl.” During all this time my mom was occupied with a relationship she dove blindly into months after she lost her husband of twenty years.

Her rebound relationship lasted longer than we all thought it would, and Mac eventually became our stepdad. In my mother’s disoriented emotional state, my baby sister Bianca was virtually ignored. At age seven she would make her own dinner, consisting of Top Ramen or the Domino’s Pizza she had ordered with my mother’s stolen and forged checks. Very little was ever mentioned of my dad. By the time I was nineteen, we had firmly chosen alcohol over therapy. When we got sad, we would drink tequila and listen to my dad’s favorite songs. Things got pretty messy and resulted in a lot of fighting and sobbing. In a shining moment of our family history, we were actually the catalyst for an airline law to be instituted, which prohibits inebriated passengers from boarding planes. It all stemmed from a particularly rowdy night during a Christmas spent in Las Vegas. My mother had followed Mac there, who was pursuing his dream of becoming a Dean Martin impersonator. Yvette and Bianca lived with them, while Nevia and I stayed in Texas. Nevia booked a redeye return flight for herself, probably because it was cheaper, and we had the brilliant idea of partying until she boarded, so she could immediately pass out on the plane and sleep through the entire flight. We ended up drunk enough, all right, drinking “Blue Nile” cocktails in the lounge at the Luxor Hotel. By the time we took Nevia to the airport, we were so drunk we burst into the airport like a maniacal circus. We were smoking, laughing, and being all-around obnoxious. Yvette and I found a discarded wheelchair and she jumped in as I pushed her, running full speed down the corridor. We crashed into my mom as she was examining the monitor, trying to find Nevia’s gate, and she started cursing at us while hitting Yvette with her purse. Shocked bystanders gasped at the crazy woman beating a disabled girl.

We carried our show to the gate, bumping into people and bullying our way to the front of the line, where passengers were already boarding. When it was Nevia’s turn, the airline refused to allow her to board. The Indian in our blood and the tequila in our veins possessed us. Yvette threatened to kick the airline stewardess’s ass, while I donned some fake glasses and pulled out a pen and paper demanding names. “I’m a lawyer!” I slurred, “I’m gonna own this airline!” I furiously jotted names, sneering, “James Smith, I hope you enjoy your last day at work! Well, Betsey with an e Roberts, good luck finding a new job!” (The next day I found the crumpled paper with incoherent scribble and quickly threw it away.) My mother tried to control us, but our lunacy was contagious, and she called the threatened stewardess an “old bitch.” Dignity lost, my poor mom deserted us, and the police were called to escort us out. Nevia, who at this time was crying hysterically, told the airline officials she had no idea who we were and could she please board because she had to get home to her poor husband who was waiting for her, so they could spend their first Christmas together. She was eventually allowed on, and we cheered as we were led away, but our victory was short-lived, as a minute later Nevia made her way back from the plane, sobbing and humiliated. She had been voted off, Survivor-style, by her fellow passengers. Rejected and dejected, she returned the next morning, without us, and boarded meek as a mouse. After that debacle, we continued to have tequila-induced outbursts, but like aging rock stars, we began to outgrow our own ridiculous antics.

At age twenty-seven, Nevia had married a respectable, hardworking, and infinitely patient husband. They bought a beautiful house, a shih tzu, and a Lexus. It was like Joan Jett moving to the suburbs. She still has a penchant for bad eighties rock (like .38 Special and Krokus), fake nails, Regis and Kelly, and singing big-mouthed basses. I, after a little longer than the customary four years, finished college. I am still thought of as the smart one, although I am also regarded as airheaded, selfish, somewhat delusional, financially irresponsible, and codependent. I know this is what they think of me because we once played a game called “Five Things I Like About You,” which quickly turned into “Five Things I Hate About You.” I must admit they’re probably onto something. Yvette got “knocked up” at sixteen, and I now have a ten-year-old nephew, Zachery. Sweet but odd, he’s Mac’s karaoke protégé, and often wears one glove, sunglasses, and Mardi Gras beads. (When asked about this ensemble, he’ll coolly tell you this is what he’s about right now.) My youngest sister, Bianca, got the hell out of San Antonio as fast as she could and moved to New York City. Tired of slacking in Austin, I quickly followed.

We immediately fell in love with New York and all its possibilities. We turned into full-fledged Sex and the City wannabes. She enrolled at the Fashion Institute of Technology, and I soon became employed at a popular fashion magazine. I felt I had hit the big time. I embraced the cool New York world of fashion shows, wine tastings, and super-cool boîtes with doormen and lists. We sampled the sample sales, and my sister became a British designer’s apprentice. She started to hang with a too-cool Brit crowd and even affected a Madge accent. I, in turn, became a Francophile and fell in love with a handsome Frenchman with dimples. Never mind he was from Brittany, not Paris, and my wine knowledge exceeded his. My new role was New York “it” girl.

The farther away I got from my family and the less I saw of them, the more insane they seemed to me when we reunited. To my sister and me, from our cosmopolitan pedestals, they appeared brash and gauche. Our trips back home became increasingly strained. Our usual forms of amusement and bonding, like getting soused and singing karaoke, ceased to work. We weren’t connecting anymore. I thought I was worldlier than ever and had outgrown them. For over a year, every time the family got together, a hysterical drama would unfold. I yelled at my sisters about their shitty lives. I chastised my mom for smoking or eating greasy tacos for breakfast. I criticized Nevia’s dated wardrobe and hairstyle. I accused Yvette of being a bad mother. I felt like a defector.

Things came to a head on New Year’s of 2002. My entire family came to visit from Texas, and I demanded that David, my boyfriend, hang out with us the whole night instead of attending the fete he really wanted to go to. We celebrated at my cousin’s downtown restaurant, and things went smoothly until around two in the morning, when David got tired of clapping as my nephew Zach karaoked “New York, New York” for the fifteenth time, and my sisters kept insisting on yet another New Year’s tequila toast. I lied and told him I didn’t mind if he left us to go to his friend’s party. I stayed to watch the Moreno New Year’s Extravaganza and downed my own bottle of champagne.

The next morning we all went for brunch. Hungover and pissed, I tried to eat my omelette as Mac smoked, and my mom announced she wanted to visit the World Trade Center site again so she could buy some more morbid souvenirs. I sat there seething at my caricature of a family and my selfish boyfriend, whom I vengefully locked out and punched upon his late arrival. Nevia finally set me off when she asked, “What time did David come home last night?” Whether she had asked innocently or provokingly, it didn’t matter. I had had it. “He wouldn’t have wanted to leave if you guys were normal!” I screamed loud enough for tables to turn around. Their faces registered shock and hurt and something I mistook as remorse. In retrospect I now realize it was pity. They saw the real me that morning, without drinks and cleverness, hungover and tired. Not clothed in my usual role of “fun girl” or the more recent “pretentious bitch,” I was left with my sadness.

I could not see that it was really me that was the caricature. I continued to pine for a distinguished family with a father who was a powerful lawyer and a mom who dressed impeccably as she gardened. I wanted a family I could bring a boy home to, with a nice house and a big dining room table, where after a four-course epicurean dinner, we would sip our port wine and talk politics or art. Instead, I went back to a house with every room painted a different color of the rainbow because “Oprah said color’s in,” and Mac keeping me up all night while he karaoked until the wee hours of the morning. (For Christmas one year he gave me a tape of him singing his favorite songs. He dedicated it “To Robyn with love.”)

My superior attitude was soon dealt a tremendous blow when I was laid off from my power editor job and plunged into a late-twenties crisis. This was a tough time for all of us. Yvette became separated from a husband she never lived with because he was sent to Kuwait and then Iraq. Nevia was facing baby pressure, and even little Bianca lost her big job. I had always considered myself lucky, special even. The kind of person that makes things happen, that great things happen to. Losing my dream job left me unhinged.

This perceived failure opened the door for future failures. I began to listen to the voices of doubt that I had always confidently pushed aside. That year I bounced from freelance job to freelance job. Set loose from my role as a successful cosmopolitan chick, I was left directionless and scared.

My grandfather became very sick in May of that year and my mom thought it wise for Bianca and me to come home. I landed in San Antonio’s very little international airport, and for the first time in a long time I was glad to be home. My aunts and cousins had flown in, too, and at my grandparents’ house we talked and laughed, and I indulged in all the rich and comforting Mexican foods I had discarded. My grandfather, more than anything else, looked just plain exhausted. One afternoon, as he sat peacefully watching a boxing match, I was seized by the feeling that I wanted to know him. I sat next to him and began to bombard him with questions: “Grandpoo, when were your parents born?”; “When you met Grandmoo was it love at first sight?”; “Were you scared during the War?”; “Are you sad you never had a son?” He answered some questions disinterestedly, and the rest not at all. I sat there frustrated and desperate to learn something, to understand. A pet commercial came on, and quickly I said, “Grandpoo, what do you like better, cats or dogs?” He finally looked me straight in the eye, and said nothing. Embarrassed, I apologized for bugging him and asked if he wanted something to drink. Then I kissed him on the head, and as I went to get his water I realized that in my life many things would be left unsaid, and the rest I’d have to figure out on my own.

Eight months later, David and I broke up. He was “confused and needed space.” Two months after that, I lost my job again. One snowy morning afterward, I sat in my apartment alone drinking coffee, feeling lonelier than I ever had ...