Corazon Valiente, The brave heart
“He was from Guyome.” My grandmother replies when I point to the picture.
“Gy-yome?” I’m always confused when she mixes up words. Its like they expect me to know what they’re talking about, Spanish accent, mispronunciations and all.
“Wyoming. Why she always calls it that?” My mother chimes in.
My grandmother was telling the story of the picture of her on the 1962 Chrysler. It’s my favorite story, although I haven’t heard it in a while. She tells it every time I go to her casa, which is sadly only once a year, and every time the story is different.
The picture shows the true zeitgeist of the swingin’ 60’s. Her wig, big black and round like the tires the hunk of metal sat on. My God she looks like Maria Sousa, very sexy. I can imagine she was beating guys off like flies, the way the fat Southern porch monkeys do in that hot mess that they call August in the Bible Belt. She looks so tall spread across that car too. You would never be able to tell she is barely at five feet, on a good day. The strong flash of the Kodak washes out her dark brown skin. Her forehead is so shiny you can almost see the camera. I’m not sure if it is because it was the middle of May, Summer in Central America, or that God awful flash. A product of a Oaxacano father and a Morena Costa Rican mother. She is stunning and I am, vicariously, her creation. I am proud.
“We went to see the picture show in his car, he was always showing off what he have to me, but you know in the end he was not tall enough, and he was white” Abuelita says, in an accent made all too popular by actresses like Penelope Cruz and Sofia Vergara. I have always thought it was cute. Happy the world can now agree.
“How can you complain about height Mayoria you are five feet tall” I blurt, chuckling. My sister nods in agreement.
“I like aMoreno man, with a strong legs, like your abuelo!”
“Oh God. Too much information” I say, my grandfather was 50 when he met my grandmother, then 23.
I look at the picture and think about how cool that era was. I always wished I was born in 1947. But my dad is African so maybe not, I mean, things were changing, but I hate struggle. But nonetheless I feel like I would have had a great time. Flower power in the 60’s, disco in the 70’s and dead by 1983, one of the first cases of aids. Knowing how I like to have a good time that would have definitely been my legacy.
“Eschuchame” She commands. Always commanding in Spanish. It does make me listen more, not gonna lie.
“I am listening!”
“Because we were in San Jose it was fine. Everyone know the white men come here before they get married, maybe you know take us out in the summer, buy us nice things, but Bill always tell me in Gyome that was like a crimes.”
“Why?” I say.
“Neita because in 1962, holding hands with him, heads would turn all the way around like a owls”, Abuela gives me those eyes trying to make me understand. She never says ‘In my day’ but her body language does.
“I mean when I was dating that British guy the same thing happened”
“But imagine when it was illegal? We had a summer love. But I always knew it was la fantasia. I went to Wyoming. It’s the most beautiful place I think I’ve been”, says abuelita and, being from Bocas Del Torro, I really trust that opinion.
“Jackson, that where we went. I remember when he pick me up from the areopuerto, A DIOS MIO! I was so ascare. I thought they would arrest me, but I think they thought I was his house keeper or something so it was fine. The drive was long and silent, pero not like a wierd quiet- we knew this was the last time we would see each other because he had a great job, and I was trying to come to the USA with your abuelo. I went in November, he had a break from work for thanksgiving, I had never been somewhere that cold before! I was shocking.”
“You were in shock…?” I can’t help but to correct her sometimes.
“Si, We had to go buy new coats for me just for the week! But I like that it was cold because it was my first time seeing snow and I’ll never forget it. We went out a couple of times. I was sad when he would introduce me and people did not know who I am because all I do is talk of him and he did not of me, but now I understand, he risk his life to get me there and that’s all I could have ask for.”
“I want a sweet story book ending like that”
“You can have one, just go somewhere and they do not have girls like you and meet someone. “Make your own story neita.”
“Okay” I say with a smile, then walk back to the living room, get the picture book and look for that picture of her under the waterfall. Can not wait to hear the story of the day she met the love of her life, a Jamaican man lost in the forest, trying to be an explorer, Mi Abuelito.
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