By L. Crystal Michallet-Romero
Copyright © Thursday, October 01, 2005 L. Crystal Michallet-Romero
All Rights Reserved c/s
None needed. This is an original work of fiction told in the narrative story-telling style. Some is fiction, some is based on
actual events. You can decide for yourself which part is fiction, and which is not.
Feedback welcome:
CrystalMichallet@yahoo.com
To read my live journal:
http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=crystal_romero
What becomes of a floundering relationship that was built upon years of laughter, merriment, humor, and yes, sadness and
sorrow? What is a person supposed to do when the remnants of their lives are easily ripped apart like the seam of a hem?
When we suddenly becomes she and I, and I am the only one fighting the uphill battle to recapture the zest that once was the
glue holding us together. Is it human nature to give up without a struggle? Or is it our innate sense of survival to cling to the
mate with whom we have found joy and sorrow?
As I sit here feeling the fragments of my life suddenly slipping away, I wonder how my ancestors managed these tangle of
emotions. Did they move on, find another mate and never think twice about the years left behind? Or did they try to fight,
and fail, only to retreat into the darkness of an abyss in hope of one day seeing the sun again? I don’t really know how my
ancestors survived the gut wrenching bile that rose from the misery of their loss. I can only remember how my family handled
similar situations. As childhood memories, I stored those incidents in the recesses of my mind.
In his stand up comedy routine, George Lopez once stated that men should heed his words when it comes to Latinas.
“Never,” he said with an air of authority, “Never piss of a Latina because she will exact a revenge unlike any other
classification of women!” This brought a roar of laughter from the audience and even caused me to cry in hysterical merriment
at the memories of all the times when my uncles did just that to my aunts.
We Latinas are built of sturdy stock. We have gone through the harshest extremes and not only have landed on our feet, but
we’ve also landed with our pride fully intact. My tia’s were no different.
Once, when I was barely able to reach the peddles on my brother’s ten speed bike, I remember sitting outside of my
grandparents old white house near the railroad tracks. Though my grandparents were never rich, their doors were always
open to us kids, and it became the local hangout. One early Saturday morning we were all alerted to the sounds of wailing
screams echoing off of the nearby warehouse walls. The owner of the screams seemed unconcerned that a crowd was
quickly gathering near his abode. Instead, he was busy fending off the blows, kicks and scratches of one of my aunts. There
was an unwritten rule in our community that once a couple was established, even if not yet married, no woman would ever
cross that line of decency to covet, steal or even borrow the man. This was an unbreakable rule that was honored by the
women with class in the community, if not the men.
On this particular morning we kids did not know what was going on, but as there were only three channels on the television at
this time, entertainment was at a premium. Filled with excitement, we quickly dropped whatever we were doing to run and
watch the spectacle that was unfolding. Not ones to be left behind, the men quickly followed close behind to gawk, laugh and
make rude comments about the man who was being publicly emasculated with every curse hurled his way. Even though my
aunts were not prone to cursing, situations like this proved they were quite capable of making Grandma cringe with
embarrassment at their language.
“Ayiiii, PENDEJO! CABRONE!” Tia Lupie screamed as she chased the half-naked man down the street. She held her
fancy, high-heeled stiletto firmly in her grip and swung it with the force of a professional baseball player. Occasionally the
dagger tip landed solidly against naked flesh, but more often it grazed his back, torso and arms as he made a wild zigzag
formation in a feeble attempt at escape.
“LOCA!” Tia Lupie’s boyfriend shouted, but never was able to offer much more complaints as he was too busy covering his
delicate jewels while also running away from the constant diatribe of expletives pouring from my aunt’s Southern Baptist lips.
Every once in a while this poor soul tried to find protection with his fellow men, but with their own sense of self-preservation,
they quickly pulled their ranks away from him as their hoots and hollers followed the wayward couple down the street. Each
of these men had his own battle scars from similar narrow escapes with his own fiery Latina.
Sometimes when the “pinche pendeja,” as the other woman was always called, was found with the man, the scorned wife’s
wrath was turned on the mistress. This never lasted long because, although the adulteress was given the invisible marking of
her nature, it was the man who had to be quickly reined under control, just as Tia Lupie did with artistic expertise.
“Women like this are the lowest form of humans,” Grandma’s sage tones sounded out to each female generation in the family.
“They are viejas putas! They do not care for the families they break apart, the niños who will be left behind, or the souls that
they hurt. They only think of themselves, and what’s between their legs!” Grandma spat, a look of disgust crossing her
features.
Pinches pendejas were rarely welcomed back into the community. Many found themselves ostracized and outcast by family
and friends. Only by returning with a man of their own would one be allowed back into the fold. But even then, she was
never fully trusted alone with other men. The scandal of her past actions, her sole indiscretion, was a scarlet letter she forever
bore.
As I sit here mired in my own unraveling life, I realize not even Grandma was immune from infidelity. She, the clan matriarch
and powerful curandera, healer, felt the nagging sting of betrayal that befell many of the women in my family. But unlike Tia
Lupie, Grandma used her wisdom to curtail Grandpa’s wanderings.
Grandma had known something was wrong, she told me years later. She had no proof, but her years as a healer enabled her
to detect the minute changes in her surroundings until she was able to pinpoint the ailments of both the land and its people.
Using her intuition, she made haste to end the affair before it could flourish.
One Thursday night when all of our parents were working late in the sugar beet factory, Grandma gathered all of us kids into
the ratty old pickup that was used to take us to church. Although she didn’t have a driver’s license, she did not hesitate to
take the keys from the hook, grab her purse, and for reasons I did not know at the time, grab her rolling pin that was used to
make tortillas.
In very un-abuela like behavior, my devoted Southern Baptist grandmother drove as if hell was chasing her bumper through
the dirt streets and over the bridge. Throughout the entire drive we kids remained silent as we listened to the long litany of
curses uttered in fluent Spanish and punctuated with a spattering of English. With an unexpected force, she veered the rusty
truck up to the only bar in town, located next to the Piggly Wiggly. With purse, keys and rolling pin in hand, she stomped out
of the truck and marched through the dark door that hid the neon signs. In the misty corner, Ranchera music blared from a
juke box.
As the oldest granddaughter, it was my job to remain in the pickup truck to watch the younger kids, but at eight years old I
wanted to see what would happen. Being a child made me invisible. I could walk into the dark, smoke-filled room without a
single protest from an adult. Of course, following in the wake of my grandmother, they were probably more intrigued by the
look of determination etched on her features than the small child who trailed behind.
Grandpa literally did not know what hit him. Sitting on a stool at the end of the bar with his back to the door, his attention
was honed on the Latina beauty perched next to him. With the swiftness of an earthquake, Grandma wielded the rolling pin
with lethal force and landed it squarely across Grandpa’s head. Dazed and confused, he fell to the floor. Seeing the red in
Grandma’s eyes, his floozy quickly moved behind another patron for protection from the wild-eyed Latina wife. To his credit,
Grandpa attempted a show of machismo, but before he could bolster his bravado, the rolling pin landed one last time with a
resounding thump that sounded like a coconut hitting the concrete asphalt.
For my grandmother, everything was a blur after this point. But I remember clearly when the sheriff and his deputy arrived at
the bar. After looking over the scene, they turned to my grandmother who, with much aplomb, pointed the rolling pin
menacingly at the unconscious form of my grandfather.
“That is my man!” Grandma’s voice was low and deep as she gasped from the adrenaline. “And she is a pinche pendeja!”
her menacing voice was completely controlled as she pointed the rolling pin at the woman who now cowered behind the
patrons.
Hoots of laughter erupted in the small, dingy bar. The sheriff, with a shake of his head, moved down to examine my
grandfather. Only after Grandpa began to blink his eyes open did the sheriff turn to Grandma, his handlebar moustache
wiggled from his smile.
“I understand,” the man stated with a chuckle, “Now let’s get him home where he belongs.” The sheriff and deputy helped
my grandfather to his feet and began guiding his wobbly steps through the bar.
Later, when they helped Grandpa up the steps of his home, the sheriff, fingering the black baton in his belt, left him with one
parting promise, “If we ever see you with another woman other than your wife, we will administer the lumps!” For added
emphasis, the deputy nodded as he gripped the handle of his weapon.
Although Grandpa swears to this day that it was the threat from the sheriff and his deputy that kept him in line, the family jokes
that it was Grandma’s skillful wielding of the rolling pin and the lump that never disappeared that helped him remain faithful in
their fifty-three years of marriage. To further bolster this image, Grandma presented rolling pins to each of my cousins on their
wedding day. I’ve never known any of them to use it as Grandma did, but simply the threat of it looming figuratively over their
men’s heads seemed to keep the husbands in line.
While these memories are amusing, I can imagine the pain that Tia Lupie and Grandma experienced when they first learned of
the betrayals of the men in their lives. I can find myself laughing at the comical scenes and remember all of the various
retellings of these stories, and I wonder if someday I, too, will be able to laugh at this time in my life. I think of my mother and
wonder how she found the strength to go on, to remain married to my father after his disloyalty.
Like my own spouse, my father’s infidelity was unconsummated. It was a lust born of boredom and indecision. Unhappy
with his life, bored with the wife that he had been married to since he was seventeen years old, he turned his attention to the
only single woman in our area – my aunt.
I’ve heard that the women in our family are gifted with an accurate sense of instinct. We feel when something is wrong deep
in our gut, and although we cannot always put our suspicious into words, we search out the cause until the blackness is
revealed. This is how my mother’s tale preceded my own.
Mother felt my father’s unnatural attraction to her sister. I remember her talking to him about it, and him quickly denying it.
But as the months wore on, it could not be ignored. True to his nature, he called her loca, crazy, because only a crazy
woman would accuse him of such a despicable act. Sadly, she began to doubt herself and believe that she was, indeed,
insane. Only when my aunt brought my father’s disrespectful conduct to my mother’s attention was Mother able to finally
confront him.
