My hands smell like my mother’s do every time I make sofrito. That’s probably why I make it all the time. The smell takes me back to my mother’s soft hands of parsley and cilantro, to my home on the island, all salt and sun, and the friends I left behind to find a decent-paying job in the land of the free and home of the brave. There’s nothing quite like the smell of sofrito, a mix of onion, garlic, and peppers, finely chopped until they’ve metamorphosed into inseparable bits of heavenly colors. You can cut down the work if you use a food processor, but the cutting board and knife are like my childhood teddy, Ramón, too familiar a sight to leave behind. Mami never uses a processor; she says que le daña el sabor, it ruins the flavor.
I was never one for cooking back home, probably because I suck at it. I’m secretly envious of my sister, Lila, who took to the kitchen effortlessly; Mami was so proud when Lila’s gift was discovered. At ten years old she could make the most wicked arroz con habichuelas, even better than the one I can make now. But still, I try. I cook every day. After only a month, my Texas cutting board has more marks than my Puerto Rican cutting board had after three years. Nostalgia is one hell of a motivator. The things I never did back home like cooking and listening to Marc Anthony now make me feel like I’m not a transatlantic distance from everything I know.
I finish making my sofrito and wait for the pan to heat on the stove. Once the pan is seething and begging for the company of my sofrito, I gather it up in handfuls and toss it in. The contents of the pan sizzle, the sound of home. Two seasoned chicken tenderloins sit on a plate by the stove waiting to join the party in the pan. I touch the raw, seasoned chicken and lick my finger, unable to resist the Goya Adobo, a practice my friends always condemned. “Te va a dar Salmonella, nena, deja eso. You’re going to get Salmonella, girl, cut that out,” they’d always say, but I’d ignore them. I have been doing it my whole life and never once got sick as a result. I like to think I’m somehow immune, blessed by the Goya gods with the ability to enjoy a taste of their delicious products without repercussions, infallible proof of my Puertorriqueñidad.
I add the chicken to the pan, Goya and sofrito coming together to create a smell that makes my mouth water, and I pour myself a generous glass of wine. The phone rings while I’m enjoying a sip, and I feel my stomach lurch. Whenever my friends or family call, all I can do is think about how much I miss them and how life back home continues without me. I stare at the phone for a moment before deciding to see who’s calling. It’s Mami. My eyes water but I manage to keep the tears from spilling. I shake my head, take a deep breath, and answer.
“Hola, Mami.”
“Hola, mi bebe.”
I imagine my mother sitting by her favorite window, which peers into the lush garden of plantain trees, orchids, herbs, star fruit, and lemon that she planted and grew by herself. I can almost smell the sweet citrus, but like the recollection of a dream it escapes me before it can crystallize.
“How is everything?” Mami asks, the sound of her voice like the familiar call of the pitirre bird that took residence in our backyard three years ago.
I want to tell her the truth, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
“Super, the job is great, and I’m meeting new people.”
The job is fine, as fine any advertising job in an office can be; it’s the meeting new people that’s problematic. I’m not sure who I am outside of home and, judging by the interactions I’ve had so far in Texas, finding out is going to take time and thick skin. My only attempt at socializing thus far was a failure.
When Brandon approached me at the bar, he was charming enough. He was a proud Southern boy who enjoyed beer, brisket, and sports. Brandon, the accountant, not only offered to pay my tab but invited me to a game of what he referred to as “real” football. That comment rubbed me the wrong way, but I was four vodka sodas into the conversation and determined to make a friend.
Brandon took me to see the Dallas Cowboys, and at first I was genuinely excited. I had never been to an American football game. The Cowboys Stadium is a monstrosity of a thing; I remember wondering how it fares in comparison to the Roman Colosseum, both in size and in its inner workings. When Brandon and I arrived, the stadium was already packed. The line getting into the parking lot was forty-five minutes long, ten minutes longer than my drive down from Richardson. Was it annoying? Yes, but if all those people were willing to brave impossible parking and overcrowding, surely the spectacle would be worth the effort.
With this thought in mind, I trudged through the crowd behind Brandon, whose presence and stature were more adept at navigating the conglomeration of sweaty, already-drunk bodies. Everyone was so much taller than me that I could barely see; the only guidance I had aside from the back of Brandon’s head was the giant screen on the side of the stadium. Am I just short, or is everything really bigger in Texas?
The atmosphere in the stadium was electric. Every fan’s excitement and love for the game coming together to form an explosion of energy that was highly intoxicating. Brandon immediately bought us a couple of beers and ushered me to our seats. This, he promised, would be a day to remember.
“¡Salud!” I said, lifting my beer, getting into the spirit.
“Here, we say ‘cheers,’” he corrected, smiling, and raising his beer to meet mine.
I don’t think he meant anything by it, but, then again, no one ever really does, or so they’ll assure you. I let that slide, as I had with the “real” football comment. I was set on having a good time; plus, why let a little comment destroy my excitement?
When the U.S. national anthem came on, I stood with the rest of the crowd, eager to watch the adorable little girl sing her heart out. A few verses into the song, Brandon turned to me with a furrowed brow.
“What?” I looked around and noticed I was the only one without my hand on my heart.
The thought of demonstrating my patriotism never crossed my mind, as the gesture was reserved only for “La Borinqueña,” the Puerto Rican national anthem. Brandon continued to look at me expectantly, urging me to place my right hand on my chest. My face was hot, my body frozen. I had to do something. I could comply and try to blend in; yes, that would’ve been the easiest thing to do. There was only one problem: My hand wouldn’t move. My mind spoke, but my heart didn’t listen; it outright refused. It just doesn’t feel right, I heard it whisper, No más. Very slowly I placed my hands behind my back and respectfully directed my gaze toward the flag fluttering in the wind. He continued to look at me for a moment, then shifted his attention to the flag. We were quiet the rest of the game. I’m just glad I agreed to meet him there; that thirty-five minute drive back to Richardson would’ve been torture.
The smell of smoke brings me back. Mierda, crap, the food. I quickly run over, turn off the stove, and remove the scorched pan. The chicken is charred.
“Mi amor—are you there?”
“Yeah, sorry, Mami. I’m cooking, and I just burned the chicken.”
“Oh, that’s okay. It happens to all of us.”
I imagine my mother’s gentle smile as she speaks.
“It seems to happen to me more than it does to you and Lila.”
“You just need to practice more. Plus, I probably distracted you, so this is my fault.”
“Nice try, Mami. I could really go for some of your pollo guisado.”
“Ay, mi bebe—” Mami sighs. “Papi and I miss you. We will come and visit as soon as we can, te lo prometo.”
My stomach lurches again. It will be a while until I see them and taste that delicious guisado. Neither of us can afford plane tickets. I’m hoping after a few months at the new job, I’ll be able to visit.
“I miss you guys too, Mami. Is Papi home from work?”
“Not yet, mi santa; he’s been working long hours lately.”
I cringe at the thought of my sixty-eight-year-old father driving home alone, after dark. His eyes and energy level aren’t what they used to be.
Before responding, I make sure my voice is steady.
“Tell Papi I love him. I’m going to clean this up.”
“Bye, bebé. Te amo. Promise me you’ll keep trying, okay?”
“Okay, Mami. Te amo.”
Warmth trickles down my cheeks, and I get the urge to let everything spill, but instead I let her go.
Wiping my tears, I discard the charred chicken and throw the pan in the sink. Instead of making another attempt at dinner, I pour myself another glass of wine and head over to the couch. The carpet beneath my toes feels strange. Apartments back home are rarely, if ever, carpeted. I suppose it’s nice. It keeps my feet warm and my dog comfortable. He’s a funny little guy, my dog. When I adopted him, I named him Diego Miguel for no other reason other than the fact that he looks like a Diego Miguel. His wiry black hair is always disheveled like mine, and he has a crazy underbite. Diego liked it better back in Puerto Rico too. He had a little girlfriend, Bella. Their tails would go nuts whenever they saw each other on the streets of Santurce. Here in North Texas, he has no one: no playmates, no sand, and no iguanas to chase. At least we have each other.
The scorched pan in the sink mocks me. I promised Mami I’d try again, but I can’t get off the couch; my shame anchors me. I can’t socialize, and I can’t cook; my mother’s faith in me is misplaced. The goodbye letter she wrote sits framed on the small table next to the couch. She placed it inside my laptop case, where she knew I’d find it, something she’s been doing since I was una nenita, a little girl. She’d slip notes into my lunches and notebooks almost every day, hoping it would make me smile. On my first day of the third grade at a new school, she placed a note in my sandwich bag that read, “Have a very merry unbirthday, beba.” Alice in Wonderland is one of my favorites, and the reference to the Mad Hatter’s tea party eased my eight-year-old nerves and made for a successful first day.
The letter she hid in my laptop case when I came to Texas was very different:
Mi querida beba,
I’m going to miss you. I’ll miss traveling to San Juan three or four times a week to see you. I’ll miss having lunch at El Pavo Asado, walking around Condado, getting tea and coffee in Viejo San Juan, and taking walks on the beach.
Leaving home is difficult, and I know you’re scared, but I’m not, because you’re a strong, capable woman. I know you’ll find new friends and satisfactions that will give you the strength to keep moving forward. The truth is: I admire you, Boricua. After everything is said and done, no matter how much time has passed or the circumstances we may find ourselves in, your family, friends, and Island will always be here.
Con todo mi amor,
Mami
She wrote those words with a pen. She’s nostalgic like that.
My glass is empty again. I walk back into the kitchen to fill it up, and my phone rings. Ay, Señor.
“Hey, Camille.”
Camille is that coworker who is always in an excellent mood; she insisted on getting my number on my first day at the advertising agency. Her pep can be overwhelming, but she’s good people.
“Hi! If you don’t have plans tonight, you do now.”
My first instinct is to say, “I’m not really in the mood.” I haven’t done much going out since the Brandon-football debacle, but the letter from Mami sitting next to the couch catches my attention, and the promise to keep trying echoes in my head.
“I’m free. Where am I going?”
“Buck’s. Oh, and it’s karaoke night, so start thinking about what we’re going to duet.”
I’m a terrible singer, but que se joda.
“Great, what time?”
“I plan on being there around 9:30.”
“Alright, see you there.”
I have the amount of time it takes to get ready to convince myself that this will be an enjoyable night. Positiva. I head to the closet to choose an outfit. According to my dad, the key to easily adapt is to blend in and not draw attention to yourself. He said, “Es importante hacer una buena impresión: It’s important to make a good impression. You can’t be walking around showing too much like you do here: People will think negatively.” I grudgingly pick out some long pants and shudder at the thought of wearing them all night. Nothing is less me than long pants; I’ve always felt constricted in them, trapped. Shorts are always my go-to, but dad says they make girls look easy, and Puerto Rican girls don’t need any more reason to be thought of as easy. Next, I grab a blouse that my mother and I picked out on our last trip to Plaza Las Américas Mall before I left the island; “Ay, te queda hermosa: You look so professional,” she said when I tried it on. Knowing that I can make her proud by doing something as simple as wearing a blouse makes me smile. Flats and minimal makeup follow and I’m out the door by 9:15.
I’m relieved the bar is only fifteen minutes away from my apartment and accessible through backroads; I avoid highways as much as possible when I drink. Camille is already there when I arrive. When she sees me, she jumps up from her seat, spilling a bit of her drink. She awkwardly tries to brush it off as she waves me over to the table. The bar is decorated with a multitude of mounted gun racks, athletic memorabilia, and antlers. I bet Brandon would love it. A cascade of multicolored Christmas lights decorates the wall behind the stage where the karaoke is already in full swing. An older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair and a cowboy hat is winning over the crowd with his rendition of “Friends in Low Places.” I make my way to the table, where Camille has returned to her seat. The positivity I had managed to muster slips when I see the only other person there.
“Well, if it isn’t the new girl,” Calvin says.
We both work in the creative department, and since day one he’s never missed an opportunity to dismiss me or my ideas. His distaste for me came as quite a surprise, considering I’ve never conversed with the guy.
“Is anyone else meeting us here?” I ask Camille.
“Yeah, some other people should be coming later. I’m so glad you could come!” Camille wraps her arm around me grinning.
“Yeah, me too.”
“First drink is on me. What’s your poison?”
“Whiskey with coconut water, thanks.”
Camille looks at me perplexed.“I don’t think they have coconut water here.”
I’m immediately embarrassed at my foolish request.
“You’re in Texas now, girl. We like our whiskey dry,” Calvin says.
Heat washes over me as my fist clenches. I look at the Coors Light in his hand.
“And your beer watered down, apparently.”
Camille laughs. Thank God. Calvin tightens his hand around his Coors bottle.
“Well, I like my whiskey with Sprite.” Camille says.
“That sounds great.” I force a smile.
Camille rushes off to get our drinks, and I’m left with the ever-charming Calvin. I can feel his eyes on me as I make my way to the other side of the table. I try to avoid his gaze, but it becomes too much, and I decide to confront it. Our eyes meet, and I feel my body tense. Maybe if I make some polite conversation, he’ll back off.
“What are you going to sing, Calvin?”
“‘Redneck Crazy’. What about you, mamacita?” he says, biting his lip.
My heart palpitates quickly, and I imagine pouring beer over his pumpkin-sized head.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe ‘Hit Me with Your Best Shot.’”
“I always do,” he smirks.
Camille returns with our drinks before I can respond; it’s probably for the best: I’m here to make friends, not enemies. Camille places the Whiskey Sprite in front of me.
“Gracias, Camille. Next one’s on me.”
“It’s the least I can do. It can’t be easy moving so far away from home. I’ve never even left the state. Will you teach me some Spanish?”
“Claro que si,” I say, grateful for her interest.
“Does that mean yes?”
I chuckle. “Yes.”
Camille claps excitedly.
“How do you say ‘let’s sing’ in Spanish?”
Calvin scoffs and mutters something about being in America and speaking English. I feel my determination to make nice continue slipping.
“Let’s sing in Spanish is vamos a cantar.”
Camille repeats the words in Spanish a few times.
“¡Vamos a cantar! Which duet should we sing first?”
Calvin rolls his eyes and chugs his Coors.
I try to think about possible duets my mediocre voice can handle, but Calvin’s stupid comments buzz around my head like racist flies. I consider tossing my drink in his face but decide to go in another direction.
“Camille, if you don’t mind, I’d really like to sing my first song solo.”
Camille frowns momentarily, then perks up.
“Promise we’ll sing a duet after?”
“Te lo prometo. I promise.”
When the DJ finally calls my name, Camille nudges me excitedly. Everyone in the bar is looking at me. Suddenly, I’m very concerned I’ll trip on my way to the stage, so I take my time. The bright light on the stage makes me feel like an empanadilla under a heating lamp on display for all the drunk, hungry customers to see and devour. The microphone stand is too tall, but rather than risk making an ass of myself by unsuccessfully trying to adjust it, I awkwardly take the mic off the stand and hold on to it for dear life. The familiar chords ring out through the speakers, and I’m surprised that at least a third of the crowd seems to recognize them. My grip around the mic relaxes as people hoot and holler in approval of my song choice, Luis Fonsi’s “Despacito,” featuring Justin Beiber. It wasn’t my first choice, but it’s the only song in Spanish the DJ had.
Camille sways excitedly in her chair, while Calvin pretends not to notice me on the stage. I smile as the English portion of the song ends, and I slip into my native tongue. My body tingles with each note I sing, feeling the best I have since I arrived in Texas. The words are sweet and familiar as they roll off my tongue, which, for once, is not struggling to make me sound like an Americana.
“Despacito—”
The energy of the music and the crowd overpowers me, and I can no longer stand in one place. Traveling the length of the stage, I strut and dance as I sing. The crowd cheers and claps along, going especially crazy when I get to Daddy Yankee’s rap. Calvin is the only one not smiling. Every word in Spanish elicits an eye roll that would disquiet even the sassiest teenager. When I reach the end of the song, I lock eyes with Calvin.
“Despacito, this is how we do it down in Puerto Rico—”
Calvin’s face reddens and Camille laughs hysterically. He mutters something, slams his beer, and storms out of the bar to the sound of vociferous approval for my Spanish singing skills.
It’s 2:15am when I stumble into my apartment, strip off my clothes, and flop on the couch. I catch a glimpse of Mami’s letter on the table and wonder if she would approve of my behavior tonight. I hope so, even if my father wouldn’t; calling a white man out with Spanish karaoke in a Texas bar is probably not my father’s idea of blending in. I didn’t make a scene or get visibly angry, but there is a good possibility that Calvin will try to make my life more difficult come Monday morning. But coño, singing that shit felt good.
The next morning, my head pulsates—too many whiskeys. Necesito un cafecito: I need some coffee. The pot is ready in a few minutes, the aromatic, nutty smell permeating the apartment. I sip the steaming coffee and revel in the sensation of its warmth traveling down my throat bringing some life back into my bones. I think about the night before and smile remembering Calvin’s annoyance. Any repercussions I’ll face will be worth seeing him storm out of the bar.
My stomach gurgles loudly; I really should’ve eaten dinner before going out. It’s time to make myself something to eat to help with this hangover. Maybe this time I won’t burn the chicken.
I chop the veggies for the sofrito and place the chicken in a bowl of water to defrost. Once it’s ready, I season the chicken, heat the pan, add some oil, and toss in the sofrito. I let it sizzle then add the chicken, sipping my coffee as I flip over the chicken every few minutes.
When I take the first bite, I’m surprised: It’s pretty good. Not as good as Lila’s or Mami’s, but still pretty good. Halfway through my meal, my phone dings. It’s a text from Mami: “Buenos días, bebé ☺ Que Dios te bendiga. How are you today?”
I go to type my generic response, “I’m good ☺,” but decide against it. For once, I don’t want to lie. I take a deep breath and tap the call button.
“What a wonderful surprise!”
“Hola, Mami—I just thought I’d call to talk.”
“Is everything okay, mi amor?” The concern is notable in her voice.
“No, it’s not. But it’s getting better. Oh, and I didn’t burn the chicken today.”
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