Cinco escenas con mi abuela

I. 
It was 1991, I was in first grade.
My elementary school had a day dedicated to grandparents, and students were encouraged to bring their grandparents to class to celebrate. The day would always land very close to Thanksgiving.
My grandparents were always in Mexico... and they were unusually old when compared to the grandparents of the other kids.
But this year... this year my mom's mom was in town. Mi abuelita Herminia had been in town for months, and this time, she agreed to accompany me to school.
I remember holding her hand and walking her to the cafeteria in the morning. We had breakfast-- scrambled eggs with ketchup.
I then took her to class with me... and we traced each other's hands onto a blank sheet of paper... and then decorated the doodles with glitter and feathers. Our outlined hands turned into colorful turkeys that looked more like peacocks.
For that day, my little cotton-haired grandma was my best friend.

II.
It was 1994. My third grade year was coming to an end.
Mi abuelita Herminia had been in town for many, MANY months.
D and I had to share our sofa bed with grandma... and we were quite frustrated with the sleeping arrangement by now.
We would bitch whenever we had to go shopping with grandma, because she was such an incredibly slow walker.
By now, I was her height, about 4'8".
Mom loved going to the outdoor swap meet. I HATED it, but this day, she had sworn she was going to buy me a bicycle.
I picked out a hot pink bicycle, but Mom wasn't happy with the price. I stomped away, throwing one of the few public fits I ever threw in my life, and made my way to the exit doors of the stupid swap meet.
I remember Mom chasing after me, then stopping to wait for her mom who was slowly making her way to us.
SHE'S ALWAYS SO FUCKING SLOW!!
A second time I turned back to see if I was still being followed, I saw my very angry Mom still trying to catch up to me. I looked past her, to look for my freaking slow grandma. Just as my eye caught the sight of my small, sluggish grandmother, I saw as another shopper rammed his shopping cart into her left hip. I turned around... and laughed out loud.
Once I found Mom's Jeep in the parking lot, I waited... still laughing at the thought of my grandmother getting hit by a shopping cart. I'd stop laughing once I'd think of Mom's assbeating she was going to hand me once we'd got home.
I waited for a long time, and just as I was going to walk back to see where the hell these women had gotten lost, I saw Mom walking towards me with my pink bike. Grandma still walking slow.
While Mom was loading the bike into the back of the Jeep, I was jumping up and down with glee.
Mom: Don't look at me, brat, thank your grandmother.
Me: ???
Me: If it were up to me, I wouldn't have gotten you shit. It was your grandma who felt sorry for you and spent her money on this damn bike.
The whole ride home, I sat quietly in my seat... fighting the urge to cry my eyes out.

III.
It was summer time, 1999. I was freshly out of eighth grade.
Puberty was being CRUEL to me. I was also learning how to deal with PMS mood swings.
Everyone in Hometown had taken to calling me a fatass. The boys who had been crazy about me the previous year, where suddenly making fun of me every chance they'd get... publicly ridiculing me turned into their favorite sport.
Instead of going out with the rest of the girls and endure the verbal abuse from my peers, I'd opt for staying at grandma's house... listening to music as I'd sit on the porch, staring at the horses in the backyard.
I wouldn't talk... and when I did, it would be in English.
I wouldn't eat... and if I did, it'd be at my house, no one else's.
Grandma would watch me, alone and quiet, and she was convinced I was like that because of her.
Grandma: This little girl doesn't speak Spanish... she's ashamed of being Mexican... she's ashamed of me.
Mom: Nah, she's just... shy and quiet.
Grandma: And she doesn't eat my food... because she's repulsed by my food. I gross her out.

I'd just act deaf... lost in my own world of pain, not caring to put her out of her mistake... as much as I knew it was hurting her.

IV.
Winter Break, 2006.
I was nearly done with college, so my spirits were relatively high.
Mom, Dad, Rafa, and I went to Mexico for Christmas break, and we dropped by Grandma's house to say hello.
As we sat in the porch, talking to Grandpa about the happenings since the summer, I looked over to Grandma and caught her grimacing as she grabbed her left thigh.
Me: Are you ok, Abuelita?
Grandma just nodded and left to the bathroom.
She's lying...
In those two weeks, I caught her a few times, quietly dealing with pains.
I also once caught her glaring at her pet cat. The cat was sitting by her feet, and I watched as grandma stared down the cat with a scowl on her face, and proceeded to step on the cat's tail. I saw as she increased the pressure... and as the cat writhed on the floor, in pain, clawing at her foot, and Grandma just increased the pressure to the maximum. The cat began to howl, and Grandma finally released the cat after Mom asked what was going on.
Grandma looked up at me... and I did not say a word as we maintained eye-contact.

When it was time to leave back to Vegas, we dropped by Grandma's house to say our goodbyes. Grandpa opened the door, told us Grandma had already gone to bed.
We walked into her room, and saw her frail little body under her covers.
Mom: Mom? We're leaving...
Grandma: Oh... you are?
Mom: Can you give us your blessing?
As Grandma blessed Mom, Grandpa spoke to Dad, Rafa and me.
Grandpa: She's not doing ok...
Dad: Take care of her for us, will you?
Grandpa: I will. She took care of me all these years... it's my turn now.
I remember looking into the dark room, seeing Grandma propped in her bed, holding her black rosary in one hand, and Mom's hand in the other. Her eyes glistening with tears.
I swore that was going to be the last time I was going to see my grandma... but four month later, it was actually my grandfather who would say goodbye to this world.

V.
Summer, 2007. The first summer without my grandpa.
Rafa was driving Mom, D, and me to Hometown.
Mom dropped a bomb as we drove the long stretch between Chihuahua and Parral.
Tu abuelita se va a quedar con nosotros. (Your grandma is staying with us)
WHAT?! FUCK THAT!!
I threw a terrible cussing tantrum as I sat in the co-pilot seat of the truck.
I bitched. And bitched. AND BITCHED.
THIS IS A VACATION! I'm not going to take care of a SENILE OLD WOMAN!!
I spent the months ignoring my grandma, trying my best not to be in the same room as she.
I remember my ex's mom invited us to dinner at her place... she invited all of us.
When we told Grandma, she refused to join us.
It wasn't until Mom pried that she finally told us why.
Grandma: Es que... me da "gue-guenza"
She was embarrassed.
My stomach dropped.
We reassured her everything would be ok, and that she had to join us. After a little gentle nudging, Grandma agreed.
The day of the dinner party, we were all sitting at the my ex's mom's dinner table... and mid-meal, we heard a noise.
Grandma had wet herself.
Her head was bowed... and she stopped eating.
My ex's mom cleaned up, and tried making my grandma feel less embarrassed... but Grandma just walked out the front door.
Grandma didn't visit a single person after that.

***

I cherish all the good memories I shared with my wonderfully patient grandmother... yet somehow, it's still the moments I was SO mean to her that adhere to my mind the strongest.
Today marks two years since that awful Sunday morning where we received the phone call telling us her heart had finally stopped beating... and in my heart I still feel like it was just yesterday.
Two years later, I still think I'll find her humming "Cruz de Olvido" in her garden. That I'll be able to walk outside and see her grabbing apricots from her favorite tree, as she does (what I can best describe as) acrobatics on her wooden ladder.
She's still on that never-ending trip... where I'll someday, hopefully, join her.
Descanse en paz, mi viejita.

Mangos

This Mexico Summer was different from all others.
I thought I'd be able to handle it... her absence, but I couldn't.
Within minutes of entering my aunt's house, I felt the tears building.
I told myself I'd imagine my grandmother was in the U.S., visiting my uncle... but it was impossible.

I would fight back tears at random times of the day... in random parts of town. Everything was connected to my little grandma.
I expected to hear her voice, see her little body on her bed...
Pero nada.

Mom would wake up at the crack of dawn and head over to Grandma's bed. She would lay there and cry until her eyes puffed. Every day.

Today marks a year... and I still miss her. I miss her bad.
I can't really come to terms with the fact that she now only lives in my heart.
I'll never hear her shuffle her feet... or whistle some imaginary song of hers... or even catch her staring at me on Sunday mornings as I get ready for church.
If I ever want to visit her, I must come to terms with seeing this:

But I do have a secret weapon when it comes to beating the sadness.
I just have to think of a very pleasant memory made back in 2008:

It was a gorgeous, Mexico afternoon with a slight, cool breeze.
It had rained the entire night prior.
The rose bushes in the front yard were in full bloom, and even the birds were chirping.
Mom pulled out a chair to the front yard and invited grandma to sit outside in the shade, which she did.
Sister and I decided to join, but we sat on the grass next to grandma.
Grandma, Sister, and I looked out at the roses, while Mom peeled mangos in front of us.
The fresh smell of mango...

Mom started cutting the mango into cubes and adding lime and chili powder... placing the skin on a separate plate to "throw away."
Mom gave us the cubes to share with grandma, while she ate what was left on the seed.
Grandma went straight for the skin... and started to eat what was left on it.
Mom: Mom!! That's going in the trash! Eat the meaty part of the mango that I cut into cubes for you!
Grandma: Oh, you shush! I like the skin!
Me: Oooo! Mom got scolded! Take that, little lady!
And we all laughed... even my very quiet grandma.

Clear blue skies to stare at... the mixing of the smell of roses, wet dirt, and mango... the cool breeze on our face... the bittersweet taste of mango con chile... and best of all, the sound of laughter.
There we were, three generations of Garcia girls... having a moment (EWW! I just realized there's a fucking movie about this!! Way to kill my fucking memory, America Ferrera! But that's what happens when you have the Spanish equivalent of English's "Smith" for a last name. I guess I just found my much needed comic relief for the day).

And that soothes me... that is where my grandma lives.

Mi Abue

This past month has been... one of the worst in a very long time (this year, overall, has been one of the worst).

I've had the intention to update this thing since I got back from Mexico, but so many things occurred in such a short span of time (my dad's aunt passed away ten days after my grandma, and my mom's uncle passed away maybe 4 days after that... so funerals were all over the place. The world apparently wanted to see me miserable ever so badly, which of course, it got), I just never got to it.

So, concerning the whole week-long trip to Mexico, these are my points:

1. I was not scared this time around when it came to the trip. Whatsoever. (There's just something about an actual death [as opposed to just the threat of one] in the family that made me... feel invincible... if that makes sense. "My grandma just died! God wouldn't fuck us over like that right now..." And frankly, I could have cared less if I was really meant to die on the way there)
   
2. Funerals are FAR more painful/difficult to endure in Mexico than the U.S. (The entire fucking town is at your house, as your dead relative sits in the living room... the entire fucking day/night. You have ZERO privacy to cry by yourself, because they're sitting there, staring at you... that's right, they just STARE. No one offers to hug you, or pull you away... they just stare at you as you sob uncontrollably at the casket. In my case, I was greasy and smelly from the 20+ hour non-stop car ride. My hair was in a messy, uncombed braid when I walked into the living room to see my grandmother. I did not bother to comb my hair, change clothes, and much less shower before going in public. I just wanted to go in there, kiss my grandmother, and then continue with the living.The room was packed with people who fell silent when we walked in, they stared at my mom, expecting her to scream or something, and they continued to stare as we struggled to open the casket. They stared as Mom hugged and kissed her mother... and I caught them staring at me as I turned away to sob out of my mom's view. I couldn't whisper the "Perdóneme, abuelita... perdóneme" I had been thinking all day... I couldn't do shit [technically, if I were into theatrics, I could have done A LOT, but as far as I'm concerned, NO ONE will know that AnoMALIE cries]. Let's not forget I had not slept in over 36 hours... and I had only been snacking on 2 granola bars Dad was smart enough to pack. Since the house was packed day and night, I had to sleep sitting up... for maybe 2 hours. Mass is a different story. 6 people are to stand at guard next to the casket at all time... and each person that would volunteer to stand would bring a tear to my eye. So many memories flooded my mind while in church. My grandma wanted to go to church SO badly the second to last Sunday we were in Mexico. Of course, since she was bedridden, we couldn't do anything about it. "You're here now, grandma," was all I could think, and I couldn't stop crying over the state we could finally bring her: dead. From there, we had to man up, and walk behind the hearse all the way to the cemetery as the ladies of town sang the [scary] church songs they've sung for centuries in this town. The trip is long... the songs are sad... and hearing/seeing my mom and her siblings sobbing... that shit made me feel like my chest was ready to explode. And I sang... oh yes... I sang. I bugged my poor grandmother for the last 2 years with fucking guitar hero day and night, why the hell was I going to shut up now? And that, of course, made me cry some more. Then the actual burial was HARD. Something about the part where they close the casket... it... it kills me just a little more inside. "This is it, grandma... no more. No more. Now you're just a memory." Then to see the boys of the town, shoveling dirt on top... not strangers doing their job at Palm... but kids with which I grew up playing tag/basketball/volleyball, kids I fought with almost every summer, kids I'd cuss out in heated arguments... they were the ones helping with a task none of us dared to do: bury my grandmother. It touched my heart... hella. And then to just sit there, by the dirt... holding flowers... staring at that fresh mound of dirt... everyone gone... just you. That's when I can talk to my grandma? When she's in the hole, under all this dirt? Fucked. Up.)
3. My mom is the shit! (she eulogized my grandma right after they finished covering the grave. I've never heard such eloquence. And no, I'm not saying that because she's my mother... EVERYONE there noticed it. EVERYONE there cried. Even the town badass--yeah, we have one of those-- that NEVER shows emotion. No one beats her performance... no one, educated, famous, whatever... my mom made town history that day. She did not cry, her voice did not crack, she did not stutter, she did not have awkward pauses... and the whole time she improvised. My mom only went to 6th grade... yet she is one badass female. BADASS. "Damn *MyBrother*, did you inherit that gift of public speaking?" Bro: No... I fucking wish! I'd be running the world by now! Cousin: Daaaamn, she should write for Obama!)
4. Mexico is GORGEOUS in September! (on our drive through Sonora, Chihuahua and finally Durango, I saw nothing but beauty. The mountains were green, lush fields of wild flowers appeared every couple of minutes... there were deer, eagles!, bunnies, coyotes... I mean... it was absolutely beautiful. I couldn't help but silently thank my grandma...)

My grandma played a GIANT role in my life... something I wasn't very aware of up until the moment I walked into that living-room, that Monday afternoon.
I walk like she did  (shuffling my feet).
I cuss like she did (sweet Jesus, did she cuss! and it was SO cute! "Ahi voy... viejo cabron...").
I hate fish like did (ok, so I eat sushi now, but I can't stand cooking fish).
I puke bile when pissed/nervous like she did.
I mean... the list can go on.
She gave me my name... something I didn't grow fond of until recently.
She purchased my first bike back in like... '93?
She... protected my mom when my grandpa would go fucking crazy... and she would try calming us down as well.
I spent the vast majority of my summers in Mexico. Yes, OFTEN I'd complain... and often I'd straight up try my hardest to avoid visiting my grandparents.
I'd complain over my grandma "not loving me." "Why didn't she have ANY pictures of any of YOUR kids, Mom?!" And it wasn't until I saw her laying in the coffin that I realized... she had no need to have photos of us, she saw us each and every summer. Whether we'd be happy because our crush finally held our hand in public, pissed because we were called in early from play in order to eat dinner, dirty/sweaty after a long day at the park, she had the opportunity to see us, hear us, smell us, feel us. She would wait 9 months to hear/see all our bullshit antics... she got to know us... go as far as advise us (Her: Go to the dance, AnoMALIE. Me: Why?? Her: So you can ::puts her hands up, as if dancing with an imaginary partner:: dance and find yourself a cute guy!).

These past summers, my college summers, I felt regret over going to Mexico so often. I turned down internships, jobs... things that would help further my science career... all for going to Mexico and spending the maximum amount of days possible. Basically, I felt I had wasted my life, for no reason.
And now that I think about it... all that time STILL isn't enough... it WASN'T enough. My grandma, my grandparents deserved that and much more. They gave me so much, yet I gave so little in return.

I'll never forget our last moment together this summer:

We sat in her room, saying our goodbyes 6 hours before our departure time... she laid in her bed, immobile... her eyes watery, but Mom, Sis, Aunt, and I "cracking jokes" in hopes of making her smile.

Grandma: When are you coming back?
Mom: December.
Grandma: ... that's... too long.
:: two tears roll down her cheeks::

Mom: No... look, it's September, October, November, December. 4 months. You'll see us in 4 months! :)
Sis: When we get back, you'll probably be walking by then! :)
Me: Yeah, Grandma! And we'll all be here for Christmas! :)
She just looked at us... tears still in her eyes...
Grandma: ...no.
::We hug her::
Mom: I want you to get better! Start eating... and... move those legs of yours! :)

She gave us her blessing... gently (not like the way in which we'd complain, saying she'd just "slap" our mouth, instead of the real thing)... and she gave me a real (as opposed to an "air") kiss on my cheek.

...I didn't kiss her.
I ran out of the room.

My resilient... "Iron" grandma... all 4 foot 8 of her... is gone. Now just a sweet, sweet memory. Her 89 years of life, a true testament of the courage, patience, and dedication a woman is capable of possessing.

You finally got to rest, abuelita.

RIP

I leave for Mexico again tonight.

My grandma just passed away...

I've never screamed for anyone like that before...

this hurts.

I have the problem where I seem to think my loved ones will live forever...
once they do go, I feel... surprised... even if they WERE in their 80s... with broken bones... and the worst case of senile dementia.
They're MY loved ones. THEY WON'T DIE.

:(

Poor grandma...
poor mom... her birthday's Wednesday...
:(

At least... I'll have great memories with my grandma, right?
I mean... I WAS the only one who could make her laugh this summer... (I'd sing on guitar hero, and she'd laugh at me... which I didn't mind, because I do anything to make people smile, and to make HER smile, in all that anguish she was in... I'd do ANYTHING, even if it meant having the rest of town think I was crazy with my wail-singing in the mornings and evenings. "WHY DO THEY ALWAYS SEND THE POOOOOOOR!!?!" hahaha)

Abuela, la adoro!!!!
Thank you for EVERYTHING you ever gave me... and I wish I had one one-hundredth of the courage and patience you had.
And thanks for my mean-mug... I represent Garcia to the max with that bad boy!
:)

OK... maybe not Hell..

So I might have exaggerated just a little bit... no, not exaggerated... I just panicked too soon.

The following day after freaking out and posting my last blog, I finally did something interesting.
I've been friends with these two boys (part of the crew I hang out with now... a pair of brothers that are only 10 months apart... CRAZY shit) since they were 4 and 3 respectively. I sort of hung out with the 4 year-old more because I was only 7, so I could carry him around like a little doll and I could make him catch huge butterflies with me while we were down here in Mexico (the 3 year old was more into eating... so I never hung out with him till recently that he blossomed into a very attractive man-boy).
Anyway... these boys are "special" in the way that their now deceased (if my spelling sucks ass, sorry, it's just that I can't rely on the spell check since everything in damn Mexico is in Spanish and sometimes I'm like "What the fuck does tha mean??") dad used to be a Cartel leader... and I'm talking BIG-TIME leader.
Their dad got whacked back in 2002 while he was shopping with one of his hoes (it made international news and everything). However, they told the kids that he died in a car accident (like most kids get told... since my part of Mexico is where most cartel leader live and all that bullshit. kind of cool... kind of annoying as well... anyway, kids have to be told all these wack ass stories whenever their dad's/older siblings end up dead in some ditch or something)
Soooooooo... the whole drug-dealer/drug-lord talk is hush-hush whenever we hang out (you have no idea how awkward that is) with these boys.

The older brother, now 19... has been... well... hanging out with me a lot. He's doing some sort of player shit with me... I guess trying to win me over or something (keep in mind there are maybe 10 girls in town now... so I guess I'm the lucky chosen one for him. Why? I have no clue... I tell myself it's because I'm just that awesome... when in reality he probably chose me because I have the biggest boobs or something). It's weird because I've seen him like a little brother forever... so all his romatic gestures freak me out... slightly gross me out. haha (and here I called his younger, food-loving brother an attractive man-boy... I wouldn't mind the 18-year old hitting on me... just not the one who actually chose me).
Anyway, as a way to win me over, the 19-year-old asked me what movie I really, really wanted to watch. Me, being a bitch, thought of one I wouldn't imagine him having.
Alright... I wanna see... The Boondock Saints.
Lo-and-behold... he owns it.
I went to his house (AWESOME, super rad house... biggest in town that you can see from the "high-way" and only a lucky few can enter it.... but photos in there are prohibited. Crazy shit) and took my godson (17), my godmom's son (18) and my brother (23) with me. The 18-year-old man-boy was there.
So we all went to their personal theater room thingy (needless to say, that place was fucking awesome) and 19-year-old boy prepared everybody drinks. Guess who got the loaded drink... the only girl, of course.
I didn't drink, obviously (I'm not that much of a retard)... but I probably should have... just because it was so awkward to sit there and watch a movie about dudes killing mafia people while in the company of the offspring of a now-dead mafia boss.

That acticity probably ranks as an 8 out of 10 in my "Awkward Moments" category... a 9 out of 10 in "Man, this is comfortable shit!" moments... and a damn 15 out of 10 in "Fucking Awesome!!" moments.

Totally off-topic... sort of, because it still deals with Mexico: I have found a way to entertain my grandmother and keeping her away from my dog. What is it?
POKER!!
I never knew my grandma loved that shit...
She can't play... since she says she forgot how it goes... but she can watch my Mom and I play for a good three hours.
And when that doesn't work... I just need to talk to her about high-heeled shoes or make-up.
I knew my grandma was a cutie.

Victoria's such a lovely name.

Man... Altar Boy, so not the time to be upsetting me (he wrote YET again).

Weird thing:
Last night my little sister started up one of her little "confession" sessions with me. She goes through periods where even my breathing irritates her, and other times, she tells me shit I really shouldn't be hearing (I don't care what you were doing at his house, fuck! Leave me alone and let me believe you're still my 5-year-old little buddy!). However, this session wasn't so bad. We were kind of just reminiscing about the good old days when she'd start a fight with the girl neighbor who was my age, only to get her ass kicked by Neighbor-Girl and subsequently have me jump in for her and kick Neighbor-Girl's ass.

She then told me she had visited my grandma's tomb on Sunday.
"You know... I kind of took a detour on Sunday because during mass, they played that one song about the 100 lambs... and I remembered they sang that song at her funeral. Then I saw that tomorrow would have been her birthday."

I thought that was weird because on Sunday, out of nowhere, I too thought of my grandma. She was on my mind from early morning until the moment I went to bed. Right before losing consciousness, I remembered that Grandma would have been turning a year older on the 22 of this month.
Damn... ten years we've had to celebrate her birthday at the cemetery. I wonder if she had anything to do with my little sister and me remembering her birthday.

Today, she would have been 74.

She was my favorite grandma back in the day. It took a while for me to warm up to her, because apparently, I had a strong aversion towards her as a kid. There are pictures to prove it.
I don't remember why I didn't like her, (the only thing I remember disliking is the bathroom at her Mexican house. I still do. It's the creepiest thing in the universe... it gets hot and I feel like someone's strangling me each time I get near the place. My Grandpa and Mom have seen a little girl dressed in her white First Communion dress sitting at the edge of their bed a couple of times they've slept near that bathroom. That story only solidified my fears. anyway, that was quite the tangent) but apparently each time she made any sort of gesture at me, I'd curl up to Mom and scream "No!" Once I reached the age of about 6 or 7 I really began to open up to her. I still remember the little sound she made whenever I hugged her. I still remember her smell.

One of the pictures that makes me feel bad for poor Grandma.
Boo on you, baby AnoMALIE, for not showing your grandma love when she was alive and healthy!
She only loved me... and once again, I was a distrusting bitch who couldn't get away from her fast enough (look at the anguish in my face! Freakin' priceless!).
However, in my defense, I didn't like the cousin my grandma was holding. She'd always touch my face and poke me, and that was something baby AnoMALIE was not cool with. I'm still not, so never poke or pinch me.
My cousin's shoes I wasn't a fan of, either... those fuckers were heavy and she carried quite the kick.

I hope that was the last time I ever did that face to my grandma.

I still miss you, Abuelita Victoria. Y no se preocupe, todavia la recordamos.