Shadows
Opaque surface rejects light
If the surface is moving
Dancing takes place
Shadows
Lingering in what was
Because the surface has not moved on
Stuck in a vacuum, never ending light
Shadows
The, I of what use to be
Memories of a time
Sillhoutes trapped in the mind
Shadows
The dust of incense
Dying embers within
Collect on the ground
No-where bound
Those words were first written in Tio Victor’s piece. I’ve shed many a tear for those who passed on due to illness’ that showed no mercy, was brutal and bent on destruction. It’s one thing when it happens to your parents, tíos, tías and even primos …
But
when it makes an appearance on a sibling
That’s a whole new realm and you can’t help to wonder
When you’ll be next
I don’t cry for the Walsh’s
Except when my father died
The day before his 90th birthday
His spirit visited me and he was angry
Angry for being taken from living
Angry for the last drink not had
Angry for eating his last meal
Angry.
The McCalla I cry for today is my sister Evie
Although technically she is a Walsh
She arrived through a McCalla
And that makes her both
Nicknamed Judy for her JudyGarland eyes
Big brown with the longest lashes
Those eyes required glasses of the strongest kind
To view the world but not life ahead
Judy was whimsical
An artist with the capacity to draw
Images of fantasy and fiction
Prompted by her obsession with romance novels
Artists run in the McCalla family
From photographers to those who draw and painted
So does mental illness.
From those who isolate and those who drink
LGBT slides
Beneath the surface
The ones who never got married, never had a partner
Who live on the West coast away from the East
But
Back to my sister Judy
A life lived
To the fullest?
I will never know
A life lived
Within her means and understanding
Of the world she lived in
Comfortably existing in
I once told my sister I love you and she said she loved me too.
People of colour come in all ranges of skin tone
black, tan, yellow, white, bronze and even the darkest purple
We share the same colour tears and blood and in most cases
the same colour food
As diverse as our colours are
because of it, we lack the
privileges afforded to others
We are harassed, ridiculed,
talked at slowly,
talked at loudly
as if we are ignorant imbeciles from an illiterate island
I miss my mom’s accent but I cannot miss what
I never heard, for her accent to me
sounded like everyone else’s voice
without one
Others heard her accent and treated her
as if she came from a third world country
not from the god forsaken place she was born to
My mother left a developing country
with an eight grade education
for a better life in America
With that education
She worked for a higher learning magazine
With that education
She worked for a major publishing company
With that education
She worked for a Dominican
What I’m trying to say with words
is the same old, same old thang
Don’t judge a book by its’ cover or…
Don’t judge a POC by the colour of their skin
You never know what lingers underneath,
below the surface,
behind closed doors,
safely held close to the heart
Until someone’s
gotta throw shade of the blackest kind at your ignorance self…
I am me
when I pack two days ahead
arrange babysitting for the furs
and book my ticket the day of
I am me
arriving at Grand Central
an hour before departure
heading to the lounge
I am me
buying a pretzel
eating mindfully
as I people watch
I am me
time to board the train
window seat
headphones on
I am me
Concrete to green
tracks to wilderness
fast to slow
I am me
destination is known
as the green school bus
waits
I am me
the gates of the Retreat
gives a blessing
releasing the iron bars de mi alma
I am me
suitcase dumped in the foyer
red barn beckons
and I am wrapped in the healing power of the donks.
I made an appointment on Friday.
I traveled to Greenpoint, Brooklyn from Jerzy City, Nueva Jerzy on the Path to the MTA to the G train-notorious for never arriving on time or at all.
Traveling from one city to another is not the same as traveling from one borough to another which I did when I lived in Brooklyn and worked in Manhattan.
For the past few months, I’ve been stuck in Jersey City, where I now live and work which saves money on taxes when you work in one city and not two.
Ok.
A septum piercing idea went from curiosity to commitment. With turning 60 approaching, I wanted to do something big but also on a small scale.
Researching YouTube videos for information on this type of piercing resulted in videos of the good, the bad and the ugly. Pain was to be expected at a high degree and images of poor aftercare results made me go…hmmm.
Research continued and my interest peaked.
During a hair appointment I drooled over the stylist’s gold septum chain. We discuss the process and it was not painful or horrific for her. A visit to the Apple store led to another discussion on septum piercing with an associate, as it looked like everyone who worked there had a piercing.
My mind, a terrible thing to waste, made the decision to proceed.
With a septum piercing appointment set and chain link picked out, I made my way to Greenpoint, Brooklyn.
The piercer detailed what to expect and I felt at ease.
My eyes teared up during the piercing which was quick and not painful. It’s been almost a month and it continues to heal well without complications.
I wear my chain link proudly and it feels good to continue to please myself with self-care.
Yes.
The septum piercing is self-care as it CELEBRATES me.
I drop tears every day. Over loss, grief and difficulty adopting to a new life without a mother to run to. I drop tears every day. Over not enjoying the hobbies culminated during Covid. I drop tears every day. Over not having family, being alone with no emergency contacts close by. I drop tears every day. Over the person who once was me filled with purpose, goals and drive. I drop tears every day. Over dying alone in a hospital or nursing home.
The movie, “Wit”caused trauma and profoundly solidified, how I’ll draw my last breath. Alone, with a terminal disease, in hospice and only a nurse by my bedside. The same scenario happened to my cousin who was born on the east and died in the west. I’d like to think you, my mom, will be waiting for me as I depart. Cooing words of love and singing, “You are my sunshine”. You watched me come into the world; I watched you go out.
I live to eat and not eat to live. I live to be and be to live. I live to please and please to live. I live to explore and explore to live. I live to live.
Memories are warm, snuggly like drinking a humongous mug of hot chocolate-milk not water and topped with gobs of whipped cream-no marsh mellows. I can laugh at our silliness over gin and tonics and smile over the hair always found in your food. I remember once your hair ended up in my mouth and I threw a fit as there were no tomorrows on the horizon. You swore apologies while the sun shined and refusing to accept them gave me power. Later that day, a thought emerged. One day I would long for your hair in my food.
Spam
The disgusting radioactive nitrate laden meat substitute
my single mom working full time
served with love and a pan-fried egg drenched in Mazola
Spam
Cooked in a small non-stick pan by
I, the latchkey kid to consume
after a vicious name calling day at Catholic school
Spam
Easy to open, cut into parts and thrown
into a pan of hot oil-how
the outside world treats a BLACK kid
Spam
The adult me still craves it and cooks it
although it’s now cooked in olive oil
as mom passed on
Spam
The consumption of this toxic delicacy is triggered by
childhood memories popping up time to time
along with mom working so hard
Spam
The packaging feels like steel protecting the
soft meat inside
like how mí alma prepares itself before stepping out…
* mí alma-my soul
I seldom talk about my sister Evie Marie, a.k.a. Judy.
Evie was nicknamed Judy
because she had Judy Garland eyes. I got stuck with Elenita-I guess I didn’t look like any movie star.
Born in Jamaica,
she’s the third child and the only one born at home. I wish I had more information on her home birth but mom, my mom passed on. This is where the should haves, could haves, did not haves- the questions that grief will never answer or let you forget.
My sister
was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis years ago and though it is not medically proven I think the home birth was responsible in some way. Our family has no MS history unless it is lurking in the mud of truths be not told.
It is not rapidly
progressive. Evie’s eyes are affected which can make reading difficult and she has trouble walking at times. Heat and humidity exacerbate the symptoms especially in the summer when she’ll stay indoors most of the time.
She was
an artist.
I don’t know if she continues to draw as I have not questioned her out of fear of hurting.
Evie drew
realistic and dreamy poses of fictional characters created from the reading of romance novels. She was addicted to those novels. Yes, she read classics, but not as ferociously as she did romance novels.
Gosh, did I mention she was a romance novel addict?
I became one too,
reading her books as soon as she was done. I was reading Jackie Collins when I should have been figuring out what the heck Dr. Seuss meant with his words.
She
introduced me to rock music-Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd and The Who. I also went with her to see “Tommy” when it was released in the movie theatre.
Thinking back on that experience reminds me of my first concert, “Meatloaf-Bat out of hell”, too young to understand but I went with the flow. Once again, I should have stuck to deciphering, Dr Seus.
Evie taught me
to play chess for which I got pretty good at. I’m not so much the strategic kinda person but rather crush, kill, destroy.
My sister took me
to the Brooklyn Public Library once a week, where I was able to research all those biblical things the nuns never spoke of in Catholic school. I was a pro at using the card catalog, and microfilm. My love of researching was planted and Evie helped to nourish it.
My sister Evie, third one born
did not make fun of my depression or say I needed meds when I expressed my hurt over some family members mistreatment. Her daughter never called me stupid, crazy or insane and insisted on addressing me as Aunt even though I preferred my name.
There are much more activities and interests my sister introduced and this play with words would turn into a novel if I were to list them.
I seldom talk about my sister Evie Marie, a.k.a. Judy.
But…
I did tell my sister I loved her and she said she loved me too and that means more than all the Pringle’s in the world.
Anélemc's Writing 
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