Meet My Mami

My mother is a wonderful mami. She scrubs away stains and whitens my whites with bleach, crouched inside our tub; the water swirling around her ankles as if she were washing rags in rivers of the Dominican Republic. She bakes a tray of tasty perni - seasoned with lemon, Adobo, and oregano - to later pack my leftovers inside plastic Tupperware. And she never fails to purchase a 2-liter bottle of Coco Rico - my favorite carbonated beverage – every time I visit. I can always count on her to hide the green tinted bottle underneath the dining room chair so no one else will drink it.

She is the best mami in the world. Not only because of her impressive domestic skills and her selfless ability to cater to my every whim, but also because, like most Latina mami’s, she defends her children even if it means drowning in the depths of self-denial, transforming the naughtiest of sins into acts of sainthood. And like most Latina mami’s she is overprotective, which can be both soothing and infuriating. It feels wonderful when she massages my lower back pain with Icy Hot. It’s an entirely different scenario when, in the middle of deep sleep, she smears my temples and nostrils with Vicks to “open up” my sinuses.

Elijah’s mami was no different. She would stop at nothing to protect him from possible harm. She called whenever he would spend the night, questioning his whereabouts, and scolding him, stating he had a warm bed to sleep in at home. She questioned my intentions as I was five years Elijah’s senior, convinced I would eventually want “a man who was established, with a career and a house.” And this was also the woman who, as Elijah stated once: “wouldn’t speak to you if she didn’t like you.” It was no surprise I was terrified when Elijah asked me to meet his mami...

He turned the knob and I imagined being greeted by a Columbian amazon woman since Elijah reached a full six feet. But there was no one but me and Elijah. I stood in the small first floor foyer as he bent over and took off his sneakers one by one. He then placed them among fuzzy gray chancletas (slippers) and two pairs of mustard Timberland boots. I gripped the bottom of the thick white columns that towered over me from the above floor and leaned against the wall. The columns were supported by a metal rail as I was supported by the wall.

“Should I take my boots off?” I asked.

“No, that’s ok. I just take them off to be comfortable,” he replied.

I looked down at my feet and then at the collection that lay to my right. It seemed everyone felt comfortable barefoot.

Elijah grabbed my hand and I followed him up three short steps. We then stood there, waiting. In the background was the sound of running water. The shhhh coming from behind a mauve colored wall, next to a dining set. I scanned the open space as we waited. There were four plush chairs surrounding a wooden center table. A majestic area rug, with hints of gold and red, lay underneath. We were then in silence; I longed to hear one more drip.

“Mija!” yelled Elijah.

“Ahora voy, papito!” she replied.

My hands felt clammy. I placed them on my jeans and slightly began to rub them up and down. Elijah’s mami emerged from behind the wall.

“This is Sujeiry,” Elijah said.

Her big brown eyes traveled from my heels to my face then back. I wished I had taken off my shoes. Her toffee colored arms lay across her chest. She was small framed like me - must have been about 5 foot 3 inches - but she was still intimidating. I smiled, embraced her and planted a kiss on her left cheek.

“Mucho gusto,” I said.

“Igualmente,” she replied.

She asked where I was from and what I was studying. All things she had learned from Elijah. But I was elated she was speaking to me. The conversation, mostly compromised of small talk, ended quickly. Elijah then grabbed my hand and we walked toward his bedroom. She stood in the hallway, watching me as my heels clicked against the hardwood floors.

Elijah and I lay in bed watching Stewey hit his mami on the Family Guy. I looked at Elijah and asked,

“You think your mom liked me?”

“I think she did.”

He planted a kiss on my lips, unwrapped himself from my legs and went to use the bathroom. I lay on my side, hoping he was right, when there was a knock on the door. A few seconds passed and his mami peeked her head in.

“Tienes hamber?" she asked.
(Are you hungry?)

“Si, gracias.” I replied.

“Te traigo un plato ahora,” she said with a smile.
(I will bring you some food)

She walked away, closing the door behind her, and I knew she liked me. She seemed just as wonderful as my mami.

An Unexpected Ambush

In past relationships, I sought to win a man’s heart through the use of special tactics. My strategies were well plotted as if I were a trainer in a military boot camp. But unlike my fellow military comrades who attempt to accomplish their goals through the art of humiliation, I always began my ploys with the art of seduction. I cooked up great meals – rice and beans with chicken or cheesy saucy lasagna – and greeted the man in question with sexy see-through lingerie to later drop and give him twenty. If this ploy didn’t work, my impatience would soon take hold, transforming my generous spirit into an uncontrollable anger. Just like a drill sergeant spewing commands, I would yammer and pound until splotches of pink covered my caramel-colored complexion and the man under attack collapsed.

My mentality was no different when I began dating Elijah. Though we were spending every weekend and most weekdays together, I wasn’t convinced I had won his heart. Though he held my hand and kissed me in public, I was filled with doubt as he had begun to throw his own tantrums – occasional rants about his ex-girlfriend. His biggest explosion occurred while we were driving back to his home on a Thursday night. His hands gripped the steering wheel and his voice rose with every syllable, with every detail of their break-up exposed. My insecurities immediately kicked in and I decided it was time to begin my mission.

The next morning, Elijah had woken up early and had left me sleeping. I took advantage of his absence, grabbed the hot pink nighty from my night bag and waited for him on his King sized bed underneath blankets and sheets. I shut my eyes when I heard footsteps approaching the door. I turned to lie on my back, adjusting my body to the most “come hither” position. The door opened and closed. The steps grew closer and I then felt the right side of the mattress sink with his body weight. The mattress creaked as he leaned on his right side and lay beside me. He then gently traced my face with his fingertips and whispered,

“I am so happy you’re here.”

My eyes fluttered opened and there he was. Still stroking my face and simply watching me with tender, loving eyes. I looked away, overwhelmed by the intimacy and intensity of the moment, and faced the ceiling. His touch, which had disappeared as I pulled the cottony covers to my nose, found me again. I managed to face him and surrendered to his gaze. We remained in bed for hours and I allowed him to show me how to love without trickery.

Living Out Clichés

“Life is full of surprises” is the cliché of all clichés. The world is full of them, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. I’ve heard them all, while wiping cheeks stained with mascara and tears. Those expressed with a hint of determination and a dash of embitterment like, “there are plenty of fish in the sea” and the always profound “shit happens”. And others that soothe, providing a sense of perspective like, “it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all”. But “life is full of surprises” is one of the few overly-used phrases that continues to prove its validity. Why just a few days ago my friend Chloe received her unexpected surprise. Her boyfriend informed her that after almost a year, his bitch-of-an-ex-girlfriend would be relocating from the sunshine state back to the empire state. But not all of life’s surprises come in form of a bitch slap. My cousin Kayla was recently engaged after a nine-year courtship with her baby’s daddy. He popped the question when she least expected it - at the point in their relationship when she had convinced herself it would never happen.

I’ve also experienced my share of surprises. Random emails from past boyfriends. Running into men I had permanently deleted from my cell. Six-degrees of separation with an ex and a new beau. But there is one event that I choose to replay in my mind almost daily. It is a moment I choose to remember as it also reminds me of yet another infamous cliché – “things happen when you least expect them”.

There I was, sitting atop the hardness of a blue seat, waiting for the Rowan Camden shuttle to take off and bring me to Rowan University’s main campus in Glassboro. The shuttle doors flapped shut and the driver turned around, exposing his pale skin and silvery hair. His thin lips moved slowly as he counted the number of students with his small blue eyes, beginning from the back of the shuttle bus and moving toward the front. He finally arrived at my seat but his gaze soon continued on, shifting to the young man sitting in the seat above me on my right.

The young man was dark skinned and tall. His hair perfectly curled and styled. The bright stud that hung from his ear shimmered as the sun peered from behind the clouds, setting its rays on the stone through the glass window. He sat there, his defined brows crossed and forehead furrowed, as he dialed numbers on his cell phone. I looked away, though I was surprisingly curious. He wasn’t my type but there was something about him. The shuttle took off and I watched the red bricks of buildings fade before encountering a traffic jam on Route 42.

“Fuck!”

My eyes strayed from the car bumpers and black asphalt and set themselves on the young man. The fuck had come from his mouth. He shut his cell phone and turned his body to face me.

“Excuse me. Is there usually this much traffic?

“I don’t know - this is the first time I take the shuttle.” I replied while observing him.

He curled his fingers around the metal rail in front of him. His shoulders tensed up as he stretched his neck in an effort to get a better view of the road.

“I don’t know if I have the patience to deal with this,” he said.

“Well, I really don’t have a choice. I’m from New York - I don’t drive,” I said.

He smiled, exposing his straight white teeth, and asked, “Are you a transfer student?”

“No. I’m a grad student in the writing program.”

He glanced back at me, brows raised now. He grabbed his green and black backpack and slid into the seat next to me. We were now face to face. His eyes - slanted downward and the color of coffee beans - were gentle, though his body language exuded strength and confidence. He seemed to be perfectly balanced between the masculine and feminine.

“How old are you? he asked.

“26,” I said.

He smiled again, like my being 26 had increased my chances, and said:

“Wow, I thought you were 20, 21 tops. So where are you living out here?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve been commuting to and from New York for the past week and just going to my assistantship in Camden. It’s a long story. Today is my first day of class.” I said.

As I spoke, he pulled out a piece of yellow lined paper from a notepad.

“I’m going to give you my number, just in case you need anything,” he said.

I smiled as he scribbled his name, number, and email address. He handed it to me and said:

“My name is Elijah by the way.”

I looked up at him and then looked away for a second, attempting to hide my shock. I turned back to face him and told him my name; he told me it was pretty. I thanked him, glanced down at the torn yellow paper where his name was written in big slanted letters, then folded the paper and placed it inside my wallet. He ripped another sheet of paper from his notepad so I could jot down my information. I wrote my name, number, and email address as he had, handed it to him and smiled. I guess all things do come to those who wait.

My Future, Me and Mr. E

There was a time I obsessed over the future and had an entire lot of psychics at my disposal, ready to summon spirits and read auras. There was the Guatemalan woman who read cards in the back of a botanica - the tarot cards read on a table behind a checkered cubicle curtain – who said I would continue my studies in 2005. I was impressed, until she thought I was a high school student. Then there was the Dominican woman who read las barajas atop a four legged folding table inside her hall closet. Once while lighting a white candle, she told me she pictured a terrorist attack with water as the weapon. Now, what did that have to do with my love life? And how I can forget the Dominican Spanish speaking Haitian. His spiritual center located downstairs of an income tax/real estate/cash delivery business. He predicted a man I dated would call me in three days, and he did! But in the next visit he urged me to break “the hex” cast on my romantic life by purchasing his special love bath. I was disturbed and immediately turned off, and at that instant I decided I would refrain from going to psychic’s regularly. Allow events in my life to take place without advance warning. But I had one more trip to take before going cold turkey. It was time to go to New York City’s Greenwich Village to visit J.D., the infamous Italian gay psychic.

I arrived at J.D.’s lavish home with my friend Chloe two months before my 25th birthday. A tall thin man opened the door and led us into a bi-level apartment. He motioned us toward the white leather couches sitting amid bamboo plants and glass tables. As we took our seats, he offered us a drink from the water cooler that stood against a white wall (just like in an office.) Chloe and I declined the offer. He then opened a black book, asked for our names, and then for seventy five dollars each. I dug into my purse, gave up three twenties, a ten and a five, and sunk back into the couch, starring at the sculptures, the paintings, the giant flat screen TV. It seemed J.D. was making quite a living telling fortunes.

I was the first to go. I rose from the softness of the couch and left Chloe searching through the fashion magazines stacked atop the coffee table. After walking up five steps and turning to my left, I entered another immaculate room. There was J.D. - bald, overweight, and color coordinated in what resembled silk pajamas. He sat behind a desk, swiveling in his chair and waving me in. While I approached, he stopped swiveling and began scribbling notes on a post-it. I sat there for a few seconds waiting for his voodoo magic to take place – a candle lit, a moan, the sprinkling of holly water, the unwrapping of a set of tarot cards, anything - but he just sat there, starring, scribbling away. I leaned back on the chair and he finally brought down the pencil and spoke.

“You’re 24. An Aries. So that means that you’re a bit of a handful at times. Men have a hard time keeping up with you,” he said.

I laughed. “Yeah, something like that.”

“But they’re the ones missing out, honey. When you’re in love, watch out! You give everything! You’re passionate, loyal, trustworthy, giving, and you can go anywhere and have a blast. They’re fools!”

I smiled. This psychic was fun, and so right.

“And I also see children all around you, lots of them. You’re a teacher.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Man, you’re good.” I said.

“Honey, it only gets better. Let’s talk about why you’re really here, your love life” he said.

I laughed, inched myself toward the front of my chair, and pulled at my pinky ring to ease my nerves.

“Your next relationship will be at 26.”

My eyes widened.

“What?!” I shouted.

“Honey, don’t get all huffy on me. This is going to be good for you. This man is going to sweep you off your feet. He’s going to show you things you’ve never experienced, honey. You are going to be in heaven, in love. But it will be when you are 26. Not now. Now you’ll just have fun.”

“But 26 is so far away,” I replied.

I leaned back, feeling defeated once again.

“Listen to me. It’s going to happen at 26. And his first name, his first name will begin with the letter E. You can’t fight Destiny, honey!”

I gave him half a smile and pushed myself off the chair. It was all J.D. could tell me at that moment. I would have to take it or leave it. We shook hands and he told me to come back at 27. Not in a month, not in a year, but at 27. I nodded and while walking back down the stairs I wondered if I could live a life of uncertainty. If I could actually survive the months with that one inside tip. I promised myself it would have to do. Meeting Mr. E at 26 would just have to do. Because I couldn’t fight Destiny, honey.

Rescuing Destiny

My poetry professor disowned Destiny. He, who raises his arms in praise when speaking of the beautiful language of poetry, who strokes the reddish blonde hair on his chin while gladly absorbing silence, and who recites the words of Robert Frost using his redneck alter ego. He completely dismissed her as mumbo jumbo during the critique of my last poem. And again after class while we stood in Bozorth’s lobby, facing muted television sets. So I decided to rescue Destiny from Professor X’s skepticism. While the NASDAQ numbers flashed across one of the television screens and Larry King’s lips mouthed words on another, I recounted the events that allowed me to accept the intangible…

I slept atop my full-sized bed, covers over my head though it was almost the end of August, when my cell started singing its version of a salsa. I fumbled my way toward my night stand - fingers jingling keys and moving aside bobby pins - before finally grabbing onto the slick metal. My thumb nudged itself between the mouthpiece and earpiece and flipped the phone open. Twelve bright blue numbers appeared: 856-256-4000. I brought the phone closer into view and pressed the green ignore button. The half note of the salsa became a quarter note before I closed the silvery flap and fell back into my trance.

At 12pm, I finally opened my eyes. I lay on my back and stared at the cracked white ceiling above me, tracing the zig-zag of the lines with crusty eyes. One of the lines had joined forces with another, to continue on with the destruction of plaster and white paint. They had created the symbol of infinity. The number 8. Eight, I thought. Eight, five, six. I jumped out of bed and grabbed my phone. My thumb pressed the missed call button and there it was - the unknown number. My thumb then pushed send.

“Hello and welcome to Rowan University. If you know your parties extension, please dial it now.”

I took the phone away from my ear and closed my eyes. The blurry details zoomed into memory: unbearable buzzing of my cell informing me of a message, dialing *86 and my password, retrieving a message from someone in the ESL department somewhere in Rowan University, pushing the number seven at the end of the message, hanging up and falling back into a zombie like comma.

My eyes watered as I realized the gravity of my mistake. I had erased a message about a possible graduate assistantship, the second offer I had received from Rowan University in a 2 week time span. My legs trembled, like two piano keys that had been struck over and over again but I managed to pull myself together. I held my long legs up to my chest, inhaled, and let go. My legs repositioned themselves, dangling over my full-sized bed. My toes barely skimming the floor. I lay on my back again facing eight, infinity, forever.

I stretched out my arms and decided I would forget about the assistantship. But before I could do that I needed one more look. I walked over to my laptop, directed the arrow towards the little blue e on the screen, and went on to the Rowan website. A picture of a lit building appeared. Its tall glass windows welcoming me as did the words, “Welcome to Rowan University”.

My eyes scanned the site and absorbed the information that attracted me to Rowan - the flexibility of the writing classes, the course descriptions and program requirements. And that’s when I saw it across the page - ESL Faculty and Staff. I held my breath and hit the Enter key. And there they were. The twelve magic numbers.

“Rowan Camden, how may I help you?”

I recounted the events to the secretary once and was placed on hold. My breath began to quicken. My temples ached. My fingernails exposed the pink that lies underneath the nail bed.

”Sorry to keep you on hold. I don’t know who called you exactly but I’ll transfer you to someone else who may be able to help you,” she said.

“Ok. Thanks for trying,” I replied.

I closed my eyes again. Memories of another kind filled my thoughts. Massive branches of Red Oak trees. Blades of grass dripping wet from rain. The face of a man I didn’t recognize –

“Hello Sujeiry, how are you? This is Janet."

"Hello Janet. I'm doing well." I replied.

"I was actually the one who called you about an interview for a graduate assistantship."

My eyes shot open.

“Oh, it was you. That's great!" I replied.

“Can you come in on Thursday at 3pm? Does that work for you?”

“Thursday is perfect.” I replied.

"See you then".

I hung up the phone and exhaled. Thursday would be the day to receive what was meant. I knew it was Destiny.