Naturally

Certain things come naturally for people. It comes natural for my friend Chloe to walk to her mirror, comb over her long locks, and exclaim “I’m a sexy bitch”. It comes natural for my friend Penelope to suggest a trade – purchasing beautiful bridesmaid gowns or taking a trip for her bachelorette fiesta – to lower costs for her wedding party. It comes natural for my cousin Kayla to inspect pieces of cooked chicken in search of potential “pinkness” that may cause salmonella. I am no different. Though I don’t praise myself like you would a Greek goddess or accuse restaurants of potential food poisoning, I have an unexplainable addiction to Coco Rico and Puerto Ricans, a natural dislike for mushy foods, and, though I can’t sit through a single horror movie, I am drawn to vampire flicks and watch as the vampires suck your blood. But what is most natural is my constant need for immediate results and quick answers. It is why I returned to the world of Tarot and the Barajas after my ass whooping. Nothing felt more natural than sitting with a psychic advisor and having my future predicted.

I followed the psychic down the long corridor, where wet clothes hung from her self-made clothesline. She waved me into the kitchen and motioned me to sit down on a plastic-covered chair. I sat as she opened a drawer and picked up a pack of cards. She then carried her robust body toward the stove, twisted the front knob, and lit a white candle with the flame.

“A quien es que conoces?” she asked while taking a seat across from me.

(Who is it that you know?)

“Chloe – ella venido donde usted para leerse las barajas,” I replied.

(Chloe – she’s come to you to get her cards read.)

“No me recuerdo de ella, pero lla estas aqui, verdad?”

(I don’t remember her, but you’re already here, right?)

I nodded. My heartbeat quickened as she shuffled the cards. She placed them on the kitchen table and asked me to split the cards into two piles, just like the Dominican-Spanish-speaking psychic. My hands shook as I did what was instructed. I then pulled out a piece of paper and a pen from my purse in order to write her predictions.

“Ay un muchacho - mas joven que tu, trigeñito, alto – el va a volver donde ti,” she said.

(There’s a guy – younger, dark skinned, tall – he will come back.)

I smiled. My muscled relaxed and I began to breathe. I knew it was Elijah. I jotted it down. She then recapped our history – the break-up, his ex, everything – and told me about his current status. Elijah hadn’t returned to his ex. He didn’t want to be with her though she constantly called. I felt my faith being restored, and then she said:

“Tu y el vuelven, pero va ser diferente. El esta por aqui, por alla, metido en muchas cosas. Si el no te enseña que va ser responsable, que tu puedes contar con el, no van a durar.”

(You will get back together but it’ll be different. He’s here, there, involved in many things. If he doesn’t show you that he will be responsible, that you can count on him, then you two won’t last.)

I sat there, silent, and remembered his behavior over the past months. Elijah had been unreliable and scattered. But maybe he will change. It came natural for me to focus on the positive.

“Yo quiero preguntarle algo,” I asked.

(I want to ask you something.)

I paused for a second, wondered if I really wanted to know the answer.

"El es el hombre para mi?” I asked.

(Is he the one?)

She scanned over the cards, looked at one, then another and said:

“No, no es el hombre para ti.”

I lowered my head and scribbled “he’s not the one for me”. While I folded the sheet of paper, she said:

“Pero va ver otro hombre en tu vida. El es alto, indiesito como tu, pelo negro. Lo vas a conocer este año. Te va gustar mucho y van ha estar juntos.”

(But there will be another man in your life. He is tall, your skin color, black hair. You will meet him this year. You will like him a lot and you will be together.)

I opened the sheet of paper once again and wrote: “another man, tall, my color, this year”. I paused, reread the prediction and contemplated crossing out the words. But I didn’t. The words “he’s not the one for me” caught my eye. I immediately turned the page over to find the other prediction. “We will be together again –“ We will be together again. I ignored the rest, naturally.

Whooping Ass

No one likes to get a beat down, but sometimes it's necessary to be smacked around a little bit. Baby bottoms’ must be smacked after babies are pushed from their cozy womb. Male cheeks should be smacked after male hands grab female cheeks. Lips of sons and daughters could be smacked if those same lips shout “I hate you!” to mamas. I’ve experienced necessary beatings myself. Mami once whacked me with a pink leather belt after she caught me throwing pieces of platanos out the kitchen window. A nurse struck my arm over and over again to get my stubborn vein to “pop”. My head was smashed onto a headboard during a night of great sex. But none of these beat downs compared to the ones I received by Elijah during Limbo. The thrashings were necessary for my awakening.

The first punch was swung a few weeks after Elijah had picked up his things. I called him and told him I missed him. He threw a jab and told me he had spent the night before drinking beers with his ex-girlfriend but that his feelings for me hadn’t changed. I swung back, told him he was a full of shit and that I never wanted to speak to him again.

Two weeks later, I bobbed and weaved in an attempt to duck his upper cuts. He said my dramatic reaction reinforced his decision to be single. His words caught me off guard. I lost my concentration and was hit.

During my 27th birthday there was another rumble. He failed to show up to my pre-birthday celebration. I was liquored up, ENRAGED, therefore drank and dialed about twenty times. He didn’t pick up once. The next morning I woke up with a hang over and battered cheek.

The biggest beating came after six months of Limbo. I decided to remain in Philadelphia for the night after flying in from Miami. I hoped Elijah and I could spend some time together though the possibility of a beating was certain. While pressing send on my cell phone and hearing the rings, I prayed for a truce.

“Hey, I got a hotel room. So I will be staying the night,” I said.

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

“The Doubletree Hotel, it’s really nice.”

“Yeah I know that hotel. I’ve stayed there before.” he said.

His hook made direct contact with my jaw. My jaw dropped and my eyes watered. I couldn’t believe he was reliving a moment in a hotel room, possibly a moment with his ex. I inhaled and regained my composure.

“So are we gonna hang out?” I asked.

“I have to go to a barbecue at my brother’s girl’s house and to a few others. I don’t know how long I’ll be. It may be too late.”

I inhaled and tried again.

“It’s ok. It’s a holiday. We’ll go to a bar for a few hours.” I said.

“I’ll have to drive out there and then drive back. All that just for a few hours – “

“So what does that mean? We’re not going to see each other?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, babe. I’ll have to see,” he replied.

Smack! My face swung from right to left. With cell in hand, I began to pace across the carpeted floor before stopping in front of the long mirror. My expression was somber. My eyes lacked shine. Bruises began to form underneath my eyes and right cheek.

“So you want me to wait. I don’t want to be stuck inside, here –“

“I hate that you always wait to see what I’m doing to make plans! Go out and have fun regardless of what I’m doing! Don’t wait for me!”

Jab! Jab! Upper cut! Smack! Hook! Teeth cracked. Saliva flung from my mouth. Crimson red flowed from my lips. I stared at my reflection. I stared at the mess. He thought I was dependent on him. He thought I was holding him back. There was no “us”. That was the reality.

I mumbled a goodbye while holding back tears of pain. He said he would call back but it didn’t matter. Denial was being stripped away. Hope vanished with every throb, every black and blue, every necessary beat down. I fell onto the King sized bed and cried out loud. Just like a baby does after the first smack. I had finally awakened.

Limbo

I willingly participate in the game of Limbo. I hold the wooden stick in my hands while my body shimmies underneath it, over and over again. The game begins with a steady chant - how low can you go, how low can you go. My back then attempts to bend as a gymnast who is mastering the balance beam at the Olympics. My gaze remains locked on the ceiling. My hair dangles from my scalp, sweeping the floor. The chant quickens, crescendoes - HOW LOW CAN YOU GO, HOW LOW CAN YOU GO! The intensity pushes me further into the tricks and twists of Limbo. My determination to triumph over Limbo clouds my judgment. My lack of balance and flexibility leads me to fall flat on my ass.

I always manage to pick myself up. My ass and ego bruised. And I always engage in Limbo again because the promises of prizes and triumph entice me. I found myself dancing Limbo with Elijah after our break-up.

I lay on my bed watching Elijah pack up his Rowan sweater, blue sweat pants, and a pair of blue and green checkered pajama pants. He folded each item of clothing and zipped up his black duffel bag. I lifted my head from the pillowcase, wiped away the dampness from my cheeks, and picked up the envelope on my nightstand.

"I developed the pictures I took when Ingrid was here and we all went out," I said.

I handed him the envelope and watched his fingers pull out the pictures. I studied Elijah's gaze as he focused on one particular shot: Elijah standing behind me. His arms wrapped around my small frame. His smile wide and eyes beaming.

"This is a really nice picture," he said.

"Yeah. We were really happy," I replied.

He looked up at me, smiled a toothless smile unlike the picture in his hands and said:

"Sujeiry, I hope this doesn't ruin the chances of us getting back together. I eventually want to get back together with you."

I stood there. Relief washing away my fear of loosing him. I felt hopeful, almost happy because I believed his words, the sincerity in his eyes. Elijah picked up his duffel bag, placed it on his right shoulder and stood there, waiting for my response.

"It won't ruin it. I know you care about me. But we'll just have to see what happens," I replied.

I walked Elijah to the door, knowing what would happen. That I would wait for his return. We kissed goodbye. I stood there as he walked down the stairs with his duffel bag. The cold December air hit my bare feet; I shivered. My back leaned against the open door as I closed my eyes and imagined our eventual reunion. I closed my eyes. The chanting began - how low can you go, how low can you go . Slow and steady. I closed my eyes and envisioned myself beating Limbo.

Accepting The Process

Everything in my life follows a certain process. I put my socks on before putting on my shoes, always beginning with my right foot. I put on deodorant after putting on my shirt. And when I shop at the supermarket, I always begin in the frozen foods section. Find the neon green "Pizza" sign hanging from the ceiling, shiver while swinging open the glass door, and grab four pepperoni-topped Celeste's.

I also follow a routine after every break-up. It is emotional in nature, consisting of a lot of hope and even more denial. My break-up with Elijah was no exception.

After the door closed behind me, Elijah and I walked over to the couch, sitting on opposite ends, to discuss the future of our relationship. My body shook as he began to express himself.

"My feelings for you haven't changed. This isn't a rejection," he said.

My heart surged. I felt hopeful. I knew we could make our relationship work.

"But I still need time," he said.

He lowered his head and remained silent as my heart raced and temper flared.

"I think you should pack up your clothes," I replied.

I wanted a reaction.

"We're not breaking up," he said.

I stroked the side of his face with my right hand and smiled. I felt hopeful once again, opened my long arms and held Elijah in an embrace. I asked him for a kiss and he did so willingly. As we kissed, I strolled through the aisle of Denial, where Nostalgia and Faith were always in stock, and grabbed a handful of both. Our lips then parted. I opened the door. He said he would call. Back to hope again.

I locked the door and sat on the checkered pattered loveseat. Tears of sadness and confusion flowed for hours. I then walked to my bedroom and lay atop my green and beige comforter. Held my pillow while replaying his words in my head. We're not breaking up. We're not breaking up. We're not breaking up. The words filled me with ease. I wanted to hold on to what we had and all the good he had shown me. I fell asleep feeling hopeful.

The next morning reality hit. He wasn't lying next to me, watching me with his caramel-colored eyes as he had so many times. I couldn't call him to wish him good morning though I yearned to do so. I didn't know when I would see him next. Hope had been returned, stacked neatly in Denial behind Anger and Faith. That morning I was only left with Sadness, only left with awareness. I would have to complete the process. I would have to learn to move on and embrace Acceptance.