Appearing five to eight years younger than I am has had its advantages. At eighteen, I'd hop on the public buses of my then hometown of Lawrence, MA and pay fifty cents. That was the price for a seven to twelve year old but I wasn’t ashamed. Instead I forgoed the lipstick, put my hair in ponytails and even considered thrashing my body against the floor to keep my cheap ass ride.
When I turned twenty-one, I wanted to hop on men instead of buses. Wearing short shorts and mid drifts, I strutted around Lawrence during Semana Hispana (Lawrence’s poor mans version of the NYC Dominican & PR Parade) hoping to meet a Latino man. Instead I got a movie invitation by a fourteen year old and a “Diablo mami, tu si a buena!” by a twelve year old Dominican boy in Macho Man Training. I turned around and yelled, "I can be your momma!" before walking away.
Go to Love Trips: No Spring Chicken to read the rest!
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