Friday, June 28, 2013

They Didn’t Take Me in Handcuffs

I punched an old lady and I’m not proud.
I don’t think I’m a violent person.
                “Well, Ms. Garcia, Mrs. White’s family is willing to drop the charges. Her daughter, Nora, just came in.”
                I did this sort of serious, wide-eyed thing and tried to look apologetic.
                “Provided of course, you enroll in a therapy program to deal with your anger problems. And they’ll be looking elsewhere for Elder Care.”
                “Anger problems?” That had never been attributed to me before.
                “Yes, you see, they don’t want what happened to their relative to happen to another person’s say… grandmother. It’s really for the best.”
                “Mm…” I tried to sound thoughtful and agreeable.
                “Here are a few people we carry the cards of, you can see which takes your insurance. You’re free to go whenever, I believe Nora brought your car.”
                He left a Xeroxed page of business cards on his desk and escaped his office. I figured it his polite way of telling me he didn’t want to be in an enclosed space with me.
                I went to my car, smiling at the appropriate places on my way out.
                Playing over the events in my head, I still had trouble seeing where I was in the wrong… except  the act of physical violence against an 83 year old woman named Rose White.
                The car took a few tries to start, but it got there in the end. Some overly sweet-angry Taylor Swift wailed from my speakers, so I bobbed my head in approval—when there wasn't a way to change the radio station, a person learned to like a lot of things.
                When I got home, my kid sister sat in the living room; she was painting her arm with some brown goop—henna, I assumed from the smell. And I strongly doubted, as dumb as she was, she would smear shit on her arm.
                “Ay, mija.” My mom walked out of the kitchen, rubbing her hands on her apron. She was really the only one in the family with any of what Mrs. White would call “Mexican-ness.” My father was possibly Latino, but it didn't really matter, his family had lived in America for generations.
                “Ma… Could we just not talk about it?” I said as she embraced me tightly.
                “Could you try not to slap little old ladies? No? Then no comment from you.” She backed away, shaking her head. “The day one of mine would end up in jail, if your Nan was here now…” She made the sign of the cross.
                “I’m not going to jail, just therapy.” I walked into the kitchen, and returned to the living room with a coke.
                “Why did you hit Mrs. White?”  My sister asked, not looking up from the design she was painting on the back of her hand.
                “Let’s just say, Em, that she said some rude things and I lost my temper.”
                “Never hit people Emelina. It’s bad,” Ma said as she went to check on her casserole.
                “Duh. I’m not stupid.”
                “I have my suspicions,” I muttered.
                “Amalia!” Ma barked.
                “What’d she say?” Em insisted.
                “Your sister was being a brat.” Ma called from the kitchen.
                “No, Mrs. White.”
                “Nothing polite.” I opened my coke, taking a gulp.
                Ma bustled back in, wiping her hands on her apron, again, smoothing it as she dried them. “Are you sure you can’t just go to jail? It’s cheaper.”
                “Ma!”
                “Just saying.”  She sighed as she fell onto the couch. “What’s that?” She peered at Em’s hand.
                “It’s a paisley. It’s supposed to represent fertility.”
                “Ay Dios Mio.  Why does a girl of twelve need to worry about fertility, eh?”
                “It’s pretty, Ma.” Emelina held it out for inspection.
                “Next thing you know, you’ll end up like Amalia, here, beating defenseless old ladies for sport.”
                I was saved from responding by the sound of my dad’s pickup groaning down our street and into our driveway. Loud male voices laughed and talked jovially as they walked up to the front door.
                “Wait, really?” My father hooted, barely containing his laughter.
                “Yep; said she stole a ring, so she smacked her right across the face.” The storyteller was Juan, my brother.
                “Our Amalia?”
                “Can you believe it?”
                The front door banged open as my brother and father laughed their way in. They saw me sitting on the couch, glaring, and they abruptly stopped, trying to look serious.
                We all hung in silence for a second or two, but then it was too much for my brother, Juan, he burst out laughing again, clutching his sides. Followed by my father, then Ma, then Emelina.
                My father wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, “Did you actually get carted off by the police? Handcuffs and all?”
                “No, thank you very much, I went quietly. No handcuffs. And the family told them to let me go right as soon as they got there.”
 “Do you mind if I tell it with the handcuffs?”
                “Probably can’t stop you.”
                “Great. Now whose hungry? I want to take us out in honor of Amalia’s criminal record!” He loosened his tie as he walked to his bedroom.
                “I have a casserole in the oven,” Ma shouted at him.
                “Perfect!  Your casseroles are better cold.”         
                “I went to all this trouble to make you a delicious meal, especially since I worked hard all day, and you ruin it with the snap of your fingers!”
                As their faux-argument continued—everyone knew Father would win—Juan sat down on the couch.
                “She deserved it,” Juan said with conviction.
                “Maybe. I shouldn't have hit her though.”
                “Eh. No one hits anyone anymore, and she wasn't hospitalized or anything. It’s fine.”
                “She probably didn't know what she was saying. She’s pretty senile.” I didn't really want to admit she wasn't all together—it made my act even less excusable.
                “Crazy or not, she was rude.”
                “Oh stop.” He was determined to make me feel better and I was determined not to let it work.
                “She called you a… what now?”
                Em was watching us closely.
                “I’ll tell you later.”
*             *             *
                Summer is my favorite season, it is the only time when the entire family will sit out on the deck together, staring at the sky, even though the Bay Area smog hides the stars. That night in particular, my mom went in first, since she had to wake up early for work. Em was yawning widely, so Juan carried her in to her room. She was just pretending to be asleep, but I didn't blame her. I remembered doing the same thing so father would carry me from the car. I don’t really know why I did it, or why she did it.
                “So therapy, huh?” Father took a sip from his wine glass.
                “I thought we got past this?”
                “There are worse things.” He shrugged in his usual manner.
                “I’m sure.”
                “You know, some families in our neighborhood are excited about their first-generation college students, but we got something better… “
                “They didn't even put me in a cell.”
                “I know, I know. I tease.”
                “I didn't steal a ring.”
                “No one ever thought it, you know. You never struck us as the sticky-fingered type. Unless you lie real well.”
                “It was the daughter.”
                “Oh?”
                “Her muumuus— Mrs. White’s—had just finished drying so I went into her bedroom and there was Nora taking one of those ugly old ruby rings out the jewelry box. She told me that ‘I need not worry, mother won’t miss this,’ I did my best impression of Nora’s overly-proper tone—the one she only took on when she spoke to me.
                He chuckled, “Obviously Mrs. White didn't believe you.”
                “I never actually tried to tell her. She just called me a ‘filthy wetback harlot.’”
                “So you punched her.”
                “Yep. And then she ran, in her lilac bathrobe, out into the garden shed, wailing about the wicked Mexican who beat her.”
                “Ah. So it was the neighbors that called the cops.”
                “Yeeeeep.” Sighing, I looked up into the orangey-purple comforter of smog.
                “Have you picked a shrink yet?”
                “I was thinking family therapy would be most beneficial for someone in my state. Really get to the core of those issues.”
                “Your mama will be thrilled.”
                “I figured.”

                “Ay mija.” 

Family

For my next trick, I will be posting one of my short stories and prefacing that with my own opinion on family.

So here's the preface:

I come from a large family. I have two older sisters, and an older brother. All happily in some form of long term relationship, be it partnership, marriage, pre-engagement (she really, realllllllly wants him to propose), which doubles them. I have my mom and dad. And we have four dogs between the... *does the math really quickly on his fingers* the nine of us. And one cat. Oh right, and my oldest sister has recently had a son with her husband. Awkward. I always forget about him.

 But the fun doesn't stop there. My mom also comes from an extremely large family. As in she has six siblings. It goes on from there, but needless to say, Thanksgivings at our house are... crowded.


Despite all of my siblings and I being technically considered adults, that doesn't mean we are far from home. My oldest sister bought a house specifically so she could be close to our parents. My older (there's a distinction) sister is currently living at home after she graduated with her Master's in Social Work and is working. My brother lives very close as well. I live with my parents when I'm not in Oregon, at school. Beyond being geographically close, we're close. There's only an eight year difference between myself and my oldest sister, so we're close in age, too. All around, we're close. 

So the astute reader might be able to glean, from my gushing over family, that I like large families. There's a lot of craziness, often we don't all like each other, but there's always a lot of love. And that's the segway into the story. 

Friday, June 21, 2013

My Opinion on Blogging

Oh God Damn... I hate it. So much. I was never one for journaling. So why do I have a blog then? Well apparently, it's good for writers (or, in my case, aspiring writers) to keep blogs. Apparently, if you're a wholly unknown writer, it's a good way to build a readership. Am I being too transparent? Ah well, we share everything on the internet these days, right? For example: I have a headache. Roman is having and okay day. Went to the gas station and bought a coke zero. Raise the roof.

At any rate, I hope I can stick with a blog this time. I mean, I guess this thing has its uses too. I can try things out, see if they work. Hell, someone might actually read this. And then I'll probably have to be more appropriate with my language. Screw it.

I should probably introduce myself to whomever might read this. My name is Matt, I'm studying English and Writing at a university in Southern Oregon. I want to be a writer someday, but for now I'm planning on becoming a high school English teacher. Currently, I'm a resident assistant (RA) in the SOU residence halls.

Since this is still all about me: I write realistic fiction--short stories. I'd like to write fantasy one day, and maybe I'll try a few things out when it comes to that. Alright. I think I bared my soul enough for one day.