I usually don’t write at this hour. It is 12:20 AM. It’s a new day and a new week. I’m not over excited about the week starting. It signifies the beginning of the normal routine. Putting everyone’s ducks in a row, making sure they have all they need. Valentine’s Day festivities will be on Friday, necessitating the filling of tiny goody bags for tiny students that somehow seem so young, yet so much older than my daughter. By the time they eat their Hershey’s Kisses and soar on their sugar highs, I will be on my couch. Computer on my lap, hoping the day can end, so I can go to sleep too early and forget that the week even happened.
Yet here I am, at 12:23 AM, sitting in front of a glowing screen, needing to write. I promptly had conked out 5 hours ago, as I continued to voraciously read a Murderbot book, which quickly has turned into a small comfort and a safe space. I envision myself rereading it, learning the contours of each dialog and scene, a luxury I have not allowed myself since I was perhaps 22, reading Harry Potter books on release day, under a heavy quilt in my dorm room. But I digress.
My sleeping is a bit odd. My body often resists it in some way or other. Sometimes I am lucky, and experience all the cycles of it, but often it’s cut short. Sometimes in the beginning, but more often at 3AM on the dot. I wake up wondering why my body won’t just let me finish a night in peace. I read a little, toss and turn in the little nook where I sleep, but it’s always hard to return to slumber. I do hope writing now will help me go back asleep, but I feel restless, and my stomach feels tight, as if it were trying to protect me from my invisible worries.
45 minutes ago, when I awoke, I saw the Super Bowl Halftime show was uploaded on YouTube and I could not resist watching it. Oh, how beautiful! All those minute details coalescing into my childhood. The food, the joy, la caña, la música. The party, and even the white plastic chairs. Dominoes, Salsa, the openness. Living here on the mainland, I feel so censored. Like the bigness of my joy, my need to dance and sing badly is too much. The spices in my food make my partner’s family act surprised, as if adding ajo and sazón were so alien in a land that is afraid to turn up life’s volume. Even love... love here feels so routine and formulaic. Sex substituting love before descending into rote motions. Love feels almost shameful, something to hide instead of enjoying. I do regret many times, leaving the warmth of the sun of my island. Because I fail so much at keeping the shadows away from my own loneliness here, where people casually say so many ugly things about my people.
Perhaps it was a mistake to watch the show. I should have made some chamomile tea and sipped on it as I read myself back to sleep. I need to start my day in 4 hours and 25 minutes. Back to fielding angry texts about my daughter’s meltdowns, back to burned out coworkers who are trying to survive, and not being able to be the sun for anyone. Just I am more like a mule I feel sometimes. Useful, but never decorative. Functioning whether I get 2 or 8 hours of sleep with a tight smile, and wish for the slumber of the next Friday to come to me quick.
En el verde monte adentro, aún se puede respirar
Las nubes están más cerca, con Dios se puede hablar
Se oye al jíbaro llorando, otro má' que se marchó
No quería irse pa Orlando, pero el corrupto lo echó
Y no se sabe hasta cuando-
– Bad Bunny (LO QUE LE PASÓ A HAWAii)