It's odd how a memory becomes triggered. When, a few weeks ago, I added myself to the ranks of those who adore Frida Kahlo, I did what most novice fans do and went to YouTube. I watched biographies, breakdowns about her art, and tours of La Casa Azul. A wave of nostalgia hit watching these tours, and I could not watch more than 3 minutes of the video without bursting into tears. I am not from Mexico, but some ineffable quality in the house made me think of Puerto Rico. Or Puerto Rico in the era I came of age in. It's been too long since I have visited the island and I do not know if the Internet wreaked as much havoc there as it is here, though I feel the answer would be yes. But... I was watching this video and it reminded me of my home on the island. It was a square edifice. All of the houses in the neighborhood were square and squat. I don't know if this is because it was better for the heat, or if they simply built like that due to what the architects had available. We had no glass windows, save for one over the shower. Our windows were metal blinds with screens. We had no air conditioning, so the blinds were often open, coordinating with the standing oscillating fans to blow the warm, dry air around. Keeping cool was a ritual of multiple daily showers, huge glasses of iced water, and sitting next to the fans.
We had metal, barred doors to protect us. I had a wonderful childhood in that my neighbors were kind, but the reality was that the crime rate in that era was terrifyingly high. It was not uncommon for a neighbor's son or grandson to steal petty items for drug money. We were four females, living alone, and the thefts and the occasional sounds of bullets or police helicopters pushed us to be prudent with our safety with the barred metal doors. A boundary. Sometimes I believe that society acts like boundaries are a locking away of oneself. We pretend to embrace them but push the boundaries of others constantly. A metal door is necessary to protect sometimes, and that is ok. It tells others that you love yourself enough to risk them not loving you.
But back to the house... once one walked out the metal door, the balcony had ample space to sit and enjoy the view of the street, and the distant green mountains. I recall sitting on the metal rocking chair and embroidering beads into one of my school projects. Listening to Britney Spears, Juan Luis Guerra, Marc Anthony, Sarah McLachlan, Stevie Knicks, Fuel. My town was on the coast but there was seldom a good breeze. I remember staring at the palm trees, hoping that a breeze would sway them and cool me down. I remember hearing the chickens in the yard and the dogs barking in the distance. If lucky, one could spy parrots on the neighbor's tree. The tree should have been cut, as it was cracking the houses around it, but it brought much-needed shade under its too-large boughs.
But of all the things in my old house, what made me smile was la casita chiquitita which was the number plate of our house. It was made of clay and painted in bright colors. It had the number 13 and was a tiny replica of a facade. The facade of our house. An adorable micro version of our home. A common tradition but one that I forgot. I mourn sometimes for the things that I forgot that I forgot. I wonder what other little memories will jostle after all my years of letting the United States sink into my skin and erase my identity. The years of being rejected for not having the ephemeral qualities that spell success in this country. Sometimes I cry because I'm too close, yet too far from my ethnicity, culture, and identity. How in some contexts I am too Latina, and in others not Latina enough. I miss the casitas and I miss who I was. I miss the color, the slowness, and the warmth of the sun reflected in the people. The word sol is more to me than the word sun. I smell the sharpness of the ocean when I think of sol, whereas the word sun makes me feel uncomfortable and out of breath.
¿Qué haría yo sin lo absurdo y lo efímero?
– Frida Kahlo
I wonder sometimes if this consciousness is the same, if I am the same, or if I am a mere fabrication, strung together by circumstances.
– Cassandra Khaw (The Salt Grows Heavy)