Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story Read Free Page B

replied matter-of-factly and went to do the
dishes.
    Despojos , or “spiritual cleansings,” are something you know
of straight out of the womb if you’re a person of Caribbean descent. Most people
don’t know exactly how they’re performed or what they entail, but I was fairly certain
pixie dust and repetitive African chanting were part of the ritual. My apprehensive
state of terror must’ve been clearly visible because my aunt returned and placed
a hand on my back comfortingly. “Don’t worry, mija ,” she said. “It’s nothing
extreme. Just a simple cleansing to ensure you’re safe.”
    In true Cuban fashion, my aunt’s santera was late that
night, forcing my people and I to sit around staring at each other’s faces while
my grandmother smoked a tobacco in the living room as she watched her novela .
Half an hour in the phone rang, and our santera’s pimp informed my aunt she wouldn’t
be able to join us that evening, as she was suffering from a painful bout of arthritis
and couldn’t find a ride to our house (spotting a taxi in Cuba is like snagging
yourself a straight man during Gay Pride Weekend in South Beach). I smiled internally
and let out a sigh as I watched my aunt nod and say, “Yes, I understand. No hay
problema.” She promptly hung up the phone and clapped us to attention, “She
will do it over the phone so everyone get ready! Grandma Blanca, you’ll be the translator.”

    Thirty minutes later, I was sitting on a chair in the kitchen
wearing all white, four ladies donning the same virginal attire around me in a squared
circle of trust. Grandma Blanca inhaled from her pipe peacefully as she held on
for the call, proving that in life we only hurry while young and patience is a virtue
we begin to possess only when we’re dying. The phone sounded promptly at nine and
I could feel my stomach doing flip flops in nervous protest as the ringing echoed
throughout the house. I hardly had a chance to marvel at the absurdity of it all
when Blanca requested everyone to turn off all lights and strike a match. It was
reasonable to think maybe a piece of my hair needed to catch fire as the induction
to this phenomenal ritual, but my aunt walked past me and lit 12 candles, which
she and the rest of the helpers set down in a circle around me. Helper No. 2 grabbed
scissors and began to walk in my general direction.
    “Cut the cloth and wrap it around her head,” my grandmother commanded.
“None of her hair should be visible.” After my head was wrapped like a white burrito,
I was ordered to drink a cup of hot tea that tasted like sewer water as quickly
as I could. “This will help clean you from the inside out,” my aunt offered. I wondered
if drinking shit was a means of cleansing but just nodded and drank while I thought
of puppies and cupcakes from my favorite bakery in South Miami.
    Tico came in at that moment rocking his usual getup of skinny jeans,
black t-shirt, and permanent cigarette stuck to his mouth. The curly long hair and
rapist mustache he’d been rocking since the 90s were apparently still a thing, and
he pushed a curl back as he sweetly inquired what we were doing. I glared at him
with all the dignity I could muster in my state and he winked at me, obviously taking
pleasure in torturing me just as he had when I was a child and my parents forced
me to eat okra because “it made your hair grow.” Tico would buy bags and bags of
the gooey vegetable and cook it with pork chunks every time he babysat me. I’d cry
and spit the okra into a napkin after each bite but then he’d be all, “Don’t you
want your hair to grow?” and I’d swallow it in silence while he watched and laughed
cruelly at my gullible innocence. Years later, I’d learn to love okra and realize
that it didn’t make your hair grow but it’s okay because that’s what extensions
and weave are for and God-damn-it-I’ve-digressed.
    After feathers were brushed against my entire body and thrown in a
bag that was later