Saturday, February 27, 2016

Remembering Rosario by Lady Chaotic Monday


On September 11th, 1998, my grandmother, Rosario, passed away. She was an amazing woman, birthed 12 children, raising 9, as three had not survived, I never knew what their names were. My own mother is the oldest of her children, one of six daughters.

To say that the Mexican culture is a macho one is putting it mildly. In my culture, women are raised to make way for the men. Working, caring, birthing, cooking, cleaning, nursing and basically withstanding any and everything thrown our way. We are taught to love unconditionally and to take what little is given us in return. Infidelity, abuse, and worse are considered "normal".

My grandmother, however, had to put up with a lot of these things.  She wouldn't have let her kids or family know for a second she was anything but happy. Her biggest concern was her family and providing for them, raising them with morals, manners and with a better life than she had. She was warmth, love, comfort. She wasn't coddling, though.  Her affection was shown in coscorrones (a rap on the head with her knuckles) and pelliscones (pinches). She was tough and strict, but she would tolerate my hugs and kisses, and although everyone else was expected to call her "Abuelita" she allowed me to call her "Nana".

When I was 14, I went to live with her because my parents split up, and there was no place for me. I showed up at her house with almost no clothing. All I had was a paper grocery bag with a few pairs of underwear, a worn pair of jeans and a couple of tshirts.

I didn't start out like that, but when my parents split up, my (step)father remarried, within 3 months of the divorce.  At that time, I still believed my step-father was my real father, and he used my ignorance to his benefit. The lady he ended up marrying had children, who had friends. They ran rampant, stealing my clothes, cutting my hair... making my life miserable. I had to make excuses at school, to explain why my long, thick, waist-length hair suddenly became choppy and uneven, some places no longer than a half an inch.

I arrived on my Grandmother's doorstep, threadbare, emotionally and mentally beaten down. I was so happy, just to be somewhere where I was wanted. She made sure I had clothes, getting hand-me-downs for me, or just making them herself. I was fed, I was cared for, and I was loved.

A few months after my mother left me there, she came to join me, and we started our lives here in San Diego. She was just as beaten down as I was.  No, even more so, I had only 14 years of it, she, by that time, had 43 years of it. We found refuge, we found a home... after all the times that I had told my mother I wanted to run away, and we would hold each other and cry for hours, and finally we found a place where we didn't want to run from.

Remembering Rosario... remembering my comfort.

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