Page 42 - WTPVolI Vol.#4

If the stories about her were true, then the woman, Mrs. Ling, had fallen far from where she’d once stood: a star upon the stage.
The first time I saw her, I was staring out of the second story window of my office wondering why the hands of the clock on the old Tribune building didn’t move. She caught my attention because she was so old, dig- ging through the trash bins, yet she wore a bright red flower clipped behind her ear. The flower looked real and reminded me of my grandmother who also used to wear flowers in her hair or pinned to her dress. The flower was an extension of her personality: vibrant and jolly. There was always music on in her house (which became our house too), and she loved to play accordion. When I was little, she pressed my hands against the keys. From the time we moved in with
dancers. Others dance with partners—and the part- ner can be anybody. It doesn’t have to be your honey, just someone to add complexity with spins and half turns, arms crossing, an energetic hop thrown in, an extra twist of the hand. Anyone can partner. It isn’t
her until she passed away peacefully in her sleep, we woke to her singing and humming as she washed, cleaned and cooked. All throughout the days and into the nights, like the sunrise, like the sunset, her rays broke through.
Sarai laughed when Brenda, our mom, said this, but I just stayed quiet.
In contrast, this woman sifting through the trash and recycling bins didn’t seem jolly at all. Instead of many rays of light, it was like she had a single laser: sharp and focused. She used it to look for a specific bottle, one with a message rolled up tightly and rattling inside. The message would say when and it would say where. It wouldn’t say from whom, but the woman would know.
“I don’t need my soul broken open,” I said.
~
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense. You guys are into it. That’s what counts. I come from a different generation. For me cumbia was the soundtrack to the suffocating life I was living in. A cage of church and aprons, but women have more choices now. Wear make-up or don’t. Get married or don’t. Have kids or don’t. All that used to be a big deal.”
When we moved in with our grandmother, the world for me was mostly scents and sounds. The first thing
I noticed when we walked through the door with our bags, was how her house smelled and sounded differ- ent from ours. The smells were fuller: chopped onions and garlic, whiffs of lime. Instead of empty spaces, there was always a bowl of sweet oranges in the middle of the table, angels in the corners, flowers on the windowsills. Serenades played in the cool morn- ings and cumbias played in the warm afternoons. They seemed to lift my papa’s spirits as much as they could be lifted. Always there was music at the birthday par- ties and barbeques.
I really wanted to go off on Brenda when she said that, but she’s our mom and Sarai, as usual, sensed she
I loved cumbia the best because I loved the dance. A simple two step with a small kick. Suave and upbeat but slow enough that anyone can dance to it. Some dance it solo while smiling and talking with other solo
And we did. Playing in our band Serpientes was the best two years of my life. We couldn’t go anywhere on campus without somebody coming up to us. When- ever Brenda was in town and not caught up in the re- cording studio, she made it out to a show. It felt extra good to be there on stage while she was out there in the audience. But even when she wasn’t there, it felt good to be on stage.
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a belly-button-to-belly-button or bend-it over-and- shake-it type of dance. Sometimes everyone dances in a giant circle. One person behind the next, changing direction from time to time, signaled by a dip in the shoulder. Cumbia is festive, a carousal. At least to me.
“It’s good for dusty plazas where the roosters crow and women tie on aprons and men strap on their work boots.”
“It doesn’t break your soul open. Doesn’t burn you. Not like rock and roll.”
~
Brenda pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. Sarai looked at us nervously.
should step in.
“But we’re switching it up! We’re gonna mix up the sounds, update the sound of cumbia. You’ll see.”
~
monica zaRazua