Jagged Little Pills...

Christmas Eve 1983

I can still smell the sulphur and feel the scabs on my head. My head was a mine field of sticky, bloody patches. I would pick on them and pull whole strands of my hair out. My grandmother, that evil witch, relaxed my hair at 4 years old. She was told by a friend just as shady as her, both in their hot pink foam rollers as they sat and sipped on their Bustelo...that if she put chemicals on my scalp, my 3rd eye would calcify and close. It burned so bad.

She got me to sit in the chair with promises of beautiful long flowing hair. My hair was already long and flowing. But, it had a little kink to it. No respectable Dominican woman would ever allow her grandchild to rock anything but bone straight. The relaxer knocked Africa right out of my head. Hey, it's the Dominican way.

But Leonor had other motives for this rite of passage. Her son had gotten together with one of those Perez girls and the bitch created a crotch goblin. That crotch goblin was me. And to ice the cake, I had the nerve to be born with the veil. I immediately became her rival.

When I went back home to my mother and she saw my new chemically processed do, she was pissed. She got on the phone and called Papi. I can still hear her, I can still see the veins popping out of her neck as she screamed into the phone at my father... What the fuck was wrong with his mother? I was 4 years old. Tell your mother she needs to find another hobby. That was the last thing she said before she slammed down the phone. There was a certain joy in being violent with those chunky, annoyingly colorful phones from the 80s.

My mother. “One of those Perez girls” ... at her First Communion in 1963. 2 years after the “Trujillo” or “El Chivo” was assassinated on a dark, haunted and unforgiving country road.

My scalp healed quickly. And my hair was easier to manage. So I got over it quickly. Mami, on the other hand, was keeping tabs on the old bitch. She knew she needed to protect me. I was born in Brooklyn for gods sake. I was her key to the American dream. She would not allow either one of my grandmothers to try and enbrujar her daughter. Her mother too, was up to no good. Asking for afternoons with me, where she would take me down to her apartment, show me her various altars, and allow me to ask questions. I remember seeing concern in her eyes. It was like she was trying to tell me something but couldn’t. She made me a special water. In a little spritz bottle. She told me to spray myself everyday and to hide it from Mami. And, if Mami found it, say a friend from school gave it to me. She would casually ask me about my other grandmother “Leonor”. And how did I like those weekends over at her house. I told her sometimes they were scary. Because Leonor liked to dance by herself in front of her altars at night. And the shadows scared me. Abuela Cruz said that’s why I needed the special oil. “Listen to me my nina, I've know that woman and her family since before the dictatorship. Word on the streets of Pueblo Nuevo was that they were the most wicked brujas in all of Santiago. They worked with Bakas. What are Bakas? I asked. She said I was too little to know.

My two grandmothers played spiritual dodgeball all throughout my childhood. Sometimes I felt like the ball. And poor Mami, standing on the sidelines screaming, the veins popping again. There are stories that I’m not supposed to know.

So she ignored my visions. When the India would whisper in my ear, I would relay the news to Mami. She would look at me with grief and disappointment in her eyes when my visions became true.

One night, I woke up to Mami’s best friend, a transgender named “Nina” sitting in my room. She was just watching me sleep. She said “Duerme, India que yo te cuido”.... the next morning I asked Mami where did Nina go? I loved Nina. She got that look in her eyes again. The phone rang a few minutes later...Nina had been found dead in her apartment. She was smothered with a pillow by her lover.

So Mami took me to a psychiatrist. The medications burned my brain as well as the visions and voices. The India didnt visit anymore...the gypsy lady with the funny cards, the scary viejo with the black top hat that liked to startle me on my walks to school. All gone.

Abuela told Mami she would regret it. You can’t erase what’s in the blood. So Abuela would sneak me off to the Botanica behind Mami’s back. She showed me how to make lamps and burn candles. It was our little secret.

My youngest daughter was born with the veil. She struggled to take her first breaths. The moment I held her I knew...This one is gonna hear the whispers. She was only 6 when Abuela passed. She’s now 17. For a long time she was more like Mami. She didn't like the whispers. Didnt want to be bothered with candles, lamps, and roots. But lately I’ve noticed a change. She’s been asking me questions. About the stones and crystals. She wants to know why every Monday I rub Palm oil all over my Babalu.

I giggled to myself. Maybe Mami got her new age baby after all. She asked about the gypsy in her dreams. I answer her questions as they come. Not wanting to push her, but being supportive. She’s never seen a psychiatrist. Never had her brain numbed. She is my American dream.