Nana, Mia

It was so sudden, so unexpected, it hit home harder than the wave of the pandemic had hit the world only a year prior, unsuspectedly. Unsuspectedly this hit harder, it hit deeper as I listened to dad’s shaking voice, a vulnerable, shaking voice I had never heard before. Dad, vulnerable? Ha! “Your nana passed away last night."

I replayed dad’s words that entire evening, replayed them when I called my boss at the New Orleans themed bar, to let him know why I wouldn't be going into work that week, and the next. Then I called Judy, my surrogate LA mom since my own lived halfway across the world. “I'm so sorry, I'm here for you, love," said Judy. I knew she was being genuine. If only being genuine could alleviate the false calmness I was voicing for her and everyone else I had spoken to that day.

I laid in bed and replayed dad’s words, and replayed the words of every other person I spoke to after, and then I replayed other words, words not spoken to me that day, but spoken to me nonetheless. Words that always brought me utmost calmness.

“Mijo, come here." I remembered Nana’s call everytime I visited. She lived in Temecula, which was only two hours away from my Pasadena home. And an hour and a half from my valley home before relocating south. But my visits decreased from once a month, to twice a year, to once for Thanksgiving as I went from milestone birthday to milestone birthday. But there was always one constant: "Come here, mijo." Nana would say that and look at me as I was about to leave with dad, mom, and my younger brother, Lonny, who didn't get the same affection for warranted reasons. But Nana would always touch my cheek and smile, her cold touch radiating the greatest warmth in my feeble, teenage heart. Nana always knew how to make me smile even when smiling didn't seem like a prospect for me. I remembered when smiling was the farthest prospect imaginable. It was before I revealed my true, complete self to my family. I was sixteen, not a full man yet. Not even close. I only needed one last milestone to feel complete. One last and potentially self-destructive milestone.

It was a hot Fall in 2007. I remember the date perfectly, the humid car ride; unlike anyother date my ADD self unintentionally forgot, some of them equally marking dates. Me--mom, dad, and Lonny--were on diferent levels of moods. Mom was still harboirng anger from the argument she had with dad the night before; dad was irritated with the early September heat California always promised, and Lonny was upset he was being forced to go visit Nana instead of going to bomb fire with his friends that weekend. I had also been invited to the bomb fire but would not have gone. Not with Sam there.

We arrived at Nana's in the early afternoon, the sun was setting but the heat still remained with the approaching wind. I didn't mind the heat as my slender figure and lingering anxiety never allowed my body heat to take over.

Nana greeted us at the door, on her own for the first time. Usually, Tio Nacho would do so. But Tio Nacho had finally spread his wings and fled from the nest. Fled. Not that there was a reason to flee Nana's nest; it was warm, cozy, and filled with love. But Tio Nacho wanted another type of love; a love that could only come from Nana's opposite gender. Tio Nacho and I had that much in common.

We all sat by the kitchen table and ate some "Marias” cookies with Champurado. Maria cookies were thin and wafer-shaped, and not too sweet, so I enjoyed them. The champurado was thick, chocolatey and made of corn meal; the most interesting drink I had ever consumed and only consumed when visitng nana. Nana tried not to mention Tio Nacho until dad directly asked her; he and Tio Nacho had a relationship similar to that of me and Lonny. After some extensive verbal nudging from dad, Nana finally dove into the tale of Tio Nacho’s departure. He left without notice, but she didn't seem distraught. Or shocked. Or upset. Or any understandable feeling that a mother who had been living with her youngest son her entire life might have shown. She seemed at peace. That was the thing about Nana; she was always at peace. No matter what contradicting feeling tried to take over. She ended the tale of Tio Nacho’s departure by saying "As long as he's happy."

But I wasn't happy. I was being was consumed alive by my own unspoken tale. I needed to speak; speak of the burning angst I had every time I saw Sam. The burning angst that made me gladly agree to visit Nana instead of going to the bomb fire. A burning angst similar to Lonny's except Lonny had no issue verbalizing the root of his angst--Delilah. I could barely say “Sam” in my own thoughts without my stomach flooding with fear and an array of other burning emotions.

"Mijo," Nana said as she listened to Lonny's complaints. Lonny was a complainer and only partially grew out of it as an adult. And while his complaining was so trivial, I was thankful for it, for the first and only time in my life. Lonny’s verbal squandering of time and attention didn't allow me to do my own complaining. My burning, bubbling need to complain against my angst.

Mijo," came out of Nana’s mouth once again after dinner, this time at dad. He and mom had thrown snide comments at each other during our chicken mole and freshly made tortillas dinner. At first, the comments were about dad's notoriously long hours at the office, weekends included, and how that had made it impossible to visit during the summer. Dad then responded with “That’s what happens when you're ‘the bread winner’,” taking his own snide jab at mom and her side hussle as a "freelance writer." Then they both went at it, back and forth about their respective shortcomings in organizing any type of family getaway, regardless of whether it involved seeing Nana or a simple getaway to the wonderful world of Disney. But there was nothing wonderful about this getaway. “Mijo!" said Nana, subtly raising her voice, but not in anger; it was her way of saying "This isn't the place or time for this."

She wasn't wrong. It wasn't the time or place for dad and mom's family feud, which would ultimately be resolved in a civil suit concluding in divorce. It wasn't the time for Lonny's complaining, which would eventually be resolved with him asking Delilah out, getting his first girlfriend, and a pregnancy scare that sort of set him straight. And it wasn't the time for me to vent about my own angst, which had nothing to do with "straight."

We sat around after dinner and watched “Gone with the Wind." Nana loved film classics. That's where I got it from. We actually watched the movie, no speaking in between. That's where I got that from, too. At home, Lonny would always interrupt with questions about the plot or interrupted simply for the sake of hearing his own, gruff voice. Dad always entertained his questions. I would always end up rewatching the very same movie, alone. That's where I got that from, too.

"Lonny, what did I tell you," dad said as he looked at Lonny typing away on his glowing, fliphone keypad. I could tell dad regretted buying him that for his birthday just by every look he gave Lonny when he was using it, regardless of quality family time. "Lonny, get off your phone," dad reiterated in a sterner tone. Lonny still wasn't budging; his stubby fingers kept typing. The sound was at its most annoying. He kept pushing each button and typing as dad raised a brow and mom rolled her eyes. And Nana, Nana knew what was coming so she simply put her hand on dad's shoulder and said "Mijo, calmate." Which, for someone who at the time only knew four words in Spanish, my name included, I was able to translate in my mind as "Calm down." But dad wasn't going to calm down. He got up and snatched the phone from Lonny's stubby, sweaty, fat fingers. Lonny, in turn, looked at me, then at mom, and then got up and walked to the door and stormed out. Dad started making his way to the door, but Nana called to him and said "Dejalo, se le pasara." I had no idea what the words meant and still don't, but whatever they meant, they were strong enough to get dad to come back and sit back down. Silence. Finally silence for the next hour and a half of that film classic’s four- hour duration.

It was during Rhett and Scarlet's gravest moment that Lonny reappeared; his pants were tattered more than when he purchased them at Hot Topic; his face was muddy; he was infuriated--more than I had ever seen him be. He looked like he had taken a fall just as hard as Bonnie, except his neck was intact. If only I could say the same for the head and brain attached to it.

"What happened?" mom asked as she looked at Lonny. Despite his big mouth and general defiant nature, Lonny had never stirred any real trouble outside our suburb home aside from one detention in the seventh grade. And even that instance was for mouthing off to Mr. Sanchez. Which, I admit, had a way of bringing out the foulest words from the most proper students.

Lonny didn't answer, instead he stormed off into Tio Nacho's vacant room and slammed the door behind him, dad ran behind him only to be met by the door to his nose, and mom stood up but remained in place. She was never one to jump to dramatic moves until it was absolutely necessary. I got that from her. “Lonny, open the door," dad banged, not wasting time with any passitivity. Lonny remained silent. Mom stood still. Nana turned to me, and she gave me a look. It was the same look she had given me the last time I had visited her; when I was undergoing the emotional rollercoaster known as puberty. It was a look that didn't have any answers; nor was it a look of judgement. It was a look that, was simply, comforting. Accepting. She always had a way of saying "Everything will be alright" without moving her lips. She gave me that look every visit after puberty started and continued, and she gave me that look at that moment even when the moment of emotional distress was being filled by Lonny, like he did every visit.

Dad knocked louder and louder until Lonny finally opened. Dad grabbed Lonny by the arm and dragged him back to the living room and mom just looked at them both go at it. Dad yelled and Lonny yelled and blamed him by saying “If you hadn't taken away my phone!" Turns out Lonny was stopped by some neighborhood "cholos" (as Nana referred to them) and when he had nothing of value on him, they took out their shortcomings by giving Lonny a few shoves, and kicks, and a punch in the gut or two. While I can't say he didn't deserve it for other reasons, I also wasn't happy. Especially as he started yelling at the top of his lungs like the wailing baby he mentally was.

It continued. Dad yelling, Lonny yelling, and mom trying to shush them, and Nana just continued looking at the TV as Rhett said his final words to Scarlett, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." And then Tio Nacho made an impromptu reappearance, just like Lonny. Except only I could see him. See him reenact grabbing his few belongings and leaving, and how Nana just accepted this. Accepted him. Or did she not give a damn, either? And then I thought about Sam at that bomb fire, and how that event was the root of Lonny's teen angst and tantrum. And how Sam was the root of my angst and internalized tantrum. And how thinking of Sam always made my stomach feel like it was knotting, and like I had to go number 2, but also like I had the unlimited euphoria only my morning cold brew would once again provide me in college and onward. And then. It happened. Whether it was Lonny's gruff yelling or my dad's raspy, equally loud screeching or my mom's own melodious voice running rampant. It erupted from my volcano top lips. “I'm gay!"

No immediate reactions as they continued their redundant arguing, so I resorted to verbal redundancy, "I'm gay!" This time I was louder than any sound coming from inside Nana’s two-story, crooked, wooden flooring home. Mom just looked at me, a soft but emotionally indescribable look on her face. Dad looked shocked, his eyes popping similar to those of a Saturday Morning Cartoon, and Lonny didn't even look at me; he looked at the crooked, wooden floor his muddy shoes had beat up in place of the cholos; tainting it like I was now before my family. Before Nana. Nana stood up, the first time since the movie started. She started making her way towards me, as if the argument that had just reached its peak had never happened; as if none of my family members had said a word before me. She stood, less than half a foot away; I could smell her Avon perfume, her bronze skin reflecting the glow from the screen behind us, and her eyes reflected my fear. A fear Nana met with a smile, and two hands reaching out to grab my own. Her hands were cold and comforting. Hands that taught me to appreciate the cold.

We sat around for an hour after that. Dad asked, "How do you know?" Mom interjected with what felt like hundreds of her own questions including "Since when have you known?" "Why didn't you tell us sooner?" And perhaps the most comedic and relieving response was, “Is that Frankie kid your boyfriend?" We all laughed and dad turned to mom and said, "Don't be stupid. That kid is hideous." Lonny just looked at me and walked up to me and for the first time since the third grade and said, "I love you, dude," and followed his response with "I don't give a shit if you take it up the butt." Both mom and dad shot him a dirty look. Nana laughed at his response as I sat next to her, her cold hands giving me the strength I needed. She held my periodically through that whole confession. Periodically squeezing to express she had always known. She had always known it about Tio Nacho. She had always known it about me.

If only I had known when she was going to leave. I would have made more of an effort to pull through. To see her one more Thanksgiving, one more Christmas, one more “Dia De los Muertos,” her favorite holiday, ironically. To see her auburn, frizzy hair, one last time. To see her bronze skin, to see her dark-brown eyes; to see the light inside those eyes that had looked into the darkness inside mine. A light that embraced the darkness and defeated it. Every time.

Those eyes now housed by a corpse, housed like she did for us for so many weekend getaways. A corpse surrounded by eyes; dad's eyes, Lonny's eyes, Tio Nacho's eyes, and his husband’s eyes. Regina's eyes, the granddaughter that never came to visit. Tia Nelly, the reason Regina never came to visit. And all the other estranged eyes from which Nana once drew life. These eyes remained, and now her eyes could rest after a lifetime of service. Rest but remain alive. Alive in my memories. Alive in the eyes of Lonny, Tio Nacho, and Regina, who took after Nana more than Tia Nelly. And alive in my own eyes. Every time I looked in the mirror. Every time I looked into what she saw in them that made her accept me, embrace me, love me. Love every piece of me.

Rest in peace,

Nana Mia