I’ll admit, this is the first time I’m writing this while on the train. I’m on my way to my crazy Cuban aunt’s* apartment who lives on 96th and Park. Whenever I say her address I think “Darling I love you but give me Park Avenue” because my mom used to sing it to us when we were little. The * is because she’s really my mom’s cousin but she acts like and is the age of an aunt/auntie, so we call her Tia (aunt in Spanish) Mayi (short for Margarita) which is pronounced Ma yeee even though my boyfriend continues to pronounce it mahi like we’re getting the dolphin at a nice restaurant. As much as I stress about going to Mayi’s, once I’m there - I love it. The stress comes from knowing I’m going to leave there smelling like an ashtray (because she chain smokes cigarettes inside her apartment) so I can’t wash my hair for a couple days before, and I don’t like having to commit to filth. The other thing that stresses me out is that when I’m ready to go at 10:30/11 pm, a reasonable time for getting there at 7/7:30 pm, I get the long face from Tia Mayi: “Why are you leaving so soon? Can’t you stay a little longer? Here take some food.” Cuban-Catholic guilt is like Jewish guilt, but with subtitles. My cousin Julia has a slick mouth but she continues to forget I can very easily put her in her place. I think you’re starting to get the gist of it, yeah? Most of us have family dynamics like this - or is it an immigrant/first generation thing? I feel like my therapist would say “No, but I’m happy you’re setting boundaries.” It feels more like putting up a paper fence during a hurricane but sure.
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Wide Open Spaces
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I’ll admit, this is the first time I’m writing this while on the train. I’m on my way to my crazy Cuban aunt’s* apartment who lives on 96th and Park. Whenever I say her address I think “Darling I love you but give me Park Avenue” because my mom used to sing it to us when we were little. The * is because she’s really my mom’s cousin but she acts like and is the age of an aunt/auntie, so we call her Tia (aunt in Spanish) Mayi (short for Margarita) which is pronounced Ma yeee even though my boyfriend continues to pronounce it mahi like we’re getting the dolphin at a nice restaurant. As much as I stress about going to Mayi’s, once I’m there - I love it. The stress comes from knowing I’m going to leave there smelling like an ashtray (because she chain smokes cigarettes inside her apartment) so I can’t wash my hair for a couple days before, and I don’t like having to commit to filth. The other thing that stresses me out is that when I’m ready to go at 10:30/11 pm, a reasonable time for getting there at 7/7:30 pm, I get the long face from Tia Mayi: “Why are you leaving so soon? Can’t you stay a little longer? Here take some food.” Cuban-Catholic guilt is like Jewish guilt, but with subtitles. My cousin Julia has a slick mouth but she continues to forget I can very easily put her in her place. I think you’re starting to get the gist of it, yeah? Most of us have family dynamics like this - or is it an immigrant/first generation thing? I feel like my therapist would say “No, but I’m happy you’re setting boundaries.” It feels more like putting up a paper fence during a hurricane but sure.