"Abuela, My Redeemer"
By
Yesenia Flores Diaz
She
emerged from the dimly lit platform precisely when the chime sounded. The woman
shoved a shopping bag between the closing doors and wedged half of her body
into the car. With a free hand, she struggled to pry one side open. In a tone
as brisk as the winter air, the conductor ordered her to let go: “There’s
another train right behind this one. Stand clear.”
The
doors reopened and the woman quickly made her way onto the train. Bing-bong,
chimed the doors. She shuffled towards the row diagonally across from mine and
plopped into a seat. A passenger picked up the empty can that spilled from her
bag and handed it to her. The woman turned and flashed a toothless smile his
way that was both bright and warm. “Ay, gracias,[1]” she said and tucked the can
back into the bag.
She
wore a full-length, tweed winter coat with hues of black and gray. A fuzzy,
dark green knit men’s cap was pulled down to her eyebrows. The woman’s eyes
were magnified behind her thick, plastic glasses. The walls of my chest
tightened at the sight of Abuela[2]. I turned
away, shamefully, so our eyes would not meet. Why was she out by Flushing Avenue so late?
Dusk
had already set in Brooklyn and the lights flickered briefly in the car. As I
stared at my reflection, I silently wished I could erase my imperfections with
the same intensity as the street artists who tagged their names on the window:
the unruly hair tamed with Aqua Net hairspray; the oily skin, peppered with
pimples, that shined beyond Neutrogena’s control; and, the blackheads that
dotted the pudgy nose I inherited from my grandmother. When I could no longer
bear the mirror image of big, brown eyes filled with sadness, my gaze shifted
downward.
A
wave of emotion rumbled inside of me. Get
up. Yet, teenage arrogance kept my baggy, blue jeans stuck to the seat like
Doublemint gum. I tried, in vain, to admire my freshly manicured acrylic nails
but fretted over my savings from my summer job at St. Barbara’s instead. Would this be me for the rest of my life, worrying
about how I’d pay for stuff? I couldn’t reach out to Mami[3] for help with
senior dues and other activity fees, like the ski trip and prom, since she
didn’t have the money. While my crisp black, high-top Reebok classics were
laced tight and right, Abuela’s dingy sneakers, two sizes too big, were untied
beneath her brown polyester pants. Not
me. I will not be like Mami or Abuela.
As
the train pulled into the next station, the conductor announced the Lorimer
Street stop. I was reminded of the Key Food Supermarket on Grand Street where
Abuela and I redeemed glass bottles and aluminum cans late last summer. Nothing
shamed me more than accompanying her to work. Despite a lifelong battle against
Type 2 diabetes, Abuela and her swollen feet limped through Los Sures, the
Northside, and Greenpoint with a carrito de compras[4] to scour the streets and
trash cans.
Bing-bong,
chimed the doors. I closed my eyes and recalled a sweltering morning Abuela and
I grabbed gloves and lined her carrito with a clear, industrial-size bag. Early
in our route, stale beer and sticky soda leaked from a hole at the bottom and
left a trail of tears behind us.
We collected roughly fifty cans and
bottles for redemption. By the time we arrived to Key Food, vending machine
lines moved fast. We beat the rush! Abuela and I separated glass from aluminum
as we inched closer to the front. In halting English, Abuela chatted with others
about the best places in Brooklyn for collection. We made $2.50.
At
the Hewes Street station, the conductor announced a train up ahead at Marcy
Avenue. C’mon, move. Close to home
and each other, Abuela and I were still generations apart in the same subway
car. I thought back again to the time she and I collected on this side of Los
Sures, how I kept my head down and walked a few steps ahead of her, just far
enough to hear the glass bottles clink and the empty plastic cans squeeze
behind me. I didn’t want friends from I.S. 71 who lived in the neighborhood to
see my Abuela and I in despair. It would crush my pride like the vending
machines that fed off Abuela’s bottle redemption.
I
rose from my seat and walked over to Abuela as the conductor told us to stand
clear. Bing-bong, chimed the doors. I squeezed into the small space next to
her. She did not smile at me. I smelled Irish Spring on the cheek of my Puerto
Rican grandmother when I kissed her.
“Bendición,
Güela,[5]” I greeted
her.
“Dios
te bendiga. Estaba pensando cuánto te ibas a tardar en reconocerme. Tú sentada
allí con la cabeza hacia abajo, ¿eh sin vergüenza? No puedo ver pero tampoco
soy ciega! ¿Para dónde vas?[6]”
I
avoided her eyes and watched the buildings on Broadway whiz by.
“I’m
gonna meet up with Margie,” I answered.
“Recuerda
que las señoritas no deben estar afuera muy tarde. Las calles son peligrosas,[7]” she
warned.
“I
know...I know…and where were you?” I
asked.
“Fui
a comer en George’s Restaurant cuando salí de mi appointment en Woodhull y di
una vueltita por Graham, recogiendo mis tesoros.[8]” she replied and patted her
shopping bag.
As
the train pulled into the station, Abuela and I got up from our seats.
“This
is Marcy Avenue, last stop in Brooklyn...Step up and stand clear. Next stop is
Delancey,” announced the conductor.
“Gimme
the bag, Güela. I’ll hold it and help you down,” I offered.
Bing-bong,
chimed the doors after us. We stepped onto the platform, walked through the
turnstiles, and exited left. Abuela descended the stairs sideways and took one
step at a time. She used to be so fast.
How can skinny legs be so heavy? Her
small, mighty fingers clutched the handrail. They were sturdy and endured the
legacy of our family. The lines on Abuela’s aging hands wove a story I had not
yet uncovered.
She
should have enjoyed retirement during that stage of her life. Instead, she
worked hard and tirelessly. Although she performed degrading labor, Abuela
earned an honest living to supplement her Social Security benefits. She’d often
say: “La renta no se paga sola. Hay que trabajar.[9]” Furthermore, her collection
and redemption of bottles and cans provided relief when her $7 food stamp
booklet was exhausted.
On
a good day, Abuela’s carrito overflowed like her generosity. If she collected
seventy cans, she and her grandchildren, myself included, enjoyed an order of
pork fried rice and chicken wings from the Kam Sing Chinese take-out on Grand
and Bedford. On other occasions, family, friends and neighbors who visited her
tiny, one-bedroom apartment enjoyed café con leche y pan con mantequilla[10] during
their stay and left with their hearts a little fuller. Through her living
example, Abuela, my redeemer, modeled how to treat others with empathy,
kindness, and respect because she believed no one should ever have to suffer
from hunger or loneliness.
[1] Translation: “Oh, thanks.”
[2] Translation: Grandmother
[3] Translation: Mommy
[4] Translation: Shopping cart
[5] In traditional Puerto Rican families, one asks for blessings or
bendiciones from their elders. It is a sign of respect. Güela is grandma.
[6] Translation: “God bless you. I was wondering how long it would take
for you to acknowledge me. You sitting over there with your head down,
shameless. I can’t see but I am not blind. Where are you going?”
[7] Translation: “Remember, young ladies should not be out very late.
The streets are dangerous.”
[8] Translation: “I ate at George’s Restaurant after my appointment at
Woodhull (hospital) and I strolled around Graham picking up my treasures.”
[9] Translation: “Rent does not pay itself. You have to work.”
[10] Translation: Coffee with milk and bread with butter
[1] Translation: “Rent does not pay itself. You have to work.”
[1] Translation: Coffee with milk and bread with
butter
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