memoir
by rosangelica.
The internet. Telephone numbers of foster care programs, and the internet. Infinite selection of latin lesbian porn, and of course, the internet. Multiply this by the imagination of a nine year old on dial-up. Netzero.
Crack, screech, crackscreech, static. The sonic vision of successful connection. One of the only rhythms I knew by heart. Coming home from school wasn't complete until my computer's cadence was fulfilled.
I sit here on this train wondering why I never ran away. Basquiat was successful in his endeavors. I should have been next in line. Convinced that my destiny is way behind me, I begin the next chapters of my life alone.
II
The first time I went to Colombia, I woke up in Madison Square Garden. There had to have been at least 150 members of my family present there. Most of whom I had never met. They swarmed around my mother and I, both of us getting different forms of praise.
Welcome to America meets me, in South America. I was treated with care and examined by members of my “family". Surprised they didn't dissect me.
"This is your American baby?”"What's wrong with her hair? It's so dry"
I was labeled a foreigner, a gringa in my own country. A land holding the roots of my ancestors, and their ancestors. Fresh arepas, and wide hips. Guanabanas, and men selling mangoes on top of their heads in weaved baskets.
Playing soccer in the best field we knew, the street, or at least Colombia’s rendition of one. Barranquilla, the coastal paradise, a home I once knew, now a salty memory.
