And I fucked up.
nine
That smug son ofa bitch.
I spent the rest of the week cursing his name with every Spanish swear word I could recall. And when I ran out, I made some up to keep the momentum going.
I thought I had heard it all. Thought I had thick skin.
But I’m tired of being strong. Tired of having to defend myself solely because I dared to shatter the glass ceiling.
And I hate to admit that my dream job of being a general manager has soured due to my interactions with Nick.
No, not Nick.
Ese pendejo doesn’t get to be called any name that could humanize him.
I could almost laugh at how spot-on I was when I called him the devil.
Almost, but not quite.
I spent all of last night and this morning curled up on my couch, ordering takeout and yelling at my TV. Watching a marathon of cheesy romantic comedies from the 90s and 2000s.It’s my favorite pastime, and something I only ever do alone. Although I spent the evening picking them apart and grumbling about how they’re incredibly unrealistic.
Growing up, I was a tomboy. I loved baseball, and, honestly, any other sport I could sneak my way into.
So, of course, someone who enjoys any athletic activity couldn’t possibly be layered enough to also like romance. Or the color pink. Or daydream about her future wedding.
Because young girls are only ever allowed to slip into one category.
Sadly, I’m finding that it isn’t much different once you enter womanhood.
Women are expected to be everything at the same time, while also being shamed for it.
From my cousins who are already moms, I’ve heard some of the most vile and judgmental shit. Most coming for other mothers.
You want to be a stay-at-home mom? People will say “Don’t you like making your own money? Are you really letting all your previous work aspirations go to waste just to sit home with a baby? What would you even do all day?”
If you decide to be a working mom, you’ll hear “But who will raise the baby? Is being a girl boss more important than being a mother? Why even have kids if you’re not going to be around to raise them?”
I’m not immune to the commentary reserved for women about to turn thirty, with no romantic prospect in sight. I get the well-intended “Oh, you’ll meet someone when you least expect it. Put yourself out there; I’m sure there are still single men in the city looking for love at your age.” Or the not so nice “Nobody likes alpha women, Luisa. You need to let the man lead and start being more submissive to your men if you want them to stick around.”
That last one was said by a family friend who my mother no longer brings around.
My fucking rockstar of a mother who has gone through hell and back and still continues to fight for the ones she loves on a daily basis.
Crazy how I didn’t always feel this way growing up.
In fact, for a large chunk of my teenage years, I resented my mother. I was too young to understand the demons she battled, because none of my other tías suffered from depression. None of my friends had moms who stayed in bed most days, missing school recitals and birthday parties.
Just me.
For the longest time, I blamed myself.
Clearly, I was the reason she felt this way. I was a child and didn’t understand that my mother’s infertility journey triggered her depression. All my mind could focus on was “She’s not happy because she can’t have another baby. Because I’m not good enough. I’m not enough, period.”
I could get myself ready for school by the time I was in fourth grade. Made sure I had all my clothes washed and ready the night before. My homework was always done before I made myself ramen noodles or rice with eggs.
My dad was a true savior, always trying to pick up the slack where my mother couldn’t. Taking me to baseball games, daddy/daughter school dances, and throwing the best holiday parties in our cramped apartment in Spanish Harlem with all of our loved ones. But even he couldn’t do it all, having to work long hours to support our family.
