This Place in My Life
Steve Peraza
aka
"FREEZE DADDY"
Five Moments in the Life of a Woman
ONE:
My family embodies matriarchy. My mother, the Guru of Apartment 4S, garnered the respect of a Shaman, healing the Peraza family with paper spinach and promptly paid bills. Lita Otra, my humble grandmother, persevered the culture shock and language barrier that hinder most first generation immigrants, quickly ditching her country's colloquialism for broken English and twenty years of button making. Even my pets, an intuitive golden retriever and moody feline - both female, birthed an air of fickle feeling and fastidious compassion. Consequently, my fledgling masculinity, though strident and ambitious, could never match wits with the manipulative mastery of Perazan femininity.
TWO:
For sixteen years, I watched the women in my life create me.
I studied them, learning their life skills and leading my life accordingly.
I especially loved watching Lita Otra cook and Haide cut checks; they seemed
most powerful at these moments…
Everyday I watched my mom get ready for work. One morning, in a rash of excitement, I dared to mimic my mom's routine and began with the blush and lipstick. Five minutes later, my grandfather, as family-oriented as the prodigal son, bursts through the door, sees my mischief, and savagely screams, "Boy, you a faahgot?" I stopped experimenting.
THREE:
Whitney, my last girlfriend, was one tough cookie. Aside from a no-nonsense personality and stare, she worked, attended college, and had the most beautiful Black skin. The Jamaican flag she wore as a scarf promised that she was true to her appearance - stern, clever and passionate. She intimidated me, and I loved it.
I'm far from the sentimental type, but I do expect affection. Expectations, however, lead to love loss, and my constant begging for more hugs and kisses eroded Whitney's half of our love bargain. "I can't fuck wit' you, Freeze," she exclaimed. "You more a woman than me!"
FOUR:
"Bandy, you a woman, son! You the only nigga I know wanna
stay in the kitchen, cookin' sunthin'. Chef BoyarBandy!"
And I laughed and laughed. Bandy, short for Bad Andy, laughed
with me, but moderately. He knew I could make a scene out of anything, but
found no humor in denouncing his dream with attacks on his masculinity. The
culinary arts were his one-way ticket out of rinky-dink tenements and crowded
railroad apartments.
"Freeze, you full of shit, son. You be sittin' down to pee!"
Immediately, the projection of my insecurities was stifled by the shame of an unknown truth…
FIVE:
I had just finished my quesadilla when I brought my plate to
the kitchen in La Casa and began bathing it. The behavior was instinctual:
eat my food; wash my plate. A moment later, Minerva, house coordinator, waltzes
in and shrieks, "What are you doing? Why are you washing the dishes?"
Immediately, I envisioned my grandmother hovering over the sink scrubbing
my leftovers off the silverware. I spent twenty-one years emulating these
subtle images. Without thinking too long, I banished pride's burden and answered
calmly, "I'm a woman, Mini. I'm a
woman." We both smiled feverishly. She might've understood.
email me at spera02@stlawu.edu