With the Fire on High(26)

I Been Grown


Here’s the thing: These teachers forget that I have to make hard decisions every day. That I’ve been doing that for almost three years and that I know when they are trying to convince me to do something they think is right without them knowing my situation. I’ve had to decide whether it was better to breastfeed or wean Babygirl early so I wasn’t dripping milk in class. Whether I should tell my father how I feel about his absence or suck it up and be thankful that at least I have a father. Whether it’s safe to send my daughter to a daycare I don’t know, or try to coax ’Buela to raise a toddler when she’s tired and has other obligations.

Whether I should have had a baby.

And that was probably the hardest decision I’ve ever made. No one had the right answers; no one knew if I could cut it as a mom or if I should give the baby up for adoption. If I should have aborted her. For all his faults, Tyrone never pushed me in any direction. His parents wanted the baby gone, but Tyrone told me I should decide. ’Buela cried the night I told her I was pregnant, big, silent sobs, and I know it was partly for me and partly for her—she’d thought she’d raised her last child.

“Emoni, pregúntate, are you ready? If you have this baby, your life will no longer be about you. Every decision you make will have to include this child. You can’t be selfish anymore; you can’t put your wants above the baby’s. This is the last time someone will ask you what you want before asking you what your baby needs. Piénsalo bien.”

’Buela is a soft Catholic. She believes in the teachings of God, but she doesn’t push her religion on people. I went to church with her on Sundays, but she didn’t force me to do communion or confirmation. And she didn’t force me to keep the baby. She just held my hand and told me to think about what it would mean. I was fourteen; I had no idea what it would mean.

Julio was silent when I told him over the phone. Finally he asked me to put ’Buela on, and she took the phone into her room. We never talked about my pregnancy again. He didn’t ask if I would keep the baby or not.

Without telling anyone, I went to the free clinic. I sat in the plastic chair. I didn’t have a big belly yet, no swollen feet, no one kicking inside me reminding me of their presence. I didn’t have anything but a pee test and a missed period as evidence of a baby. The nurses at the clinic were so nice. The doctor treated me like a full adult and told me all the options, all the risks, all the procedures. She didn’t push anything on me, and she also didn’t pity me.

And the only question I kept asking myself was, “Can I do this?” And I realized there wasn’t going to be a perfect answer, only the right answer for me.





Hurricane Season


’Buela is watching the news before the Sunday-night game begins while I study for my ServSafe quiz this week. Babygirl should be back in about an hour and I can’t wait to hold her. All weekend Tyrone sent me pictures of her and updates, and it feels like we are finally falling into a rhythm during these visits.

At ’Buela’s soft gasp I look up at the TV, expecting to see that one of her favorite players was injured. But instead it’s the weather forecast, and at the image of swirling clouds in the south my chest tightens. ’Buela and I both know what storms mean for North Carolina and especially Puerto Rico. It wasn’t that long ago that a hurricane hit the island and caused more destruction than we’d ever seen.

That last time we didn’t hear from Julio for more than three weeks.

’Buela could barely eat, and I only slept a handful of hours a night. We would just keep trying his cell phone and contacting hotlines to see if anyone had heard from him. But there was no news. I spent days trying to track down people in his neighborhood only to be told no one had seen him. I was more afraid during those weeks than I’d been even while in labor. And I was pretty scared then, being that my mother didn’t make it out of labor alive. But the fear you have for someone else’s life always eclipses the fear you have for your own.

And now when folks have barely gotten on their feet it seems like another storm is coming.

“Did you return your father’s last call?”

I nod. And thank goodness I called him this past Wednesday even though that phone call was tense. I take my hurt feelings and fold them small, tucking them away in a corner of my heart. Right now, they don’t matter.

“Emoni! Twice in one week, it must be my birthday.”

I’m already speaking before he finishes his sentence. “Julio, there’s a storm forming near you. Did you see? It’s supposed to make landfall in a week.”

And I wait for him to shrug it off like he usually does whenever there’s a storm. He’s always so quick to say that nothing and no one will make him leave his island, but there’s a slight pause after my question as if Julio is trying to find the words to say to me. “I saw, of course I saw, Emoni. We are storing provisions at the shop and making sure generators are up and running in case power gives out. The barrio has a plan and I’m seeing to it folks are safe.”

And then we are both quiet, because I don’t know how to tell him I think he should get out of harm’s way. And I don’t think he knows how to say those words, either.

’Buela saves us both. “Ask Julio if he’s coming here. We need to get him a flight. They’re saying this storm is going to be bad.”