La Pura Neta

Dolores was her name. Spanish for pain (in the ass). She wasn't supposed to stay with us for long but since she was my roommate's coworker and my roommate being the kindest of us two, she ate Dolores' pain and offered her to crash at our studio apartment floor. And I literally mean the floor. We had no beds and thanks to Boner's genius idea of testing the durableness of our inflatable sofa with his ass-pocket full of explorer keys, we also had no sofa. We only had sleeping bags and layers of sabanas and blankets. The day--about the 85th day to be exact--of Dolores' stay--rent free-- I and my roommate agreed that Dolores either had to pay or had to go. When Dolores came that night, she heard our woes and agreed to pay. The next morning Dolores was gone. Along with all of our Tupperware. Every single expensive neon green, pink, and yellow Tupperware, proudly bought by my and my roommate's matriarchs; the Tupperware we took as mementos from home, as a jab to our

When you get to the longest tunnel on the express, hold your breath 'til the end then make your wish, she said. We always passed through that tunnel on I90/94. We lived by Belmont and California Avenue. My mom or dad would get on the express way via the Kedzie Avenue entrance. Evertime we'd get to the downtown tunnel I'd hold my breath with the strong faith of a religious woman and repeated,  I want love, I want love, I want someone to love me. A white long sleeve shirt from Discovery that had the word "LOVE"--a heart in place of the "O"-- in black bold Calibri font was my favorite shirt in sixth grade. I was eleven years old. It was a fitted shirt my dad's young girlfriend bought me with my dad's money. Or maybe it was just a gift from her. Or maybe she took me to Discovery and let me pick out what I wanted--a pair of shorts with glitter buttons on the hips, a crop top that had a white transparent shirt underneath. A boy from my class wa

When my parents divorced, my dad met a Filipina woman named Mar. To affirm their courtship, she invited my brothers and me for dinner at her duplex first-floor apartment in Lincoln Park. "Have some, Carmen," she said when she noticed me looking at the lumps sizzling in a black pan on the stainless steel stove. "It's ground beef," she said, giving me a curved white plate, the kind you find in Ikea. "Your dad told me you don't like liver." I continued to stare at the pan, watching Mar scoop up some ground beef with her wooden spoon. "Thank you," I said before I walked to the table directly across from the stove. It was a small apartment but it was cozy and clean. I felt my spirit safe in this place. Mar placed a tray of tortillas on the table and my dad and brothers hands were like tentacles immediately attacking the tray. I, at last, grabbed two tortillas (I like my tacos doubled up) and made my taco. The sweet meaty juice drippe

It's not la hueva that kicks in that makes me feel heavy--                                  from my forehead                                  to my belly button blood is thicker than water and though my heart yearns for you my stomach churns ¿porque no vienes a visitar me? I'm never able to tell you: because I don't want to stay there long because when I go I feel like I have to stay there forever and all I've ever wanted to do is leave I tell you to come with me why don't you leave your home behind come and use that money, and buy a place close to me, come to me but you won't come you say your house is worth more then what the brokers want to pay you say you don't want a condominium you will feel boxed in you love your garden and your flowers and the roses and the mamey canopy and your lapiz lazuli stair rails and your black iron gate and your dried grapevines and I love them too and I love you pero duele duele ir a visita

I almost hit a school girl while turning east her jean-clad legs and hi-top  tenis  continued forward in their determined, relaxed, pace We saw each other through my car door window--                                                                  the air blew her dark brown hair into a swirl                                                                  her chest, she held high                                                                  her hands rested in her navy jacket pockets I remember stepping into a pair yellow thin lines in the middle of 79th street, just west of Pulaski Road. The car-pierced air threatened to push me into the car lane the air pushed me forward but then jerked me back but i loved it i loved it.

It wasn't until last summer that i felt the need to write down my mother's and father's personal stories It wasn't until last week that i felt the value in each individual piece I don't feel value in my other pieces or my work at my office job which helps so many people but what is the value of a life lived in Chicago, as a woman, as a brown woman as a woman who labels herself Mexican and chubby is it only up to me to build this value, to build it inside of me so that others can feel then see that i do belong here that my words belong on this page for you to read