It was a Tuesday. Or maybe a Thursday. Could have been a Wednesday too. I woke up with the penetrating ringing of my phone clock as it went off too early for anybody to function. Pulling the charging cord I grabbed my phone and hit the off button. I lay there, my fingers tingling from having my head being pressed onto them. As I turned my head towards the window I saw that the sun was barely peeking out through the horizon. A morning person I was definitely not; the stack of tardy slips on my desk spoke for themselves. Unsure of what motivation was carrying me up, my socks created static with the rug all the way to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. My curly cabello malo, as my mom calls it, was puffed up in an afro look. A trait my Dominican heritage had given me, yet endlessly shamed me for. My reflection stared back at me with a face of repugnance as it opened the drawer and pulled out a hair straightener. After proceeding to watch my reflection burn my hair until compliance, I headed for my closet. Opening it, I scanned side to side looking for decent looking but comfortable clothes. I grabbed a large shirt my tia had brought me from the only place more Dominican than San Cristobal; New York. Pairing it up with some sweatpants and Jordans, I headed downstairs as my mom greeted me the only way she knew how.

“Pero mi hija, put something nicer on, you look like a niño, Dios mio.”

Her red earing that matched her red tight dress dangled almost to her shoulders. My mom was the type of person to be in a full 5-star outfit to go out to the mall. She was all about looks, couldn’t go out without a tire. But I guess you can’t blame her, she grew up in Santo Domingo after all.

“Sorry Ma, tomorrow,” I said as if on repeat. Every once in a while I had to please her, strapping on some tight v-neck or black leggings; the comments made by her were not something I could endure every morning. But every other day, the words exchanged in the morning were the same, and with no quirky sitcom appeal.
She suddenly turned her gossip face, you know, the pouty lips and the gleaming happiness in her face. You pair a couple of Dominicans with a buen chisme and you’ve got yourself a show.
“Tu sabes, the neighbors' daughter, Katia, remember her? Bueno, she just came out as…” She suddenly became serious and whispered “...pajara.”

That is one of the words that I resented the most. The connotation of disgust behind it is, well, disgusting.

“Oh, she’s gay? Huh, never would have guessed”, I respond blandly.
“We’re all praying for her at church,” She says nodding.

I force a smile and nod back.

As I shuffled into the school cafeteria, I walk past the Latino table on my right and the gringo table on the left. The overplayed and cliche division of cultural groups in school shouldn’t be found outside of books and movies, yet here they seem to be. I remember the day I walked in the first day of class, the realization that clueless might not be so far away from reality struck me like Sammy Sosa hit baseballs. With my usual frowning face, I skip both tables and sit on the empty one in between them as I quietly take out my pb&j sandwich and Morir Soñando.

Then out of nowhere, like rain in times of drought, she walked in splitting the air into two, cruising through the prison-like halls. Her coffee toned hair swifted through the air, beautifully imposing itself to everybody’s sight while a straight out of the 60s’ bandana carefully hugged the posterior part of her hairdo. Her long dress-like white Guns n’ Roses t-shirt contrasted with her smooth dark olive skin as it swung forward and backward in rhythm with her firm stride. Whatever she had going on, I wanted some of. With her chin pointing to the fans, she approached my table and sat down, her multiple rings clanging against the aluminum.
“Hello,” she stated matter of factly. Her voice was raspy yet at the same time surprisingly soothing, like what a lullaby written by Metallica would sound like.

I cleared my throat with a fist over my lips and dragged out the word “Hi”.

Her eyes scanned my every complexion, wandering from my hair tucked into a snug bun, to my gnawed fingernails. She smiled, her big full lips giving way to the sight of her slender sharp teeth.
“I like those free hairs you got going on there,” the girl remarked.
At an instance, I tucked the wild hairs rooting from above my ears, too short to be kept by a bun. These were the ones that my reflection moaned about every morning.

“You shouldn’t tuck them. They're you, no?"

With this last sentence, she stood up and walked across the hall and out to the corridors. Only seconds had passed since I had first seen her, yet her confidence had tightened around me, desperately pulling as if it was trying to tell me something, or better yet, take me somewhere. To where? I did not know.

Today is Thursday. Or was yesterday a Tuesday? I woke up with the penetrating ringing of my phone clock as it went off too early for anybody to function. Pulling the charging cord I grabbed my phone and hit the off button. I lay there, my fingers tingling from having my head being pressed onto them. Seemed like it always was; different day, same shit. I stand up and thump my feet on the ground as I march towards the bathroom. Kicking the bathroom door open, my reflection stares at me, but this time, I stare back at it too. The hot iron is sitting on top of the counter expecting me to grab it like I always do. I glance at the mirror, then at the iron, then at the mirror. In a thrash movement, I hurl it inside the drawer and smash it close, the sound bouncing off the bathroom walls. The room felt different. The cool morning air floating in and outside of my body differently, the over imposing sound of the bathroom vent sounding differently.

I skip downstairs wearing my favorite shirt that drags down all the way to my pudgy knees. My curled hair bounces up and down like a dancer, one that had been denied the pleasure of dancing for a long time.

“Ay mi hija, what happened to your hair?” my mom cries out with a shriek of desperation.
“Nothing Ma, finally nothing.”

 
She stares at me perplexed, not understanding my answer. But I did not mind it a bit, not at all.

I stride my way into the cafeteria, swinging my lunch box up and down. I look straight ahead to my usual empty table, this time looking forward to it. I start noticing all the little details. The scattered rust on the edge of the table, the top filled with dents from usual teenager buffoonery. On the left side corner, hidden under all the vulgar (and impressively detailed) drawings written in black sharpie were the words “renegade master”. I had forgotten about the group of Latino Americans that sat here before they graduated. Sitting down, I prop open my food and take out my pb&j and morir soñando. This time not ashamed of them. This time proud of them both.