Unfit Feet (writing exercise 2013)

My feet are two bulky hyperextensions of my legs that aymmetrically carry the weight of my body. My left sits comfortably at an 8.5, while my right extends forward, righteously claiming its place at a size 9. I waver between these sizes, shifting my weight like house walls resting cautiously on a tilted foundation. My feet have their own identities, while as a pair, they reject any set standard of society.

For most of my life, I have satisfied my right, always taking the larger shoe. This decision has left me half barefoot running to first base, or crushing litter in playgrounds with the naked, unprotected flesh of my left foot. I ran, never that fast, leaving behind the evidence that half of me had no desire to move forward, but chose to linger in that limbo that precedes full grown adulthood. Although more embarrassing, it’s much better than pleasing my left. Leaving one foot dancing in the open space of a pair of heels, womanhood’s many curses, has almost led to a broken ankle. Instead, I bear the burden of my fully body’s weight pushing relentlessly on the toes of my right foot. The pressure tightening around the front of my shoe has left my whole foot numb after a night of dancing, and left me shocked that not one toe was broken.

In attempts to avoid the bursting blisters and scars, I have often contemplated shoplifting; switching around the shoes in the box so that the mismatched pair would personally suit my body’s disparity. It’s a perfect solution, besides the jail time of course. The thought of carrying myself in absolute comfort is as imaginable as flip flops being accepted at one of Boston’s hottest night clubs. Until that movement sets in, I’ll continue to move awkwardly through life, satisfying only one extremity at a time. 

Havana Nights

The August heat in Boston was a weighted blanket that everyone tried to breath under. Havana, with its lack of air conditioning, was no different. Dancers led the heat in waves of frantic momentum, pushing it onto everyone around them. Rapid turns and body rolls gave birth to an unexpected mist of sweat. Though it sounds repugnant, the scene of bare limbs sharing steam gave air to an enticing latin sex appeal. It was Salsa Saturdays and the ballroom was at capacity, or so I’d hoped. I’d chosen my outfit thinking, “which has the least amount of clothing,”  a thought opposing my usual style. “Boring” is what my friends called it. “If I had your body,” my cousin Karina always said, “I’’d wear as little as I could.” I always laughed at the compliment, thinking, but don’t you already? 

The dress I wore was one my friend had given me after gaining the “dental school fifteen.” It was a tube top style maroon dress with a full exposed back, all connected with thin, black netting. A piece I would come to wear more than once, but one I’d never buy on my own. It scrunched around my hips and hugged by butt tight enough to stay in place when my legs became slick with sweat, or when i was twirled in endless circles, through risky dips, or when men tried that old school move of dancing with their leg between mine, to hike up my thigh. It was stretchy and form fitting, but best of all, I could breathe. 

Two shots of whiskey, my crew (the girls, friends, and fam— we were rolling deep), and Marc Anthony singing me sweet melodies del amor and i was burning holes on the dance floor. I floated from partner to partner, laughing at my own clumsiness and lack of rhythm. “Just follow the man,” my mom reminded me growing up, a lesson every Dominican girl would learn. She’d taught my brother and me bachata and merengue steps on evenings in our living room; Maria’s own school of dance. My hips, however, were not a ball in socket joint, they were fixed to my legs and no ethnic or genetic power would save me. “Just listen to the beat,”  she would say. What beat? I’d think with frustration.I used a metronome during piano lessons to keep me at pace. I listened to the backstreet boys. How could I hear a single beat through clashing bongos and tamboras? “Una tabla,” my mom would call me, and at one point she gave up.

At Havana, everything changed. I surrendered to the beat, and I followed. I didn’t care for the steps, moves, or routines, I simply let my body flow as a reflection of the man who led me. Most times, we’d move fluidly as one. Often I’d turn in the wrong direction, or step on a toe or two. I found it more fun that way, more simple, and free. 

I danced that night with young new beginners, with men from Guatemala to Ecuador, with a widower well into his eighties, with my cousins, friends, and with so many random guys that their faces all blurred together. A ton of quick, meaningless ballads. Then he asked me to dance. I had seen him on the dance floor, who hadn’t. But in front of me he was taller than I expected, broad up top, with soft dark eyes and my a contagious smile.  “Would you like to dance?” he asked. I nodded yes and quickly placed my hand in his.

I can’t tell you what song was playing, or how many songs we danced to, just the feeling of  my arms stretched up, gripping the rigged corners of his back. Of how he dipped me so close to the ground that I feared for my life. His arms, strong under the small of my back, never budged, and I always landed safely, inches above the floor. I laughed from the adrenaline rush, laughed at his need to fan off so often, at dancing on opposite beats, at his surprised expression when he told me that his shirt was soaked, and I proposed he take it off. I was forward, as I’d always been, and embodied what he would later share as his favorite quote, “Fortune favors the bold.” 

The club was ours, everyone else had faded into the walls. I clung to him like we’d come to Havana together, as if there were no one else to dance with, no one left in the world at all. Finished dancing, we sat on open stools, dehydrated and with shaky legs. The energy that hummed between us masked any signs of exhaustion. We talked and laughed until our lips connected and danced as freely as our bodies had a couple hours before.

My brother approached us. Albert was there, wow I’d forgotten. He said, “Hey, we’re all leaving, are you going to stay?”

“Yea, I’m going to stay,” I answered mindlessly, not realizing it was close to 2am. 

Seeing my brother sucked me back into a reality that I’d escaped from. It was almost 2 am! I got up just minutes after they’d left, and ordered myself an Uber home. We exchanged numbers, and I added yet another “Mike” into the contacts on my phone. With one last kiss I left Havana, re-emerging into the chaos of a Boston summer night. My knees had almost given out while waiting for my ride, my heels cut deep into my feet from the constant weight of my body, but I was light and still floating after starting a dance that would last for years

Grand, Frozen Canyon (from my travel journal)

 The sun slowly draws out the colors of the Grand Canyon. Reds, oranges, and purple shades blend and reflect back combinations of untold stories. The mile long vertical drop holds animals undiscovered, vegetation left unnamed, and people whose memories are left clinging to missing person’s signs. The view is vast, the air is still, and all is so perfectly beautiful. I breathe it in and let it fill me, hoping to carry pieces of it forever. Tracking up in April’s midday sun is a blessing. The air is cool, the sun beats on my face, and the world is my playground. Kim and Joe bounce from rock to rock, dodging mounds of donkey droppings. I feel light and giddy, like when my dad used to push me on the tire swinging our backyard. The world is vast and open around me, and I am free.

As we near our first of many mini peaks, the wind begins to sway us. Clouds roll in and rapidly the canyon disappears, hiding underneath a thick blanket of white fog. We pick up the pace, but nature does too. A cool mist begins to spray my face. My hair begins to curl. Rain falls heavily, pulling me down as I fight the incline. On our descent we skipped down the path, jumping from one step to the next. Now, I hug the mountain side, feeling every corner of my foot press sturdily into mud. Any skid could land me in the pit of the canyon, just one misplaced step and I might never make it home. It’s exciting! There’s a rush over me that fuels my need to survive. My senses are heightened and despite my 40lb bag, I am agile.

Hail. Hail starts to prick our skin with it’s sharp edges pressing through our jackets. The temperature is dropping drastically as we move upward, and my hands and toes are numb. I tire from the weight mother nature has thrown on me, and I’m panting. I know I'm out of breath because I can see it in a small cloud forming in front of me with every exhale. It is cold and it is snowing.

I wear a coat of white at the top of the South Kaibob trail, and it blends perfectly with my complexion. We’re ecstatic. We made it! We’re safe on solid ground! Kim and I are shivering, convulsing almost. I can hear my teeth chattering and feel my core vibrating uncontrollably. As we hop on the bus Kim reflects a shade of blue, and I a yellowish green. We strip off our wet clothes, transitioning to new dry clothes from inside our packs My head hurts, my eyes, I feel dizzy. I start eating nervously; a protein bar, cliff bar, chocolate, a whole bag of jerky. I need the energy, without it I might never warm up. Joe is cold, but not like us. He wraps himself around us, transferring his body heat to me and Kim. No one says anything. I hear Kim’s teeth colliding and hope they don’t break. I lose the erratic rhythm of my breath. There are other people on the bus headed to the Visitor’s Center, but I can’t see them and wouldn’t turn to if I could.

Joe beings to sing Hallelujah in this raspy, blues-like voice. “Once there was a God above, and all I ever learned from love…” I don’t think he fully knows the words, but the sound is soothing and there is beauty again in a moment hopelessness. It caries me away from my soft, wet seat, from the gray, meek bus, from my frail and freezing body, all the way home. To my parent’s bed. To my mother, who radiates heat when I lay next to her. This tiny woman floating in my father’s tank top and summer shorts, curled up and sinking into the pit of their queen size bed. She rolls up so tight, like Albert when he used to hide in the dryer. She’s the size of a child but this heat seeps out of her and forms a forcefield around me. It’s a shield I hide under when the winter chills pierce my bones. It wraps around me and could block out any force of nature, any gunman, any bad dream or thought. I can feel her soft, clammy hands pulling me closer. I remember her chest lifting and dropping against my back, and I know we are still connected. My shoulders drop, my jaw stops moving, and finally, I can relax. I’m not going to die, not today. I let go of my anxieties and physical anguish because I know that one day, maybe not soon, but one day I will be there again with my mother, warm and protected on my safe little corner of the bed.