Unshuffle my head

Random memories seem so few in between. Memories are difficult for me.

Since I can remember, they've been telling me that my brother wanted a little brother and got me instead. But I remember him running through a parking lot waving a pink box in his hand while I watched him from above, my little hands gripped to the metal bars of a small city balcony. He could've bought himself anything else yet that pink box I remember as my first Barbie. I grew in tune with just how much he loved me.

My dad once told me he would believe anything I said, anything, even if it wasn’t true. He would believe it because he loved me profoundly and there was just no other way for him to love me. I grew in awe of words and my father.

I met my best friend at age 12. She was impossibly intelligent and beautiful and had these long perfect fingers that danced over a black piano, playing songs that sounded like poetry.  She didn’t know we would become the best of friends, but I did, and so we did, and we are. I grew to believe in soulmates.

During my childhood I recall sitting in the classroom of a catholic elementary school in Queens, hearing nothing but white noise while I relearned a language that sounded indescribably foreign and impossible. I grew fearful of nuns.

During my first long stay in Colombia I learned that I sounded like a North American TV show, you know, like in the Sony Channel. People wanted me to speak in English and entertain them.  It wasn’t a real talent, just something I could do. I grew skeptical of what entertains people.

During my first days in a predominantly black high school in Brooklyn, a girl told me I had white-girl hair. I couldn’t understand what it meant or why it mattered.  I had never been anything close to a white-girl in Colombia nor had I been considered light-skinned. I grew aware of my race.

During the same time I met a Haitian girl named Lindsay. She was a stocky black girl with a lot of attitude. She was unapologetically outspoken and told me she would take care of me as if she knew I needed to hear it. Her mother and little brother waited for us after school in their one bedroom apartment in Flatbush. They would play soca on the radio and deep fry ripe plantains, it felt like home. I grew hopeful of strangers.

In Colombia, my brother who is 8 years older than me would always let me ride shotgun. Even when he had girlfriends, he would let me sit in the front seat. He taught me to appreciate Metallica, Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, Queen, Motley Crew and how to head bang. He would cook meals for me. I grew in love with my brother and fond of heroes.

I was usually the tallest in school. During all the back and forth between countries I was left back a grade a couple of times. My classmates became younger and I became older.  I realized I wanted to be around older people, I longed to be taken seriously. I grew aware of time and my struggles with it.

My mom and I were in Colombia packing my bags for me to catch a flight into NYC  when my best friend called me to tell me I probably wouldn’t fly out and I should turn on the news. My mom and I sat crying in silence watching planes fly into the twin towers. We figured it meant war, something bigger than us, but all we could think about was my brother who was in the Marines at the time. I grew infinitely small in a world full of actions I could not comprehend.

I remember how dark it felt inside when my father died and I wasn’t with him. I grew heavy and remorseful and forgetful.