*Non-Fiction — December 1, 2022
Name Necklace
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Mamí had a hunting assignment to find saffron. She wanted to make Papá authentic arroz con pollo, the Spain way, like she saw Jane Pauley try to make on the Today Show. Mamí was on a mission to be Papá’s best woman, his wife. The saffron was too expensive at the Upper East Side supermarket, the only place she found it at. She wondered why a spice that went in our food was only sold at white folks’ supermarkets. The failed trip for saffron defeated Mamí’s shopping spirit. Cooking was never her thing, just a necessary evil on the road to wifedom.
Mamí made elaborate meals, a Boricua June Cleaver, at two a.m., when Papá came home from the “club,” his hangout spot, where business was conducted. His key in the door woke me, along with the sound of the television he switched on as soon as he arrived. At night, he was a ghost; he slipped in, ate his meals, fucked Mamí and went to sleep, the sound of late-night cable television his lullaby. A phantasm, he rose with the sun, gone before I woke for school.
Another Jane Pauley segment inspired Mamí to make lamb for Papá. She recruited Grandma to get her the lamb at La Marqueta. Fridays were Grandma’s shopping day, it was winter break, I was off school. Mamí was taking Nicole to the doctor, so I asked her if I could go shopping with Grandma instead. She said yes, which made my day. Grandma’s shopping list was longer than Mamí’s; she bought food and herbs all over the neighborhood, shopping with her was an adventure. “I got social security cheque.” The few English words Grandma knew. Years in New York City, her adopted homeland, had never taught her full English. She knew enough to roam Spanish Harlem, where English was the second language.
Grandma lived in Lehman Housing Projects; swamps of urine awaited us in the elevator. As we rode the elevator down, I buried my head in my scarf, the ammonia scent stuck in my nostrils. Grandma cursed under her breath. “Desgracias.” She pushed her wire shopping cart, her doña minivan, against the grease-stained metal walls. I found a clean spot against the rusted corner, careful to not step on any of the puddles of urine that dotted the floor, a map of human waste. If I misstepped, my white Reeboks would be ruined and Mamí would ruin me. When we got off the elevator, Grandma inspected me and her cart for urine, dusting imaginary dirt off my camel duffle coat.
In the sunlight, Grandma was color amongst the grays and browns of project buildings, bodegas, the sliver of scarlet from a liquor sign. Dressed in home-sewn, green checkered bell bottoms with a matching tunic, brown wool A-line coat, and a green sequined beret, Grandma had never left the 70’s. It worked on her.
Our first stop was La Marqueta. La Marqueta was a live market, a real-life bazaar, housed underneath the Metro North train tracks, on 116th street. For the very poorest, La Marqueta was the place to buy their necessities and luxuries. Live chickens, batas, perfumes, dried goods, meat and leather bomber jackets were sold next to each other, in makeshift stores, small booths staffed with Hasidic Jewish men. Spanish was spoken with a Yiddish accent, competing with the sing-song Spanglish of Boricuas, the English of the Hasidic Jews, a not-quite American orchestra, uniting all. The Puerto Ricans were the conductors, the singers, US citizen stamped on our tushes at birth, Legally America’s.
Grandma could not read or write, English or Spanish. Mamí wrote the items Grandma needed. She was Grandma’s translator since she learned English in Grade School. I inherited Mamí’s post on Grandma’s journeys to La Marqueta. The Hasidic Jewish Sellers spoke and understood Spanish, but Grandma liked to have an ear that understood English with her. “No confío en ellos,” she told me, her natural suspicion of anyone who spoke English, whether it was their first language or not.
Grandma had a surprise for me. “Te voy a conseguir algo,” she told me, leading the way.
“A gift? For what?” I asked. My birthday wasn’t until July. Grandma’s gifts were always money in cards, with an X next to a heart she drew.
“Just because,” she answered in Spanish. “What? You think that father of yours is the only one who can buy gifts?” She smirked at me and then winked. Grandma saw Papá for who he was.
Grandma grabbed my hand and led me to the jewelry booth. “I know you want one. Those chains.” She pointed at the rows of gold chains attached to nameplates, glittering against the backdrop of their extra-large hoop earring cousins. Mamí refused to get me a nameplate necklace. Everyone had them, their necks branded with their names, some in diamonds. Mamí had one, though she did not wear it anymore. That meant I could not either.
Her excuses were varied. “You could get mugged. Why do you want to look like everyone else? Eh?” This was the woman who bought into every trend. When I refused it, she attacked my sister, Nicole, with the trend. Mugged? I went everywhere with her, her own neck adorned with chains; by her logic, she was herself a lamb advertising her jewelry for the slaughter. I knew the reason. The real reason.
A few months ago, in Papá’s car, Mamí found three gold cardboard gift boxes, the kind made for jewelry. Papá was in the bodega, getting a drink, when she opened them. In the backseat, I leaned over from the backseat, as curious as Mamí, to see what was inside. Each box contained a name necklace, encrusted with diamonds. The first necklace, Aida, my older sister, Papà’s first girl child. The second one, Mary. The third one, Luz. Papà had no children with those names. The back of Mamí’s neck turned burgundy, her hands shook as she put the necklaces back as she found them.
Mamí fingered her name necklace, Rose, identical to the ones she had found. Returning from the store, Papà shut the car door, turned the volume up on Frankie Ruiz, singing La Cura.
Mamí shot me a look over her shoulder, Shut the fuck up, etched in her stare. As soon as she locked our door, she snatched the necklace off her neck, threw it into her jewelry box.
Grandma ordered my name necklace, Leslie, in cursive lettering. It was ready the next Saturday. There were no diamonds on my necklace, but it was priceless. Grandma blessed it on her altar. “Para protección,” she chanted as she fastened the necklace on my neck. Mamí watched, her lips pursed, the slow burn of her simmering resentment towards the symbol of the nameplates warming me as I basked in Grandma’s gift. “Ella queria uno,” Grandma told Mamí. I knew she would not stop me from wearing it. No one crossed Grandma, not even Mamí.
Later that day, Papà picked us up from Grandma’s. He noticed the necklace and motioned me closer. “Who got you this?” He asked me, suspicion in his face. “Grandma did.” I pulled back from him, he held the necklace in his hand, welding me to the spot. “You should have told me you wanted one,” he chastised, “I would have gotten you one with diamonds.” “Mami said I would get mugged, with diamonds,” I told him.
“Mugged?” He screamed. “No one is mugging my daughter. And you don’t leave this neighborhood without me.” He looked at Mamí. She stared straight ahead, her rigid back cemented to the car seat. “I get you a diamond one,” he promised. “And where’s yours, Rose?”
“I left it home,” she said, “I took it off to shower. Where are we going to eat again?” She distracted him, taking his hand.
I put the necklace under my shirt and said a prayer to God for Papà to forget the necklace like he forgot my birthday or Mamí’s sometimes. Papà remembered Nicole’s birthday, because she was born a week after his.
Papà did forget. A diamond-encrusted name necklace never materialized for me. A month later, Mamí pawned hers, stashing the proceeds in a lockbox where she had started saving half of the envelopes of cash Papà sent to us.
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 10. View full issue & more.