Day 12
December 6th = the 12th Day of Activism
TORONJAS
By Mydalis Vera
Mami used to walk miles through the hills of Jayuya
toronja in hand, knife in the other
Cutting it open as the sun kissed the horizon
Sprinkling salt on its bitter flesh like it was sugar
“¿Por qué la sal?” I’d ask, pushing aside
The clutter of cords and old radios on our kitchen table
She’d raise her eyebrows, smack her lips
“Está riquísimo,” she’d say
And I'd wonder if she craved the bitterness or the memory
Here, in this cold, concrete jungle
There were no free toronjas on the side of the road
No fields bursting with pink and green under the hot sun
Instead, she swiped her blue plastic card
Her face on it, like a mugshot in the corner
And we left with bags full of food stamps' bounty
Grapefruits lined in rows under fluorescent lights
A far cry from the ones she once picked from the wild
I imagined her dancing through those fields
Her hair free, her spirit untamed
The dulce of home in every bite
She left the mountains in ‘88
Pregnant with me, stepping into a different kind of wild
One made of cement and strangers' cold stares
Where nothing was free except the struggle
Here, the jungle took, but it never gave back
People promised her stability
With small-hearted words and empty hands
But gave her just enough to survive
Never enough to thrive
Cycles of abuse swept her away
Shuffling from one new city to the next
Far from the rivers that once sang to her
At the kitchen table, I was always there
Clearing a space amidst the clutter
Watching her salt the toronja
Wondering if she was salting her memories, too
She was close, but distant
Steps away yet a world apart
I was her oldest, her translator
Her pride and joy
But she didn’t worry about me
It was my siblings she held close
The grapefruit juice dripping down her shirt
As I sat, pushing radios aside
Trying to understand the stories that she no longer told
Mami was a creator
She built a life with a man for twenty years
Until the weight of the table, they worked under
Broke both their backs
And left us with no table at all
Mami was a resister
She resisted leaving that cheating man
By going to bed early, every night
She resisted being our mother
By pretending she couldn’t hear us cry
Floating through the house like a ghost
In a place that never felt like home
But Toronjas
Toronjas and stories that’s what made our homes
Even when they weren’t homes at all
Just places full of things
Where Mami once shattered a mirror
And stared at her reflection
As if she was back on that mountaintop in Jayuya
“Vete pal carajo,” she said in a voice
That was deeper than I’d ever heard
He ran out, then back
Banging on the doors and windows
But she wouldn’t let him in
She gathered her children, adults
And asked for our forgiveness
For every time she turned away from us
From herself
Trying to fit into molds this new land demanded
She still finds Toronjas here
But they don’t taste the same
They sit in neat rows, trapped in a space too small
Their bitterness dulled
Their wildness tamed
No longer plucked from the side of a narrow road
They’ve lost the sun, the salt, the freedom
But Mami, she still salts her Toronjas
Not for flavor, not for taste
But to remember
To hold onto the hillsides bursting with life
To the bitter she craved and the sunrise
She once greeted with sonrisas
Salt, like memories, preserving what was
Even if it can never be again
–
Mydalis Vera is the author of Warrior, Guerreras Latina Lifestyle B(V)logger
Guerrera Writer LLC