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