My Two Cents (1977)

Me with my first born. Do you see my black eye and
the pain behind the smile?

At eighteen years of age, I already endured my share of hardships that  included emotional and physical abuse, as well as poverty, racial tension and abandonment. But the one thing it all taught me was tenacity. And then some.

The morning as I applied makeup to cover my black eye, I looked forward to my new job waitressing at a restaurant located in Skylake Mall on North Miami Beach.

I was glad to see that the place wasn’t a typical greasy-spoon kind of a diner.

The mornings welcomed aromas of freshly brewed coffee, combined with the lingering whiff of bacon and pancakes from the cooking area. When the kitchen door swung open, dishes and pots rattled from within.

Considered green, an outsider, the new kid on the block, I was the youngest waitress there. But I didn’t mind. I scurried about taking orders, my hair tied in a ponytail with a clip. I wore a short white dress, white shoes, and a black apron with deep pockets filled with chewing gum, a pen, an order pad, a couple of bobby pins, lipstick, a matchbook, and my daily tips.

I busted my tail for those tips.

The waitresses I worked alongside with were cold and snappy; been around the block or two. This diner was their turf, their bread-and-butter. The manager reasoned anyone younger gave these older gals a run for their money. Instead, they had me running in circles. Those seasoned servers barked orders in gruff voices, as if I was their esclavita.

I was still learning the ropes and a bit overwhelmed.

I’ll show them. I’ll pull my own weight.

By and by, I got the hang of things. I excelled in carrying a couple of plates in one hand, balancing two more on my forearm. The chef was Cuban, an older man, and took a liking to me. This counted for something. When you called out an order, it needed to be right, without any hic-cups. Correct orders produced happy customers. Happy customers tipped.

Weeks later, I won half of the waitresses over. Their hard lines softened. They gave me pointers about what worked and what didn’t: how to clean my station properly, turn in orders, run the cash register, even hinted on which customers liked what. The rest left me alone. I was grateful for that; I had trouble enough in serving some regulars who dined . . .

“Hey lady,” the voice of a girl no more than ten called out to me. “Yer gonna take our orders, or what?”

“Sure am,” I chirped, trying to keep a positive attitude. “What will it be?”

Pippi Longstockings and her big sister dined here before and sat at my table. The two red heads rode in a fancy car and wore designer clothes, boots, and multicolored chokers. The “I’m-better-than-you” etched on their powdered faces. I knew the older sister schooled the younger one on what to say.

“My usual bagel, the way I like it . . . burnt,” Carrot-Top crooned, “with cream cheese, and orange juice over ice. Got it?”

I popped my gum and turned to Pippi. “And what can I get you?”

“Hot-chocolate and three pancakes . . . .” Pippi grinned, batting her lashes. “And . . . leave out the batter,” she whispered.

I ignored the snide remark and wrote down her order. “Coming right up.” I darted away.

Within ear range, little rich girl hissed, “Spic.”

My blood boiled. I bit down on my tongue until I tasted blood.

After the Red Hens ate and left, I cleared their table, half expecting to find a hate note instead of a tip.

Nada. 

“Oh Miss-sy,” another familiar voice summoned, and motioned for me by snapping his fingers.

This sunburned “Bubba,” a construction worker, who wore a stained plaid shirt over a beer belly and blue jeans a couple of sizes too small, frequented the diner daily. Never alone. When possible, he waited for a table in my station.

Just to make my life miserable.

I walked over with three glasses of water.

Bubba held up a cigarette. “I need a light,” he smirked.

Here we go again, amusing his friends at my expense. I’m so not in the mood. I reached for my matches, lit his cigarette, jotted down his usual order and took his friends’ requests. 

     

His demands were persistent.

“Bring me the morning paper will you, doll? The ‘King of Rock ‘n’ Roll’ died.”

“More water.”

“Another napkin.”

I chewed on the inside of my cheek.

“Hey, my friend’s coffee’s gone cold.”

“My ashtray’s full. Make it snappy, kiddo. Haven’t got all day.”

Time to put this chump in his place in front of his pals, I mused. Slapping the bill down, I asked, “How come ya never leave a tip?”

Bubba’s face turned a lovely tomato red. “Why should I?” he retorted. “You just ain't good enough, girlie.”

My own face turned colors; I stomped away and stuck a second stick of gum in my mouth.

They soon left.

When I returned to their table to help clear it off, I noticed Bubba left a tip, sitting neatly beside his plate.

Two pennies.

Who does this sinvergüenza think he is? I’m not a sangana. Can’t he see I’m a hard worker, trying to do my job? I need to prove myself to my man; want to make him proud. I have a daughter that I need to buy things for.  

The next day, a new server worked the floor; he and I switched stations. Ah, so young and wet behind the ears, I chuckled to myself. Yep, green as anything.

In no time, the lunch crowd swamped us. But wait. What’s this? Bubba strutted in with three of his pals, and headed for my usual station.

The newbie became flustered in taking their orders. They were now harassing him. I must give my new coworker a hand, I thought.

Newbie fumbled with the vegetables and the condiments at the salad bar.

“Here, let me help ya,” I offered. “I know the way this customer likes his chef salad. Comes in here all the time.”

Newbie thanked me for my assistance and moved on to the iced tea dispenser. By the time he came back, I’d finished the salad.

“There ya go,” I said to Newbie, pointing to my creation. “Just the way he likes it. He’s quite picky, tu sabes?”

“Oh, t-thank you so much,” Newbie replied, nearly spilling his drinks.

“No problema,” I smiled. “Here, I’ll take the salad to his table.”

As I left their table, I heard Dancing Queen play on the jukebox, and felt a familiar tune of my own creep into my soul.

Several minutes later, a commotion stirred. “What kind of joint y'all runnin’ here?”

Bubba’s voice carried clear across the crowded restaurant. I turned to see my “favorite” patron, flushed-red, gesturing forcefully between Newbie and the manager. They stormed out of the restaurant and never returned.

When the coast cleared, I approached Newbie. Porbre muchacho looking a bit spent.

“Mira, those clowns, they're something else, okay?”

“Sure are,” Newbie answered, wiping his glasses and the sweat off his forehead. “Weird thing though,” he continued, gazing at me as if studying me. “After that one dude finished eating his salad, he declared to have found something at the bottom of his bowl.”

“He did? What was it?”

“Two cents.”

(excerpt from A Mary Heart - works in progress)

In Memory of My Grandpa

Every Memorial Day I remember my grandpa, Florentino Mendez. My mind goes back to when I was a little girl sitting at his feet.

I sat Indian-style and watched him scatter newspapers on the floor, laying out the shoes in a neat row and placing an old wooden box beside them. Inside the box, he kept brushes, old socks, rags, and cans of black polish.

“Do you know what I’m getting ready to do, young lady?” Grandpa asked.

“You gonna spit and shine shoes,” I shouted.

With one hand in a shoe and the other in an old sock, Grandpa rubbed the wax back and forth polishing the leather. I never tired from following his hands, moving like flashes of lightning.

He always rose before dawn and believed in the saying, “The early bird catches the worm.” He prided himself on discipline, stemming from his years in the military. On a weekly basis, he cleaned our shoes, the way he said he had learned in the Army.

He walked me to school and back, logging in about a mile and a half each way. Rain or shine, I counted on his presence waiting for me after class.

I loved him dearly. Always clean-shaven, he smelled like Mennen Skin Bracer and Vitalis. He was average in stature, had fair skin, gray-hair, and quick eyes with a broad smile.

Years later as an adult, I would never forget how the unsettling aura of death struck me when I first walked into the hospital room. I shuddered and gingerly approached the silhouette, buried under layers of covers. The head of his bed was raised, the profile barely recognizable to me.

“Grandpa…?”

A pale, thin face moved; eyes hardly opened. Those eyes, once sharp, were feeble and dull. Yellow paper skin hung loosely from bones. Large purple veins ran up and down his hands like a roadmap. His hands—once strong and beefy, quick and nimble—felt cold, boney and fragile. Those hands once steady in his military days, guided and comforted me in my youth were the same ones I held now.

I struggled to keep my composure. I knew he was weary. It pained me to see him lose his dignity, lying there so helpless, a prisoner in his own body.

Lost in my thoughts, my eyes roamed and paused on Grandpa’s wristwatch on the bedside table.
Time. I picked up the watch and held it. Precious time. Running out. As Grandpa dozed off, I sat at his bedside, praying for God to hush the raging of my heart.

Two months after his eighty-fourth birthday, my beloved grandpa sadly passed away.
Today, I remember Florentino Mendez: veteran, brother, husband, father, grandpa, uncle, friend - I honor his life.

Like the Wind

Hadn’t my grandparents always said, “nothing worthwhile comes easy”?

At the track and field events, I earned each of my awards and ribbons. I’d raced along, my eyes on the mark. Momentum building as my arms pumped with energy and my long legs pounded the grassy field. The warmth from the sun’s rays kissed my face, and the breeze caressed my long, flowing hair. My mind, clear and free from worries, centered my concentration one goal: crossing the finish line.

We took our places and lined up in a row, waiting for Coach’s command.

“ON YOUR MARK . . .”

Nerves hit the pit of my stomach.

“GET SET . . .”

I willed my mind to focus, my eyes fixed straight ahead.

“GO!”

We were off. My foot slipped; two of us bumped. I regained momentum, pumping my arms, elbows high. I needed to pace myself or I’d run out of wind. I decided to hold steady at a comfortable third place. I knew that if I stretched myself, I’d pick up speed and pass them one by one. Needed to time it just right.

Breathe. Keep your eyes on the back of their heads.
Don’t get in too much of a hurry.
Steady . . . Steady . . .
Not yet. Not yet.
Almost . . .
Now!

I passed one girl. Then another. A burst of energy flooded me as I gained a second wind. I closed in on the leader. I heard her breathing. The sound of our feet pounded the ground in unison, inches apart.

It was now or never.

Image source: thinkstock by Getty Images

 

We came onto the turn, I moved to the right. Willing my legs to move faster, I passed her up, taking the lead. In record time, I beat her to the finish line!

That was me a hundred years ago. Strong. Perky. Ageless.

If I did it then — perhaps, just maybe — I can do it again, in whatever I set out my mind to do.

(excerpt from A Mary Heart works in progress)

My Confession

I'm jealous.

I confess.

I don't think I ever grasp this concept until now. It pains me to admit this, but it’s true. Whenever I hear other’s express their close bond that they have with their mothers, I marvel how grand that must be!

And it stings.

Mama used to say: “You can have ten fathers but only one mother.”

I heard that line growing up and believed it. After my parents divorced, I had three different step-dads. I didn’t want to share my mama, she wasn’t married to any of them. I wanted us to be by ourselves. But Mama was too busy for me. I’m sure she did the best she could, but nurturing wasn’t in her DNA. Left on my own a great deal, I was a neglected child.

Loneliness was my middle name.

At age nine, once we moved to Florida, my grandma was more like a mother to me. I knew then what a mother’s love felt like and it just wasn’t the same as Mama’s. Oh, to be sure, I loved my mama; she gave birth to me. But because I had no choice but to grow up too fast, our roles were reversed.  Most of the time, I felt like I was the mother. I wasn’t a model teenager either, and couldn’t wait to leave home in search of love.

The miles separate, the years have passed, Mama and I have since aged. I look back and forgive my past; it has made me who I am today. I’ve had to learn to forgive my mama a hundred times over, whose harshness and demeanor become more passive and feeble with time. She's not perfect. And neither am I.

I am a mother now. And I pray that my own children will always feel my love.

No matter what.

It takes work. Prayer.

And much forgiveness.

Our communication skills remain much to be desired. I'll keep working at it.

Mother’s Day was around the corner. It had always been so complicated for me in choosing the right Mother’s Day card. I thought, wouldn't it be nice if I wouldn't have to keep putting the cards back on the shelf searching for the one that describes my mama perfectly?

Then I thought: Maybe, I’ll write one for her myself:

To my one and only Mama.

I loved you then.

I love you now.

No matter what.

Love always, your little girl.