Shards of Memories

Long ago I summed myself up in part of my history:

Eating 75 cent corn tortilla burritos from the liquor store on the corner where the cholas hung out and perfected that stance, that glare, that embodiment of "don't fuck with me." Listening to grandma cooking beans and burning eggs in the early morning and her snoring in the darkness of the bedroom after breakfast was made. Thinking "mija" was a nickname and wondering why it was only grandma who came to visit for long periods of time, and never my mother's mother (who never understood my nickname.) Being unable to understand any spanish words except mija, híjole, chíngate and mota. Hearing about wars in central america and the holy land. Hearing WAR on the radio. Hiding from the madness of the school yard during lunchtime in the orchestra practice room, bleeding low cello tones where only I could hear them. Experimenting with hairspray and kohl eyeliner with my friends in the hour before school started. Realizing why certain family members stayed away and why my father would never step into my mother's parents' home only an hour away. Knowing what I was...to them.