Knitting the Fog

by Claudia D. Hernández

  That night, I had to bite my tongue in order to not reveal to those at the dinner table the reason why the tortillas—fresh from the comal—gave off a light, rosy complexion. We ate in silence.

  La Familia

  Mamá was the oldest of six siblings: four girls and two boys. Anita, Sandra, Carmen, Edwin, Mario, and Marleny. All six of them were her half siblings; they all belonged to Don Lalo, the man who despised Mamá, the man who married Mamatoya when Mamá was only six.

  Tía Anita

  Anita was the second oldest, but I don’t know much about her because she passed away when she was only six years old. She died of typhoid fever and no one in town knew how to help her. Everyone who met her still remembers her green doll eyes. I got to see the transparency of her eyes in a black-and-white photograph Mamatoya kept on her bureau.

  Tía Sandra

  After Anita passed away, Tía Sandra became the second oldest. She is four years younger than Mamá. I have heard many stories of Tía Sandra, and I believe them all. She laughs at everything even when things are not funny, not even for a six-year-old.

  She dropped out of elementary school in the fifth grade. But she enjoys reading the newspaper every day.

  Tía Sandra had two kids—a boy and a girl. Mayra and Randolfo were my youngest cousins at that time. Randolfo is one year younger than me, and Mayra is two years younger. They are exactly one year apart; coincidentally they share the same birthday month and date: May 28.

  Tía Sandra believed she wasn’t meant to be a mother. Thank goodness she tied her tubes and only had two kids, because Mamatoya ended up raising her children. Both Randolfo and Mayra call her by her first name, Sandra. Mamatoya has been their mamá ever since they can remember.

  Tía Sandra was the type of aunt who had mastered the art of annoying us, especially me at the age of seven. She thought I was the cutest thing she had ever seen, with light skin and giant brown freckles spread over my face. Every time my sisters and I would return to Tactic from Mayuelas, she would bury my face in her stomach. That was her way of hugging me. She would grab both my cheeks and kiss each one, saying, “You’re back, abispita.” Then she would throw her head back laughing nervously, nonstop. I never understood her laughter back then.

  Carmen, Tía Negra

  Tía Negra is Mamatoya’s fourth daughter and her favorite child. She was quiet, reserved, intelligent, cultured, and beautiful. She was the only one of the girls to graduate from high school. She even took some courses at a community college thirty minutes away from town. She was granted a visa at a young age and traveled to the US often.

  We all respected her because she spoke differently from everyone else in the house. She had a sophisticated accent, the type of accent that only teachers and the wealthy people in town had. The rest of us had a singsongy accent, according to the neighbors.

  La Negra, as we all called her, was the only one from the whole family who landed a job as a bank teller, a well-respected job in Tactic. And because she was the only one in the house who had a full-time job besides Don Lalo, she always bought us little gifts every year for Christmas and at the August fair, where we got on all the kids’ rides like the ferris wheel, the merry-go-round, and the bumper cars. She made sure that we all had a good time at the fair even if we only got to get on one ride or play lotería once. La Negra was good at saving money. She hid a giant piggy bank in her closet. No one knew about it except for me because I’d slept in her room and shared her bed.

  Every so often when I was left alone in her bedroom, I would sneak into her closet and would turn her piggy bank upside down and shake it. Through the little opening slit, chocas would land on the floor. I would run to the store by myself with the twenty-five cent or ten-cent coins and buy pan dulce, ice cream, or a Coke. My stomach would always hurt after eating or drinking her money. Somehow I managed to never get caught.

  Tía Negra was always well liked by the people in town. She was the only one of us who got invited to social events because she knew how to behave. She attended church every week and sang in the choir. She was soft spoken and blushed every time she gave away one of her smiles. As quiet and painfully shy as she seemed to be, she loved to sing like a bird of paradise at parties and at church. She even participated in the town’s singing contests every year. I don’t think she ever won, but everyone applauded her and adored her for her gentle personality. She was my favorite aunt besides Tía Soila.

  Tío Edwin

  Tío Edwin was Mamatoya’s fifth child and the first boy. He was only one year younger than Tía Negra. They were like twins, inseparable. They had the same introverted personalities and were the only two out of the seven siblings to graduate high school. Tío Edwin had a good head on his shoulders just like Tía Negra.

  But they looked completely different: Tío Edwin was light skinned, had light brown hair with green eyes. Tía Negra had straight jet-black hair, olive skin, and dark brown eyes, the shape of almond seeds. They loved each other deeply.

  Tío Edwin wanted to be a lawyer. He was in his last semester at the Universidad de San Carlos de Guatemala when he passed away. He was diagnosed with cysticercoids, a tissue infection caused by eating food or water containing tapeworm eggs. He suffered throughout his college years. He almost went blind. He had several brain surgeries, and his seizures continued until he finally passed away. Tío Edwin had a promising life.

  Every year in December, when Mamá was gone, he would take my sisters and me to the forest to choose the Christmas tree. We would choose the tallest and prettiest pine tree. Tío Edwin never said, “It won’t fit in the living room.” He simply chopped the tree with an ax, and we would help him drag it back home. The whole family would get together to decorate it. The tree shimmered and twinkled with different-colored lights and homemade garlands and ribbons. It looked full of life even though its top was usually bent because the living room ceiling wasn’t tall enough. But the pine aroma would inundate the house. We all loved Christmas time.

  Tío Mario

  Tío Mario was Mamatoya’s sixth child. He was the first one born in a hospital; her previous children had all been born at home with the help of a comadrona, a midwife, as was customary to do in those days.

  Mamatoya had complications while giving birth to him and was rushed to the nearest town’s hospital. According to Mamatoya, the doctor pulled Tío Mario out of her womb by tugging on his right leg. His leg never recuperated and somehow became longer than his left one. He had a distinct limp that everyone could recognize miles away.

  Mamatoya never accepted that one of her son’s legs was deformed.

  “Mario is not my son,” she would say.

  She accused the doctors and the nurses of exchanging him for another baby. Yes, Tío Mario still has a hard time accepting himself because Mamatoya always finds a way to tell his story at every family reunion. Tío Mario is only four years older than me. Mamá says that he’s definitely family because I act just like him—like a complete clown that doesn’t take life seriously.

  Tía Marleny

  Mamatoya gave birth to Tía Marleny when Mamá was two months pregnant with Consuelo. That means that Mamatoya and Mamá were both pregnant at the same time for two months. Tía Marleny is Mamatoya’s youngest child.

  Tía Marleny is short and tubby, with green eyes the size of giant, transparent marbles. When she was five years old, she caught a sinus infection that never went away until she became a mother. She always had a hard time breathing through her nose, producing green and yellow mucus nonstop.

  Randolfo, Mayra, Sindy, Consuelo, Marleny, Mario, and I grew up together. We attended the same elementary school. Sometimes we were all placed in the same class and grade level.

  We all made fun of each other, but we especially ganged up on Marleny. We called her all sorts of names: mocosa because of the yellowish-green boogers always dripping down her nose; vizca because one of her eyes had a mind of its own, which made her appear cross-eyed; janana because of her nasal, squeaky voice.
We were cruel kids.

  Marleny hated school. She repeated first and second grade twice. When I began first grade, I was placed in her class with Profesor Freddy. I was seven years old, and she was already ten. We both made it to second grade with Seño Chaty, the infamous teacher who wore a mask of makeup and always scratched her butt cheeks whenever she passed in front of our house. We all mocked and imitated her mannerisms, especially Mario.

  I moved on to third grade while Marleny repeated another year in second grade. She dropped out of school when she finally made it to fifth grade.

  She of course wasn’t the only fifteen-year-old in the history of Eriberto Gomez Barrios Elementary School to drop out of fifth grade because she had to repeat it. School wasn’t for everybody. She simply gave up on education and had no choice but to stay home and help Mamatoya sell homemade food from door to door, from business to business.

  Mario had already given up on school the year before. They were the youngest siblings, and since they had quit school, Mamatoya forced them to roam the streets of Tactic selling delicious food and appetizers like enchiladas, tostadas de frijoles, and rellenitos. Mamatoya was a great cook. Everyone in town knew it.

  Mario would usually make Marleny sell to neighboring stores full of hungry people, while he hid a block away. They were both ashamed to do the job. Edwin on the other hand not only helped Mamatoya with the cooking but also gladly volunteered to sell it on the street. Hundreds of people attended his funeral. He was well liked by the town’s people just like Tía Negra.

  Tía Marleny also automatically became Mamatoya’s caretaker. The youngest daughter who never marries or leaves the house is destined to care for her aging mother. She didn’t have a choice, at least according to Mamatoya.

  Don Lalo

  Don Lalo married Mamatoya when Mamá was six. He never liked Mamá since the very beginning. He didn’t like us, either. He was a thin, Indigenous man born in Tactic. His German hazel eyes enticed Mamatoya to leave everything behind, including her daughter, my mamá.

  When Mamá was in the US, Don Lalo always complained about the noise level or the mess we created in his house. He hardly ever spoke to us. He worked long hours as a security guard for a large coffee plantation. He was gone for weeks at a time. Whenever we did see him, he was always drunk.

  I only witnessed one physical fight between Mamatoya and him. He was drunk that day, and Mamatoya beat him up with a broom and buckets of ice-cold water. He never dared touch her again.

  T

  where would she be

  H

  tonight if she wouldn’t

  E

  have taken her on that

  P

  winding path—

  E

  tied her tiny hands

  R

  behind that broken

  S

  wooden chair—

  I

  hidden her beneath

  S

  the bridge to Gualán—

  T

  shattered her screams

  E

  into silent rain while

  N

  eating her soul away?

  C

  would she be alive today

  E

  avoiding the smell

  O

  of evergreen moss

  F

  found in the riverbed

  A

  or the familiar

  N

  (unfamiliar) distorted

  I

  face of a stranger

  G

  smiling her way?

  H

  would she perpetually

  T

  drink her silence

  M

  like bitter melted

  A

  ice and carry on

  R

  convincing herself that

  E

  nightmares don’t exist?

  Little Devil

  I was eight years old when I had my First Communion in Tactic. My mom sent me a beautiful white dress from Los Angeles for this special occasion. I looked like a bride, ready to marry the first boy who tickled my stomach with the blink of his eye.

  The truth was, I was terrified by the undeniable scent of incense that oozed through the cracked adobe walls of the church. Each wall was filled with effigies resembling people that didn’t look anything like us.

  The crucified Jesus Christ at this church was light skinned, unlike the black Christ resting in Chi-Ixim’s temple, located on a hill twenty minutes from Tactic. All the saints in Tactic’s church had European features—tiny noses with thin lips—unlike my sisters and I and most of the Indigenous people in town. Only the Ladinos, who were half Indian and half Spanish or from German descent, were fair complexioned and had hazel or blue eyes. My skin was pale compared to Consuelo and Sindy’s, but I still had my Mayan nose, dark almond eyes, and big lips. Consuelo’s nose was just like mine, except she had bushy eyebrows. Sindy had dark, curly hair and a dark complexion.

  Listening to the dramatic songs and prayers that echoed along with the organ chords shattered my composure. Then I remembered why I had been so excited to do my First Communion: I wanted to taste the famous wafers after mass. I wanted to form a long line in the middle of the pews and pretend to be a virtuous girl. I wanted to be like most people in town: good citizens. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.

  A few minutes before the ceremony, Mamatoya reminded me that everyone in Tactic was a devoted Catholic. We had no choice but to do our confirmation. As Mamatoya covered my face with my transparent veil, she asked me, “Are you ready to confess your sins to Padre Alfredo?”

  “What sins?” I asked. I felt my face burn with my big fat lie.

  “Before you receive Communion you have to confess everything to Padre Alfredo so that he can absolve you from your sins. Then you can enjoy the wafer,” she said.

  “What’s absolved?” I asked.

  “He forgives all your travesuras,” she said, smiling.

  I wanted to cry. How could I tell Padre Alfredo my secrets, my sins? I realized that I was never going to taste the famous wafers that melt in your mouth. That’s how my older friends described it. I never understood why some people simply sat on the pews instead of forming line to get Communion.

  On that day, things began to make sense. They probably had too many painful secrets to confess to Padre Alfredo. I sat quietly on one of the pews to gather my memories, good and bad, behind my veil before proceeding to the confessional booth.

  I was four when I committed my first sin.

  It was a hot and humid day in Mayuelas. That afternoon, Mamá came back from the market, sweating and in a bad mood. She didn’t even bother to say hi to me. She ran to the bathroom to shower with cold water. She locked the door behind her, leaving me outside. I whimpered like a sad puppy. I was used to taking showers with her, but on that particular day, for some reason, she was furious.

  I stood outside the door, peeking through the keyhole. As she undressed, I noticed she covered her private parts with her palms. She knew I was outside. Before getting in the shower, she unlocked the door to let me in. I sat on the floor watching her from behind the shower curtain.

  “What are you hiding, Mamá?” I asked.

  “Don’t ask dumb questions!” she shouted.

  I became more curious as she soaped her slender, muscular body. I could see her through a hole in the shower curtain, but she caught me and scolded me again, “Stop staring, abispa. Don’t be such a naughty girl!”

  I was only four, but I felt like the dirtiest four-year-old in the whole world.

  I was four and a half when I committed my second sin.

  I fell in love with one of Mamá’s older friends. His name was Omar. He would visit us once a week to play poker, smoke cigarettes, and drink with Mamá and her other girlfriends. I became obsessed with Omar. I often dreamed of him, naked, flying like an angel.

  Instead of a penis, Omar had a white paloma that fluttered its wi
ngs incessantly. My whole family and everyone in town call the male penis a paloma, a dove. I’m not sure why.

  In my dream, Omar rose in the air like Jesus, and reaching with both his hands, said, “I love you, Claudita.”

  The next day, I was so excited about our love that I told the entire family about my dream.

  “Omar me ama!” I shouted, jumping up and down. They all laughed in my face.

  “Omar is in love with me,” I tried to convince them.

  Mamá sat me on her lap, hugged me, and said, “Ay sompopito, Omar is just a family friend and he likes you as such.”

  I continued to make a fool out of myself. “No!” I said. “Omar is in love with me!”

  The phrase No Mamá, es que Omar me ama! became famous among family. I never forgot Omar.

  I was five when I committed my third sin.

  These experiences did not traumatize me. They did quite the opposite. I wanted to know even more about people’s bodies and why they covered and hid certain parts from me.

  I remembered one time when Papá came home from work complaining about a pain he felt in his paloma, his penis. I was in the kitchen with Mamá trying to flip some tortillas on the comal. My parents spoke in Gerigonza, Pig Latin, so that I wouldn’t understand them. Little did they know that I had learned Gerigonza at the age of four, on my own. I knew pafalofo-mafa meant paloma.

  Even though Mamá was under the impression that I didn’t understand what they were talking about, she kicked me out of the kitchen. I was forced to go to the patio to play by myself because Consuelo and Sindy were at school. From the patio I saw them go into their bedroom. This just inflamed my curiosity. I wanted to see Papá’s white dove—I was obsessed. I wanted to see how Mamá cured his paloma with her magical cream.