I watched from the backseat of my mothers car as she waved us on our way. Her name was Tristeza, although I always thought it was odd; before that torrid year, you couldn’t have found a livelier soul. I watched her hand send us off, the long brown limb rocking backing back and forth gave the impression of a somber tree being pushed around by the wind since it lacked the very will to move on its own. The woman waving to us was not the woman I knew; this was a new woman, a sad woman-beaten down by blinding love, lacking the will to move, and a woman very near the end of her ride. For a moment, as I watched her wave us goodbye, as if a mirage and only for a moment, I saw the woman I knew.
She was strong, and intelligent. She was proud, and dignified. She was a woman who wore the world upon her shoulder as effortlessly as I wore a shirt. I saw her eyes, almond shaped and equally brown, caressing the world with her gaze. Her eyes sat upon her ruddy cheeks, which always seemed to glow whether she were happy or not. A statuesque women, her dark skin marked her a black Madonna; she was equally holy in my eyes.
But that mirage quickly faded; those caressing eyes were suddenly covered by a pair of dime store knockoff shades, her ruddy cheeks lost there glow and seemed to sink in to her face, and none of us had seen her smile in a long time.
Tristeza was my mothers friend, almost like a sister in most respects. For that reason, as we grew up around her, our mother made us call her “Titi”, the Spanish word for “Aunt”. We called her kids cousins, though the connection to them faded quickly--we were never family, that connection was merely the fanciful dreaming of our mothers. We never called her husband our uncle either, for years he seemed to be a figment of her imagination as he was always away at work. But, once we did meet him, we wished we could have left him in our imagination.
I always admired Tristeza, you see, she had a home--not a rented home, no, she actually owned her own house. It was a big house to our little eyes, though now I realize it was just an overgrown ranch. The amazing part for us was that she seemed to have it all; an aboveground pool, a garage with the basketball hoop, a descent sized yard, and best of all, it was tucked in the suburbs. Tristeza worked hard to keep the house beautiful, and it showed, the flowers were always in bloom in her yard--when some were dying, others were springing up. The myriad of colors, and the perfectly trimmed grass made her house the envy of the neighborhood. This was a fact she knew quite well, and so her head was held high. Perfection is never perfect though.
I remember the first time I began to notice the kink in her armor. It was summertime, and it was in the morning, we had gone to pick her up in my mothers car--for all the things she had, she did not have a license. As she got into the car, I noticed she was wearing a pair of sunglasses that were oversized. I chuckled to myself as I thought it was funny. My mother quickly started with the usual small talk about were the good sales were and such, and off we were. I was in the middle of the backseat--I never got to have the window--and I was staring out into the oncoming road. I glanced over at her for only a moment in passing, but I saw a reflection in the glasses. My attention was glued to it…around her eyes were blue and purple. I hastily asked what happened.
I should have never asked. Her hands quickly went up to cover that half of her face and, in that one instant, I saw that black Madonna cowering like a scolded child as she begged my mother to bring her home. She pleaded and begged, but my mother gave her comforting words like the ones she gave me when I was scared. But she never once mentioned the black eye. I knew from the reactions that my statement was heard, but there was never any mention of my statement. I should have never asked about her eye, you see, Tristeza, up until that point in my life was like a statue, strong and indestructible. What I witnessed then was the crumbling of that image.
When we got home that night, as was our custom, I joined my mother in the kitchen to watch and talk as she cooked. I asked her why Tristeza had a black eye. My mother said it was bad make up. I then asked why she reacted the way she did when I mentioned it. My mother said it was because she didn’t know her make up was running that bad and simply wanted to fix it. I looked at my mother as she chopped up the peppers and the chicken and such. “You don’t have to lie to me you know.” I said.
“There are things in life that are your business, and things that are not.” she replied very matter-of-factly.
“And your friend getting beat up isn’t your business?”
“She was not beat up, she was punished.” she said, again, as if it were law.
“By who? Her mother?”
“No, her husband. And the affairs of a husband and his wife are private matters.”
“You said I can’t hit women.” I replied in youthful confusion.
“You can’t.” she replied.
“Unless I get married?” I said, I knew the answer, but now I was provoking. I loved a lively debate with my mother, and here she was, chock full of contradictions.
“Never, not even when you get married. These are old ways, you are not old.”
“But…”
“No, now drop it.”
The next weekend, we went over to her house for a small barbeque. We had a lot of fun, until we started to get ready to leave. We were drying off and finishing our meals when Tristeza came out and was surprised to see us getting ready to leave. She asked why were leaving and my mothers reply sent shivers down her spine. I remember the time exactly, my mother told her it was 5:05pm. Again, the second this week, I saw Tristeza cower. I saw her hand, that careless brown limb, fly up to her mouth. She began to fire her words off almost indiscernibly. I made out a few phrases; “he’s gonna be here any minute”, “how could I forget?”, and “please hurry were amongst them“. My mother raced us off into our car which was just outside her driveway, then she jumped in and tried to start the car. It took a few tries, but then the engine roared to life as the belts squealed out a terrifying prophecy. We were halfway down her street when I saw his foreboding Mercedes Benz. I looked out to see him as our cars passed each other. He was mad, his thick brows curved into a horrible “V”. I looked to my mother, she was biting her nails and mumbling to herself. I turned around to see his car through our back window. I can’t explain why I felt a terrible knot growing in my stomach, perhaps my mothers fear was contagious, perhaps I could feel it.
Two months had passed before we saw her again. And when we did, she was not the same. We saw her at the grocery store near her house, we were in the area and my mother wanted to pick up some fresh meat for dinner. It was just the two of us when we saw the remains of Tristeza wobbling through the isles in search of whatever. My mother approached her while I stayed a few feet away, I was afraid to see her any closer. A few kind words later and they headed in different directions. I slowly slinked my way past her. She was still wearing those oversized frames and I saw myself in them. I looked as scared as she did at the barbeque.
We managed to leave the grocery store at the same time she did. That was when I saw her for the last time. I remembered the strong, proud woman. Then I saw her husband, the thick “V” shaped brow and angry glare. I wanted to know how, how he managed to beat her down so badly. For years I thought that he beat her soul out of her, but I was wrong. What I saw was a woman powerless to change, the statue powerless to the effects of time, the somber tree powerless to move on its own; what I saw was the absence of power.
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If something about your relationship with your partner scares you and you need to talk, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or 1-800-787-3224 (TTY).
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