When We Were Widows

by Annette Chavez Macias

deep down, I couldn’t trust my mother.

chisme

“Oh, okay. Let’s do lunch sometime. I’ll call you,” she yelled after me. I’d heard those words so many times after Jason died. People promising to keep in touch or meet up to talk. Most of the time they meant nothing.

We cannot compare our grief or even our happiness with anyone else’s.

Que descanse en paz,”

“Pobrecita,

caldo de pollo,”

introduce ourselves and say one word that describes how you’re feeling at this exact moment. No need to explain or defend. Just say the word.

It was what was expected, and I always did what was expected of me. It was usually easier that way.

I can see you’re not a woman who is used to asking for help. And I can tell you are someone who likes to be in control of her life, and grief is something you can’t control. Talking about that with others who are going through something similar gives you back some of that control. Even if it’s just for an hour once a week. Because, I’ve learned, eventually, the more you talk about it, the more that control grows. So, if that’s what you need, what you’re looking for, then I’ll see you next Saturday.”

chanclas.

Or was I going to be like my mother and hold on to things just on the off chance history repeated itself?

It could be as simple as the relationship you had with them wasn’t at all what you thought it was. And it sucks, but it won’t do any good to hold on to them. For your own sake.”

And the more I thought about having to put on a happy face and make small talk with relatives I barely knew, the more my gut twisted.

“No one in this family shares anything unless someone else figures it out first or makes them say it. We’re Latinas. We don’t voluntarily talk about our feelings. Instead we hold it inside and carry grudges until we die.”

We tend to argue a lot, even about the tiniest things. It’s exhausting sometimes.”

It’s true what they say about first daughters taking on the weight of everyone’s world. I thought if I kept my room clean, if I got straight A’s, if I behaved like a good daughter should—then my dad would never be mad. Because if he wasn’t mad, then it would be a good day and he wouldn’t disappear.

Chavez Ravine.

Well, I was done living as if Benny was still controlling my life.

This was the only life I had, and it was about time I took ownership of it.

As a Mexican American author, I sometimes struggle with a sense of obligation to use my stories to also weave in pieces of our history that have been either forgotten or purposefully hidden. It’s that part of me that wants to show others that the Latine/Latinx identity in the United States is about more than just immigration. Generations and generations of Mexican Americans were planting roots on this side of the border long before there was talk about building walls.