Read Online The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Díaz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Junot Díaz
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All I knew was that I didn’t want to see her ever again. I put the clippers in Karen’s hand, turned them on, and guided her hand until it was all gone.
So now you’re punk? Karen asked uncertainly.
Yes, I said.
The next day my mother threw the wig at me. You’re going to wear this. You’re going to wear it every day. And if I see you without it on I’m going to kill you!
I didn’t say a word. I held the wig over the burner.
Don’t do it, she swore as the burner clicked. Don’t you dare—
It went up in a flash, like gasoline, like a stupid hope, and if I hadn’t thrown it in the sink it would have taken my hand. The smell was horrible, like all of the chemicals from all the factories in Elizabeth.
That was when she slapped at me, when I struck her hand and she snatched it back, like I was the fire.
Of course everyone thought I was the worst daughter ever. My tía and our neighbors kept saying, Hija, she’s your mother, she’s dying, but I wouldn’t listen. When I caught her hand a door opened. And I wasn’t about to turn my back on it.
But God, how we fought! Sick or not, dying or not, my mother wasn’t going to go down easily. She wasn’t una pendeja. I’d seen her slap grown men, push white police officers onto their asses, curse a whole group of bochincheras. She had raised me and my brother by herself, she had worked three jobs until she could buy this house we live in, she had survived being abandoned by my father, she had come from Santo Domingo all by herself and as a young girl she claimed to have been beaten, set on fire, left for dead. There was no way she was going to let me go without killing me first. Figurín de mierda, she called me. You think you’re someone but you ain’t nada. She dug hard, looking for my seams, wanting me to tear like always, but I didn’t weaken, I wasn’t going to. It was that feeling I had, that my life was waiting for me on the other side, that made me fearless. When she threw away my Smiths and Sisters of Mercy posters—Aquí yo no quiero maricones—I bought replacements. When she threatened to tear up my new clothes, I started keeping them in my locker and at Karen’s house. When she told me that I had to quit my job at the Greek diner I explained to my boss that my mother was starting to lose it because of her chemo, so when she called to say I couldn’t work there anymore he just handed me the phone and stared out at his customers in embarrassment. When she changed the locks on me—I had started staying out late, going to the Limelight because even though I was fourteen I looked twenty-five—I would knock on Oscar’s window and he would let me in, scared because the next day my mother would run around the house screaming, Who the hell let that hija de la gran puta in the house? Who? Who? And Oscar would be at the breakfast table, stammering, I don’t know, Mami, I don’t.
Her rage filled the house, flat stale smoke. It got into everything, into our hair and our food, like the fallout they talked to us about in school that would one day drift down soft as snow. My brother didn’t know what to do. He stayed in his room, though sometimes he would lamely try to ask me what was going on. Nothing. You can tell me, Lola, he said, and I could only laugh. You need to lose weight, I told him.
In those final weeks I knew better than to walk near my mother. Most of the time she just looked at me with the stink-eye, but sometimes without warning she would grab me by my throat and hang on until I pried her fingers from me. She didn’t bother talking to me unless it was to make death threats. When you grow up you’ll meet me in a dark alley when you least expect it and then I’ll kill you and nobody will know I did it! Literally gloating as she said this.
You’re crazy, I told her.
You don’t call me crazy, she said, and then she sat down, panting.
It was bad but no one expected what came next. So obvious when you think about it.
All my life
So now you’re punk? Karen asked uncertainly.
Yes, I said.
The next day my mother threw the wig at me. You’re going to wear this. You’re going to wear it every day. And if I see you without it on I’m going to kill you!
I didn’t say a word. I held the wig over the burner.
Don’t do it, she swore as the burner clicked. Don’t you dare—
It went up in a flash, like gasoline, like a stupid hope, and if I hadn’t thrown it in the sink it would have taken my hand. The smell was horrible, like all of the chemicals from all the factories in Elizabeth.
That was when she slapped at me, when I struck her hand and she snatched it back, like I was the fire.
Of course everyone thought I was the worst daughter ever. My tía and our neighbors kept saying, Hija, she’s your mother, she’s dying, but I wouldn’t listen. When I caught her hand a door opened. And I wasn’t about to turn my back on it.
But God, how we fought! Sick or not, dying or not, my mother wasn’t going to go down easily. She wasn’t una pendeja. I’d seen her slap grown men, push white police officers onto their asses, curse a whole group of bochincheras. She had raised me and my brother by herself, she had worked three jobs until she could buy this house we live in, she had survived being abandoned by my father, she had come from Santo Domingo all by herself and as a young girl she claimed to have been beaten, set on fire, left for dead. There was no way she was going to let me go without killing me first. Figurín de mierda, she called me. You think you’re someone but you ain’t nada. She dug hard, looking for my seams, wanting me to tear like always, but I didn’t weaken, I wasn’t going to. It was that feeling I had, that my life was waiting for me on the other side, that made me fearless. When she threw away my Smiths and Sisters of Mercy posters—Aquí yo no quiero maricones—I bought replacements. When she threatened to tear up my new clothes, I started keeping them in my locker and at Karen’s house. When she told me that I had to quit my job at the Greek diner I explained to my boss that my mother was starting to lose it because of her chemo, so when she called to say I couldn’t work there anymore he just handed me the phone and stared out at his customers in embarrassment. When she changed the locks on me—I had started staying out late, going to the Limelight because even though I was fourteen I looked twenty-five—I would knock on Oscar’s window and he would let me in, scared because the next day my mother would run around the house screaming, Who the hell let that hija de la gran puta in the house? Who? Who? And Oscar would be at the breakfast table, stammering, I don’t know, Mami, I don’t.
Her rage filled the house, flat stale smoke. It got into everything, into our hair and our food, like the fallout they talked to us about in school that would one day drift down soft as snow. My brother didn’t know what to do. He stayed in his room, though sometimes he would lamely try to ask me what was going on. Nothing. You can tell me, Lola, he said, and I could only laugh. You need to lose weight, I told him.
In those final weeks I knew better than to walk near my mother. Most of the time she just looked at me with the stink-eye, but sometimes without warning she would grab me by my throat and hang on until I pried her fingers from me. She didn’t bother talking to me unless it was to make death threats. When you grow up you’ll meet me in a dark alley when you least expect it and then I’ll kill you and nobody will know I did it! Literally gloating as she said this.
You’re crazy, I told her.
You don’t call me crazy, she said, and then she sat down, panting.
It was bad but no one expected what came next. So obvious when you think about it.
All my life
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