SEÑORA SENTIMENTS FOR HIEROS GAMOS

Words by Cydney Caradonna 

When you look like me, quesatacos always feel like a gamble. 

¿Cómo me trataran hoy? 

My antojo gets the best of me today as I make my way to the cocina of the mercado. 

I enter with a familiar nod from the security guard. I happen to be a familiar face – even to the dismay of many. His curls are like my Tata’s. Perfect rows of waves that sit like a helmet. 

Sometimes, after a shower, mine look like this too. I’ll take an extra second in the mirror to make my Tata’s infamous pouting face and watch the skin between my eyebrows come together to make canyons of rolling brown. 

I smile at security. I always smile. 

I have to, que no? 

It’s my best attempt at apologizing for the discomfort I am about to cause in my wake. 

Neon vests speckle the seating area. As the eyes of the shirts meet mine, I start to wonder if it’s me who’s wearing neon green. 

Am I that hard for you to look at? I, unfortunately, know the answer to be “yes.” To you, I am an infuriating enigma. 

To me, you’re a younger version of an aging father I wish wasn’t 1,000 miles away. 

Like I can't blame him, I can’t blame you. But like him, I hope you soon realize we have a lot more in common than not. And the not is full of fiction meant to make us fear the divine; los hieros gamos.10 

With nothing but a book and journal in my hand I know I must throw you off even more. To you, nothing about me matches. 

I pick both up from the table after eating my plate clean and drop them into a small basket that will soon hold chile verde and costillas to roast. 

As I walk down the aisles, I am almost too lost in the latest rendition of ‘Oye Mujer’ on the radio to hear, “¿Es muchacha?” coming out of the mouth of a very tall man as he gestures to his wife, very clearly referring to me. 

Obviously, having a lot more manners, she doesn't remove her gaze from the selection of different kinds of queso to simply say, “Si, mi amor.” 

I do what I do to feel better and lean into the assumption that he likely didn’t think I would understand him, that the tattoos often Americanize me here (which they do). 

“Ay, no entiendo.” 

Oh, he really thinks I can’t understand him. A knot in my throat freezes over as I can feel that his annoyance with me is almost as pertinent as his disgust. 

This is where I wish I had some quick-witted response to make him feel dumb for not assuming me to speak Spanish like: 

“¡Ni yo a ti, cabrón!” 

But I didn’t. I kept walking. 

I made my way to the register and rushed my items onto the belt ready to sleep off the interaction, my quesatacos, and consome while it was still warm in my stomach – before it was frozen over by the frost still settling in my throat. 

Before I can tell myself to keep my eyes down and just make it to my car the Señora at the register utters: 

“Hola, mi reina.” 

I swallow what is now warm water dripping down my throat.