Disclaimer: This story is pointless. But it happened. And I wanted to share.
She was wild. And crazy.
She was super sexy and everything I wanted to be when I grew up.
She was my aunt.
I remember being 12 years old and watching her in the bathroom
getting ready to party and when she left from in front of the
mirror, I remember standing in her place to see if mine had come
yet.
The epitome of Puerto Rican women everywhere.
My mustache.
Side Note: I know…I know. You’re clueless. Slightly disgusted.
Mostly wanting to know WTH?
But my aunt, a proud Puerto Rican woman (and the men who loved her) LOVED
her hair…even if it grew above the lip.
Her: I see you looking in the mirror. When you turn a certain way I
can see it starting to grow in.
Me: You can?
Her: Yup!
I smiled. I wanted a mustache so bad I could taste it.
I never saw what she saw, but the promise of having one of
my own was enough to keep me on an emotional high for days. Soon I
was going to be a woman. And I’d have the mustache to prove it!
But enough about my dreams of being gifted
with a hairy lip and onto the real story!
So my aunt fell in love with a Dominican man who couldn’t speak
English. A man who liked hairy Puerto Rican women with mustaches. Clearly.
It was a hot Rochester, NY summer and my Aunt had recently loaded
the freezer with popsicles. She asked me to get her one. I obeyed.
I walked to the freezer like any normal 12 year old would do and
opened it only to find a severed finger laying in the corner.
Pointing at me. In a very aggressive way.
I was startled.
And full of concern about my own fingers, which at the the time, I
REALLY happened to like.
I knew that her new boy toy was responsible. She had a tendency to
pick these kinds of guys who were dangerous, extremely handsome and
never spoke a word of English. The kind of guys who loved women
with a little extra body hair.
It was in that pivotal moment in life that I no longer wanted my mustache.
Not if it involved foolishness like this!
My Aunt: Tiph, where is my popsicle?
Me (Looking at the non-English speaking Finger Taker and then at the finger):
Uh…um…they’re gone!
Aunt: All of them?
Me: Uh…yeah.
She went on to mumble about how greedy us kids were and then
decided that we’d take a family stroll to the corner store. She
told the Finger Taker to put on my shoes in Spanish. She was always
bossing him around. He always listened.
Me (Horrified. With reason): But I’m 12. I can do it myself.
She ignored me and he followed her orders.
I hid my precious fingers from him in my pockets as I watched his
cigarette dangle off of the tip of his bottom lip while he
struggled with this mundane task.
I ended up with my right shoe on my left foot and the left shoe on
my right foot. He scratched his head as he tried to figure out what
he had done wrong, but I mustered up a smile and reluctantly gave
him a thumbs up to assure him that all was well.
WHERE’S THE FINGER TAKER NOW?
He got deported for other reasons. Whenever I ask my aunt where
the body is to the finger in question, she laughs. Then changes the
subject. My life :/
THE LESSON?
If by chance you EVER find a finger in a freezer, do what I did.
Pretend like you didn’t see anything (even though everyone knows
you saw it and are now watching you watching it) and wear your
shoes on the wrong feet with a smile on your face
no matter how horrified and wildly uncomfortable you are!
I guess this PSA wasn’t so pointless after all, huh?!?
Because I want you to believe in yourself.
HARDER than you ever thought possible.
xoox
Tiph
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