Sold to the Highest Bidder

Here I am sitting in front of my dead birth mothers well -- everything, lying on the cold brownstone floor thinking “why me?” I mean I never even knew this woman. She gave me up for adoption when I was just a year old, and now I have her house because I am her only living relative willing to take on ownership of such an expensive home and an inheritance of $20,000.00. They would not tell me the full details of her life and how she died which I thought was odd because 5 years ago I hired a private investigator in my attempts to connect with her and there was no trace of her existence, I just assumed she did not want to be found. A little over a month ago I received a letter from the executor stating she passed away and that I would need to come to California to sort through her assets etc. Luckily for me she had no outstanding debts. I realize I was lost in thought and repeat my mantras allowing me to return to the present moment. Once I am settled back in my body I resume shuffling around the house to distract me from all the questions I have brewing in my mind.

It is a Spanish style “Hacienda” with a beautiful courtyard overlooking the San Marcos Foothills Nature Preserve. Walking through, I place my fingertips to the stone walls and the energy I pick up tastes so bittersweet. The space between my eyebrows is radiating at such a high frequency giving me a headache I project a false memory of what my childhood might have looked like. The kitchen is across the yard with a large sliding door. The record player is playing Celia Cruz, and my birth mother and I are dancing and singing along while the arroz y frijoles cook on the stove filling the air with an aroma of sazón and garlic. It was bittersweet because it only made me miss my adoptive parents kitchen where we actually did listen to salsa music while cooking. I need only replace this Hacienda with an apartment in New York City.

I will say I appreciate my birth mother requesting I be raised by a Hispanic family, so that I would know my Caribbean roots. I ended up with an older Afroborriqueña Lesbian couple from Spanish Harlem. Now before my ancestors whoop my ass let me clarify, this is not one of those shitty stories of me being abused in the foster care system, I am one of the lucky ones and I carry my privilege with me as humbly as I can. My mothers are so good to me, and my life is abundant. Mamí Odeyemi was a Bruja and could cure any ailment with one of her special herbal teas and sold tinctures to just about anyone that knew how to find her! A private woman who has never taken interest in capitalizing on the gifts her ancestors blessed her hands with. Mamí Marisol works on off Broadway as a costume designer, and even designed some costumes for some of the folks competing in balls so my apartment was always filled with eclectic souls.

The knot returns as I make my way back into the courtyard and into another room. This house has such amazing energy in it, it does not make sense for there to be no other family to claim this place I imagine as I step into what I presume to be a sunroom. In her is some of the most beautiful clay art I have ever seen alongside a kiln and pottery wheel. My knees buckle beneath me and I collapse onto the wheel sobbing. My chosen medium is glass blowing, not the most common path in our society, but I am feeling pieces of myself come together in a way that connects me to my birth mother and myself making me more angry that I was discarded. The dome structure of the studio reminds me of a womb. I continue to lay here lamenting until I drift off into a deep slumber. I was having dreams of my birth mother and I making clay sculptures together when I awoke to find myself still on the floor of the sunroom. I have not eaten yet, and decided to head into the city to see what kind of food I can find at this hour.

I was not very present during my drive, and to make my dissociations worse I picked a bar to bury my emotions further with gold tequila reposado and cheap bar food. On shot number three a man found himself on the stool next to me. I roll my eyes as I suck on the lime because there were plenty of seats for him to pick from. My only hope is that he spares me the corny white dad pick up lines or upon finding out I am a Latina calls me spicy (I don’t even like spicy food). Once he sits down I realize it is the executor, which creeps me out in another format.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked with a troubled look on my face.

“It is my job to follow you Diarenis.” He replied.

“Yo, first of all, my name ain’t Diarenis, and secondly, your job was to give me my moms shit and go on with your life. We are at the “go on with your life” part now Mr. Executor.”

“Diarenis I am very sorry to disturb you and I am sure you are very confused right now. I only came to give you this.”

On the bar he slides over a little black book and stares at me like this book was the most important pile of pages since the Bible.

“It was your mothers, I never opened it, only held it for you as was her dying wish. My apologies for my less than conventional method of reaching you. We may now commence the what did you call it? “Go on with my life” part.”

I let out a slight chuckle as he got up to bid me adieu. Alone again I open up the book and see that it is a photobook of her life. I promised myself on the drive over here I would not cry anymore, but I couldn't help it once I realized how similar we looked. I closed the photobook as I am just not in the mood to unearth those feelings yet. Taking it easy on myself I decided to change my flight to an earlier one and go home where I would be surrounded by people who love me and can help me grieve. I hope to one day be able to appreciate this moment in time and the contents of the little black book, for it showed me a greater appreciation for the love I do have. Until then, Rest in Peace to María Calderón de Cuba and thank you ancestors for gifting me with two mothers who would go on to raise me.