By: Soraya Fonseca '28
Art by: Angela Shang '27
Content Warning: depression, ED, body dysmorphia
The sky is brighter here. I can feel the weight lifted off my shoulders. Outside, the cold is working overtime to remind me that I’m no longer in the steamy depths of Alabama.
September 2015
Mamí came today.
I was sitting in the auditorium and I heard my name. I knew it was coming, but I was struck with the sudden urge to throw up. I didn’t want to walk up there with my head down and shake everyone’s hand and receive my award for whatever it was I did. I was embarrassed that I didn’t have someone to cheer for me. I sunk deeper into my seat. But I knew that everyone around me was whispering, so I gingerly trudged up the stairs. As soon as I was finally able to walk down the steps, face blazing hot, I decided to stare down the crowd. I knew what they were thinking. What is she doing up there? She knows she doesn’t belong.
As I wondered for probably the hundredth time why my family wasn’t here to defend me, I noticed a figure standing in the back. I almost didn’t see because the person was standing in the far back, beside the double doors. But I would know her anywhere. I saw her and my heart started pounding. She waved, and I smiled so hard my cheeks felt like they would burst. She actually came to see me! I was too overwhelmed to respond so I forced my feet to keep moving — right back to my seat.
I was buzzing in my seat. Throughout the rest of the program, I kept turning around to see Mamí, to make sure she was real. She would wave and laugh — I was so happy to see her laugh. The sound was almost foreign to me. She didn’t laugh nearly enough. And as soon as it was over, I ran to her. Of course, I made sure to excuse myself after bumping into people; I wouldn’t want them to think I’m a rude Mexican too. I saw Mamí’s smiling face and I almost cried. Luckily, I remembered how she forbade me from crying in front of her, and I quickly mustered up something akin to a smile. She fussed over my hair and my dress, but I could see she was emotional too. She made sure to take as many pictures of me holding my award as she could before she had to leave. Our lively reunion was cut short because she had to go back to work. I had no time to complain that everyone else’s parents were checking them out before she was gone.
Reflection
The magnitude of this moment would not hit me until later, in my bed. I remembered the times I was woken up at 4 in the morning to the sound of Mamí cooking and getting ready for work. Joan Sebastian, Luis Miguel, and Jenni Rivera blasted from her small Sony speaker – the only one we could afford. I would often sneak into the kitchen to see her dancing carelessly and mumbling the words to herself. I never got to see this version of her. It was in these moments where I caught a glimpse of the real her, the person she’d never let me know. I did understand why she hid from me. The years she had spent living in our town had turned her into a shell of the person she once was. The constant stare-downs, whispers, and parent conferences have run her dry. Who am I to judge? Still, I want nothing more than to know her. What ice cream flavor is her favorite? What’s her favorite book?
Our relationship functioned on mutual detachment. She was always gone, and I was always at home. That didn’t mean I didn’t see how hard she worked for our family. Mamí works from 5 in the morning to 10 at night and I often go days without seeing her. Seeing her there in that auditorium, watching me be recognized for high academic achievement, felt so good. I don’t know how she managed to squeeze 30 minutes out of work, but I don’t care. Those 30 minutes were everything I was waiting for. And in a way, I know Mamí was waiting for this chance, too.
May 2018
I hate when it rains. Rain means something bad will happen. It comes as no surprise that on the morning of that Saturday in May, it was storming outside.
I woke up to the sound of tree branches dancing against my window. Dark figures lingered over my bedroom walls, threatening me with phantoms of my past. I didn’t get a chance to decide whether I wanted to sleep in because images from last night quickly flooded my mind.
I saw Mamá, sitting at the dinner table, expertly avoiding my eye. The empty seat at the head of the table meant that Papá was working late today. It was just the two of us, like old times. However, we both realized that things had changed. Neither of us understood when it happened — from one day to the next, I wasn’t “Sory la Princesa” anymore. I was okay with that, I promised myself. She wasn’t the hero I would look for in the crowds anymore.
We were having molé for dinner. I hoped Mamá remembered it was my favorite — maybe she did care about me. Mamá asked me whether I had finished my homework and when I was going to clean my room and if I wanted more food. As usual, I was only half-listening to her. I made sure to nod at the right moments and say just enough that she wouldn’t get suspicious. Then, she asked if I spoke to her today.
My breath caught in my throat. The words clawed at my tongue, begging me to keep my mouth shut. My critters in my chest accelerated my heart to an alarming rate. I wanted to be quiet — I tried to be quiet. We were having a normal dinner for once. But, of course, she knew what she was doing.
This was it. I was retiring my role of the “perfect daughter.” She didn’t deserve it, not anymore. Maybe it was because I was tired of constantly parroting back responses I knew she wanted or maybe it was because I was tired of her draining all my energy. I answered the only way I could.
My voice, strained from inactivity, suddenly rose in volume. I did nothing to control myself. I shouted “Yes, as a matter of fact I did talk to her!” and “There’s nothing that you can do!” and “I don’t care what you think!”
Mamá sat there calmly while my confidence soared. This was my life; she had no power over me. She couldn’t do anything.
After a couple minutes of watching me, she simply told me to sit down and finish eating. The fight in me was gone. Embarrassed, I escaped to my room.
I intended to stay in my room all day. I was not going to apologize for what I said last night. Still, I feared what Mamá would do. I feared her telling Papá. He was hard as stone, and unforgiving to a fault.
I decided to make myself busy with schoolwork. From previous experience, I expected that Mamá would advise everyone to keep out of my room. After a while of sitting in silence, I heard footsteps coming. A voice I recognized quickly echoed out that dinner was ready. This time, I was uneasy about joining her by myself.
In spite of that, I decided to try again. Upon opening my door, I could hear voices in the dining room. I sighed a breath of relief. I wanted to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, so I tiptoed my way toward the fragrant smells of fresh cilantro and pollo guisado.
With every step, the voices were getting louder. I could hear Mamá’s voice, low and desperate. Whispers of Padre Vicente and a girls’ camp told me everything I needed to know.
I knew she disagreed with my “lifestyle,” but I never expected Mamá to betray me like this. She couldn’t change who I was, no matter how hard she tried. I wouldn’t let her.
Some stupid part of me thought that maybe she would apologize this time. I thought she was done controlling everything about my life. Then I remembered who I was talking about.
As soon as I entered the dining room, Mamá looked at me with a smile, the same smile she usually reserves for when she runs into her old “friends” she no longer tolerates. I could tell she was going to say something I didn’t want to hear, so I braced myself.
“Hija, hemos decidido que ya no puedes ver a [Redacted]. Ella no es alguien con quien quieres que te vean.”
I didn’t get a chance to argue because the conversation was over just as soon as it started. She began passing the food across the table and that was the end of it.
I wanted to understand. I wanted to understand why she didn’t want me to be happy. [Redacted] made me happy. But I knew better than to defy the rules Mamá sets in place. That didn’t mean I could hate her any less.
August 2021
It started out slow — almost imperceptibly. I began by looking at myself in the mirror a little too long. Seconds turned into minutes. I scrutinized every angle of my body, turning this way and that. I sucked in hard, like I was feigning to be dead, to see how flat my tummy would become. Not good enough.
I started skipping breakfast, because who really wakes up at 9 in the morning? Not me. I don’t even like breakfast foods, so I wasn’t missing much.
What really drove me to the edge was my mom. Our relationship had been uncomfortably cold for some time. She no longer asked my opinion on gifts when she went shopping (she made sure to always invite me to go with her because she clearly didn’t want people to talk) and she didn’t care to go to my performances at school. I became a living ghost shuffling through her house.
She would often comment on my appearance, telling me to trade in my oversized pants and long T-shirts for dresses and skirts. She started to talk about my arms and how fat my face would become if I didn’t start taking care of myself.
I don’t know if she had changed or if this was me simply seeing her for who she really was. She was mean.
I would stay awake at night thinking about the things she would say. I would wonder if she knew that her words echoed in my mind. Surely she did.
When school became harder, I became so absorbed in my academic performance that I forgot about everything else. I didn’t want to think about the nasty comments Mom would say about me, so I simply ignored everything and dedicated my days to school. I didn’t go to school lunch period because I used that time to finish up extra schoolwork. I stayed hours after school to help with elementary school programs and athletic events. I completely lost myself in it all. And I didn’t care to stop.
Of course, I didn’t even stop to see how bad things got. I started hiding food in my closet, with the proposition that I would eventually take it out and no one would notice. The snacks Mom bought me were left stashed in black garbage bags, because I didn’t know what I would do if I was tempted to eat and I saw food at my disposal. I became nose-blind to the rancid smell permeating from my small closet. And I knew I didn’t have a problem because, truly, I could stop whenever I wanted to. There was nothing wrong with what I was doing.
The difficult part was dinnertime. Mom insisted on family dinner every weekday, which made my situation harder to manage. I knew I couldn’t trick her into thinking that I had eaten early dinners because she would see right through me. She knew me better than I knew myself, she always said. Thus, desperation drove me to ridiculous lengths. I started packing Ziploc bags in my pants pockets and large hoodies so I could stuff food into them as we were “eating.” I talked and talked throughout dinner as I would sneak food into the bags. If Mom found my chatter suspicious, she didn’t say.
With every day that passed, I was thrilled that I could go another day. As with any challenge, I counted how many days I could go without eating. I never called it fasting because fasting was something that happened when people had problems eating. I didn’t have a problem with food, I only wanted to control how much access I had to food. I wanted c o n t r o l.
I understood that maybe I had a problem when I realized that I avoided my friends and didn’t sleep well at night. Although my rumbling stomach excited the competition in me, I was miserable.
It wasn’t until Mom figured out that I was losing chunks of hair when she understood how everything was affecting me. I didn’t tell her how she makes me feel, though. I can’t. I don’t want to blame her — it wouldn’t change anything.
She helped me through rehabilitation and therapy. She held my hand while I had my NG tube meals. She took me shopping for clothes that I could fit into. And she helped me when I was stressed about college decisions.
Even though our relationship is and may always be complicated, we still have each other.
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The brightening colors outside remind me that change carries beauty. As flowers bloom and die out, they carry traces of their lives with them. I am the breeze flowing through Hanover, as the wind has led me from Alabama to here. My journey is solely my own.
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