The Eternal Neutrality of the Concave Chest

He literally took my heart. Ripped it out, actually -- bloody and still pumping. I could feel an echo, a memory, of where it used to be. I asked him to take it. I watched him, encouraged him even, as he held the glimmering blade and shoved it into my waiting chest. The pain was exquisite torture, but less intense than heart-break. His stoic nature fascinated me, it seduced me into masochism; he didn't reveal emotions -- no pity, no fear, no remorse, no sadness. It simply was. I didn't exist to him. I was a shell, a vessel, a body; I was emptiness. I wondered what he would do now that he held the crimson, palpitating muscle in his hands. But he didn't want it; he just tossed it. This time though, it didn't hurt. His rejections no longer mattered because I no longer felt. Never again would I experience sorrow or anger, pleasure or joy, love or hate. Heartless, I was immune to emotions. I questioned to what extent -- would I still be filled with peace when I closed my eyes under the warm sun? Would a star-dotted sky still take my breath away? Would the blue and white salty waters of the world remain a source of solace and amazement? How would my mind react now that it no longer had to battle my heart? Was I done dreaming?

I watched him walk away, his dark silhouette growing smaller and smaller into oblivion. As his figure faded into the horizon, so did every memory I had of him. Now that my heart and my mind were no longer connected, I was free of emotional ties. My memory stored images, stories I associated with him, but they no longer held an impact, it was almost like they never happened. The only pain I could feel was in my chest, in the hollow space between my breasts. The blood had stopped and the skin was rapidly regenerating, so much so that I only had a light, star-shaped scar where the knife had penetrated. I waited a few moments before walking towards my new life.

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We met my last year of college. I was young, free-spirited, and full of ideals -- I romanticized revolutions of the past and of far-away lands, I believed we would all one day be equal and I had no doubt that happy endings existed. Up until then, my life had been full of ups and downs, spirals and twists, but never once had my faith in liberty, justice and love wavered. I ran free.

I never expected to meet him; it was just one of those things that unexpectedly falls into your lap and it seems so right, that we associate it with fate. My first impression of him was that he was fat, and that he donned a shuffle when he walked. That view faded soon enough -- his fat transformed into big, powerful and masculine; His shuffle became a dominating stride, confident and war-like. I was hooked. I was never naive, but I possessed a strange innocence that was inherently genuine. With him, I relaxed and allowed my heart to feel. And it felt. For the first time, I met a man I wanted in my life and that I could see a future with. My mind was a bit more stubborn. A true cynic, my mind battled my heart. I wish my mind was the victor. But my heart was strong and relentless and no matter how hard my mind fought, whenever I saw his face and his dimpled smile, my heart triumphed.

To this day, I don't know what I saw in him. He was average looking, rough around the edges and could not put a sentence together without first peppering it with profanity. He lacked tact and always said the wrong thing. More importantly, with him, I never knew where I stood. Some days I was sure he cared, but he just lacked the sensitivity to express it. Other days, most days, I wondered why he wasted his time and mine when his heart wasn't in it. It wasn't anything he said, but everything he didn't say. It wasn't anything he did, but everything he didn't do. He was the secret garden I wanted to discover, the ocean of thoughts whose depth I wanted to explore. He was so close, but always so far.

We continued that way for months. The deeper in love that I fell, the more I had to lose. Everything was always his terms, his conditions. I found myself fading away. Instead of the outspoken, opinionated rebel, I was now nice and sweet. Women should be seen, not heard. I worked hard at being a "girl" - upbeat, pretty, and sensitive. But it wasn't me. As such, I slowly evaporated. I learned to smile and nod, to keep opinions to myself, to aim to please. My fire dimmed. My spirit died. Without realizing it, I gave him a marionette me and he didn't want it. I, on the other hand, wanted all of him. I wanted his confidence, his smile, his entitlement and privilege. I wanted the man he was the during the day and the child he was in his sleep -- sweet, unguarded and innocent. That's when I loved him most, while he slept. There was nothing I longed for more than sleeping by his side -- our limbs radiating heat, his breath lullabying me into the most delicious slumber. Months later, after I surrendered by body to him, I reminisced to those nights when I watched him sleep and felt true intimacy, the intimacy the union of our bodies never experienced.

In retrospect, I guess I always knew how it would end; my intuition prophesized it. I knew my heart would break, I just didn't expect the intolerable pain, the flooding tears, the swollen eyes, the emptiness... I knew he could never love me. He wanted more; he needed more. Or maybe, he wanted less; he needed less. We were different. We didn't share ideals. We didn't share backgrounds, statuses, minds. I was the intellectual to his jock. I was the irrationality to his common sense. I was the pauper to his prince. My creativity outshone his dullness, intimidated his blandness. His neutrality confiscated my confidence, brought out my insecurities, made me run and hide. Occasionally I would reemerge, take a swing at him, a jab, a round-house kick -- anything that would evoke an emotion. But nothing ever did. He would just look at me, silently. He would look at me, but he would never see me.

Finally, the frustration of loving a creature like him caught up to me. Away from him I was miserable, always questioning myself -- was I not smart enough? Pretty enough? Thin enough? Fat enough? Why wasn't I enough? I couldn't do it anymore; I needed to break free.

It was clean break. He was unfazed as always. "It's not that you're a bitch or anything," he said. "I'm just at that age, you know? I should be looking to settle down and shit and I don't feel we are at the same mental level. I can't date just to date."

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The last time I saw him was a cold, spring evening. For reasons I'll never understand, he asked me out again. "To celebrate our birthdays," he said. That night was perfect. We talked, danced, kissed. That night, everything seemed more alive: the stars shone brighter, the air was crisper, my heart beat stronger. Everything was magic. For just a few hours, I surrendered to the fantasy. But this wasn't my fairy tale. This didn't have a happily ever after. Heartbroken and half-naked, I fought the tears that were welling up in my eyes and watched him turn his back and walk out the door one last time.

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Even after we stopped seeing each other, he haunted my every waking moment. He wasn't present anymore and it hurt. My mind, cynical and independent, celebrated my freedom, but heart couldn't stand it -- it was destroyed.

Night after night, I dreamt of him. In my dreams, he never acknowledged me. I searched for him, hoped to gain clarity, find answers. I needed something to kill my love and steal my hope. But nothing changed. Instead, I surrendered to desperation and embraced the pain, as intricate as butterfly threaded lace and as poisonous as a black widow's kiss.

After a while the pain replaced him and I became dependent on it. Like a heroin addict, I injected suffering into my bloodstream and needed it to function. As long as I hurt, my love lived. I wondered if I had been brainwashed by soap operas. I remembered writing my thesis paper on the virgin/whore dichotomy and examining the two distinct roles as they are portrayed in short stories and soap operas. In one of the books I used, Cleófilas yearned for the passion of soap operas "because to suffer for love is good. The pain all sweet somehow. In the end."

Somewhere between writing and loving, I believed it. My love justified my suffering. My suffering justified my love. I moved through the world in penance, preaching the gospel of a disillusioned heart and disappearing dreams. The more I hurt, the more I loved, the more worthy I became.

One day, I woke up and looked at my reflection; it terrified me. I didn't recognize myself. I had become what I thought he saw: a shell, just a body void of the purest essences that had once been me -- vivacity, courage, pride, passion. That was the day I knew he had to cut my heart out.

Father's Day

The doors slide open and they walk in - a mother and her two little girls. The little ones, still pre-school age, are messy – frizzy blond curls, wrinkled dresses, sticky hands and smiles. All three sit in seats perpendicular to mine. They laugh, play and enjoy each other. At the next stop, the door connecting the linked cars opens and the girls squeal in excitement. It is Daddy. Their young faces reveal the joy and love that's only apparent when one is still innocent and trusting, before life has hardened one up and taught to conceal what one truly feels. He comes closer. "Daddy! Daddy!” they cry in unison. He sits next to me, the too familiar stench of alcohol rushes into my nostrils. They compete with each other for his attention. "Look at my earrings, Daddy!" "I have this much money left, look Daddy! I have 6 left!" Daddy smiles, an absent and slightly menacing look plastered on his face. "What's that on your ears?" His tone mean and aggressive, almost threatening. The older girl's smile drops, but she doesn’t untape her dangling paper earrings. His attention turns to the younger one, his eyes scrutinize her sticky fingers, her outstretched palms holding copper-colored coins. He looks at the mother, stating, "you spent it all at Starbucks." She laughs and says, "No." He keeps insisting. The older girl withdraws and moves closer to her mother. The little one looks at him adoringly; he is still her hero. His eyes are locked on the mother's, who smiles uncomfortably. The younger girl, sensing the sudden tension, automatically draws her thumb into her mouth for comfort. Daddy turns to her and slaps her hand out of her mouth - "We don't suck thumbs!" She whimpers, lightly, but doesn’t cry. At that moment, BART stops -- 24th Street, my station. I wonder how much time the girls have left before they realize their father, like mine, is nothing. I wonder when they will awaken from their fantasy.

Once upon a time, I was that little girl. In my eyes and in my heart, my dad could do no wrong – he was my everything. He was the first person I trusted completely, blindly, without a doubt. I thought he would always be there. Back then I could not imagine life without him. Now, I cannot imagine life with him. I don’t remember what the breaking point was. I don’t remember when I lost all faith in him. I don’t know if it was a series of events, or one particular incident. In retrospect, I think I chose to hide the truth from myself. I guess I did not want to face reality; I didn’t want to admit that my father was a coward, a liar, a selfish being. I knew why we had left our family home without him; I knew what he did to my mom; I knew why Mari and I had to walk to school past the train tracks at 6:30 am Monday through Friday; I knew why my mom had to work; I knew why my uncles and my grandfather would drop food off for us; I knew why he scared me at night. But in the day, in the sunshine, he was my Daddy.

I looked forward to the afternoons I would spend with him. Mari wouldn’t come. A lot of the times it was just Gugu and me. Other times it was just me. He would take us to a bar and we’d have banana splits; he’d just get hammered. I loved ice cream. I loved him. I didn’t even mind the music. It must have been 1989 or maybe 1990. “Ven Devorame Otra Vez” was at its peak. Lalo Rodriguez’ voice boomed throughout every jukebox in Masaya “…devorame otra vez, ven devorame otra ve / Ven castigame con tus deseos mas / Que el vigor lo guarde para ti / Ay ven devorame otra vez, ven devorame otra vez / Que la boca me sabe a tu cuerpo / Desesperan mis ganas por ti…” It’s my punishment song. I listen to it when I feel like crap and crap still isn’t enough. I put it on repeat and remember. I remember what he lost because he wasn’t a man. More importantly, I remember what I lost, what I allowed him to take from me – hope, faith, and innocence.

It’s a weird dichotomy, my feelings towards him. Part of me remains that little girl and loves him. Another part hates him. I want to protect him and slash his heart out. That’s why I hate Father’s Day. It’s selfish of me, but I don’t need another reminder of what I don’t have.

Back-track to Father’s Day 1991, Nuestra Senora del Pilar, third grade: My class was going to perform Roberto Carlos’ “Amigo” for our Father’s Day assembly. We rehearsed every day for weeks, Sor Carmen accompanying our childish voices with her guitar. I was ready to sing, I knew every word – I still do. But the day of the concert, I didn’t show up. It was a Saturday and I stayed home. I don’t know what happened, if my mom just couldn’t bring me to school or if I made the decision not to go. It was probably my decision; I probably wanted to punish him for not visiting me that week. I do remember feeling guilty, heartbroken, wondering if he showed up and I wasn’t there. I cried myself to sleep that night. Even now this song fills me with nostalgia and melancholy; it still makes me feel remorseful.

Fast-forward to March 2010: My friend and her dad share a birthday and often times celebrate it together. I guess it was a big one because they surprised her dad with a ten-piece mariachi band. She and her father waltzed around the room “…tu eres mi amigo del alma en toda jornada / Sonrisa y abrazo festivo a cada llegada / Me dices verdades tan grandes con frases abiertas / Tu eres realmente el mas cierto de horas inciertas…” It was “Amigo”, a haunting memory from my childhood. I stood there, wanting to disappear so no one would notice the tears that were starting to well up in my eyes. I was eight again.

I want to let go of the memories; I want to forget the past. I don’t want to hate my dad, but it’s also too late to build a relationship with him. Frankly, I don’t want one. There’s just so much I don’t understand. I don’t understand how the arms that hugged me could bruise, how the lips that kissed my cheeks could verbally assault, and how the dad that loved me, who was supposed to take care of me, could abandon me. I hope that the day I have a family of my own, my children have a good dad.

The BART doors close behind me. For their sake, I hope I’m wrong about those little girls and their dad. I hope I’m jumping into conclusions, assuming, projecting. I hope theirs is a good dad, who loves them, who’s there for them, who won’t abandon them.