"How to Dodge Questions I Never Had the Answer To" by Alejandra de la Cruz
- Illuminate
- Oct 7
- 7 min read
How to Dodge Questions I Never Had the Answer To
Alejandra de la Cruz, Point Park University
Artist Statement: Gloria Azaldúa’s essay “La Conciencia de la Mestiza: Towards a New Consciousness” examines the “mestiza” identity as being of “…one culture / and into another, / because I am in all cultures at the same time…” (99). In my essay, I decided to give Mestiza her own identity within myself. The goal of this exercise is to begin the discovery of the self through a new consciousness of my own. In conversation with Mestiza, giving her a name directly, I blend the construct of what culture was given to me and what culture I embody. Mestiza and I sit in church together, we curiously discover our queerness, and struggle to find our place in our family. In the process of writing this piece, I have found my own plurality, an expansion on genre, gender, and expression. Pillowed by feminist theory, my creative writing comes into itself fully when Mestiza and I see each other fully, eye to eye. I implore all my readers to check out “Towards a New Consciousness.”
Anzaldúa, Gloria. “La Conciencia de La Mestiza: Towards a New Consciousness.” Borderlands: La Frontera, 2nd ed., Aunt Lute, 1999, pp. 99–120.
I did not have a name for her when I was her; in the thick of being difficult, rageful, and delighted only by myself. I call her Mestiza, now, though I doubt she appreciates only a singular moniker. She is my daughter and she is my mother. I am the daughter of God, blessed with his kiss, Mestiza’s birth. I am grateful for my life, grateful that Mestiza gets to play with me. Mestiza asks me what to do with our teeth— why do they jump when the tongue touches? Why do they buck out my gums and give my friends nightmares? She asks me questions I can’t answer. I tell her who are we to question God’s design.
My dresses for church were usually white – or they felt white when I wore them. Some pale, colorful lace trim would line the bottom. Or maybe, the dresses were light lavender, or blue that reminded my father of where the sky met the sea. Was it the best day of his life, on the beach in Sosua? Does he hate us here, grey, dull and foreign to him? I felt heavy in the dress so thick and sleeveless, weighing down my narrow shoulders. I was, at this point, too small. The world was very large and God had a big name. My mother kept licking her palm and smoothing my hair back away from around my face. We pray. Our Father, who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name, his kingdom. His glory. Amen. And my grandfather prays some more. At least, I imagine that’s what he does when he is so quiet. We have a large family. Voices overlap often, in agreement, in merriment, in fellowship, in debate, in struggle. There was unity in our prayers, always for each other, always for the children, and for our family in the Dominican Republic. I wore the dresses and gathered what I could from these symphonies in Spanish. I didn’t need to know the language to know what we were reaching for, what we loved, coveted.
If Mestiza would like to shave her head and refuse to clip her fingernails, I would not be upset. Sometimes she lashes out, is angry. She keeps screaming, “I CANNOT HIDE MY ANGER TO SPARE YOUR GUILT.”1 That’s okay. She is a child, irrational and undermined. She is hungry; not yet full. She loves God best this way, in agreement with His actions before He became a father. She understands the fury of watching the bastardization of her creation— she has trouble communicating, or others have trouble listening to her. Her mouth is minced, language is forced. She cannot speak to her loved ones, she doesn’t have access to them and they cannot understand each other. So, she screams.
My eldest sibling has Down Syndrome. My brother Eleazar2 was taller than me and my sister, until he wasn’t. He knew more math and money-counting than us until he didn’t. He remembers places I didn’t go, and was held by more hands than me. He is my big brother, and I am his protector. Much of my life was molded around being there for him when my parents couldn’t— save a little extra money in case Eleazar needs food, remind him to shower. When we were young, so were our parents. They received advice from Eleazar’s speech therapist: do not teach your girls Spanish because it will confuse your son who is learning English and ASL. So every adult conversation that could be had in Spanish was had in Spanish. In this way, perhaps Eleazar shielded my sister and me from the quieter arguments in the house. The disputes over dinner: Where have you been all day? Why didn’t you tell me you were working late? Did you go out with your coworkers? You went out? My brother contributed to my belief that my parents were always in love. In him, I preserve the most cherished moments of my childhood. With him, I process grief and empathy (of which he has an abundance of the latter).
Mestiza plays double-dutch with herself. Mestiza is stuck in her single-digit years. Mestiza wants to play tag, and wants to be “it.” Mestiza watches the other girls braid their blonde hair and tell jokes about their teachers at CCD. Mestiza hears “lesbian” and is asked if she knows the word and what it means. Another girl chimes in: “It’s like when girls like girls and they don’t like boys.” And then they all laugh. Mestiza remembers to laugh, too. Mestiza remembers to save the word for later, for later, for when she opens a tablet and Google searches phrases like “girls kissing girls” and “lesbian kissing.” I don’t pay her indulgence any mind. I don’t badger her for an answer, every girl has her phases. Maybe I’ll consider it a problem when she starts to “fall in love.” When Mestiza is 14 and tongue-tied over the green-eyed girl with bleached blonde hair. When Mestiza holds the hand of the brown-haired, brown-eyed girl. When Mestiza does not understand why people are telling her to choose. Then I might have cause for concern.
And where have I been? Has anyone seen me? Lavender and orange on the inside. Will I be back? I am not alone. Funny, the world slows. Funny, knowing it is slow. I bend for golden dust in the before-hours. As time stands on its hind legs— I beg, woman, lay me still. Let’s watch the air move. Mestiza can find love in my self. I find brownbluegreen eyes in every place I enter.
Mestiza gets funny ideas and introduces me to funny thoughts. Still, I do not yell when the ambiguous chorus of Mestiza’s relentless questioning follows me into the bathroom mirror. When she becomes a frog, warted on my tongue, I will have no aria to deliver. No burning in my chest. I am made of water. Spineless and shapeless. I was told of latex gloves, an open womb, a baby girl struggling to cry. Breathe. Remarkable, how much blood. A question was asked: who to save? I will take the stork. Put me in that basin. Deliver me. Deliver me from her I am tired. Her questions make me tired.
I am something different when I cast out my Mestiza. I am emptied. He cannot imagine this ache. So let me, let me. I found a funny man with a funny taste. He likes belts, ties, and metal fingers. He likes that I know how to turn on my pretty. Let myself be enthralled by the thrill. How close was too close? How many colors can I find in your eyes before you say I’ve stared entirely too long? I’ll keep the details to myself next time. This tail-eating snake smiles with her mouth full and can’t keep a meal down to save her life. But is this bend not so smooth, an exact 360? Look, honey, I have perfected my reckoning! I made this beautiful and precise, just like I said I could. I’m being brave. When asked if I could fall in love, I say, “I haven’t been grounded in years.” The sky looks rough and the grass pillowy. Let me lay my head down. Let me, let me. If your belt comes off and if my feet falter. Let me, let me. I am without. I looked down, honey, and there were my organs, spilling out between my thighs.
Mestiza. We need shelter at night. And I can’t be cruel, I can’t cast you out to an unforgiving moon. You turned my flesh into dandelion wisps. My bone is still there. There you grip much like a child grips monkey bars. I want to play with you. Both of our bodies, all of mine. Tell me, now that we are here, can you see the beautiful girl I was? Can you find where she retreated? It will be okay; peel my ribs back one by one.
Please blame me, Mestiza. I forgot.
I was irresponsible and lost you to sharks and drummers. It is this time my family starts telling me I bear a striking resemblance to my father.
Essentially, the story goes, my father had a bunny. He loved it more than anything. He was heartbroken when his bunny died. Crying for how long, as expected because he was a child who loved his bunny. His aunts would tell him that the bunny was in heaven now, he was safe and okay and with God. My father went where they buried the bunny and dug it up. He wanted to make sure the bunny made it to God safely. I don’t like to think of what he saw.
Mestiza asks me what to do with our teeth. She asks me questions I can’t answer. I say nothing. I’m not supposed to. I listen.
Endnotes
1. Lorde, Audre. “The Uses of Anger: Women Responding to Racism.” Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches, Crossing Press, 1984, pp. 124–133.
2. Two young parents had an agreement: the mother would name the girls, the father would name the boys. So when the woman had their first child, a boy, the father named Aharon would name his son after the high priest Aaron’s successor — Eleazar.