Abuela Marito was immense. Growing up, I’d have to throw my head almost completely back just to be able to look at her. Not only was she taller than me, but she dominated every room she entered. She was a lifelong educator, a hometown hero, and a legend. Her name evoked respect everywhere you went in Villa Vasquez after having taught basically the entire town how to read. Being her granddaughter had gotten me free candy, motorcycle rides, endless use of the computers at the local cyber cafe, and legacy status in that scorching hot, tiny town in the Dominican North West. I hadn’t seen her in a while until last January. Cat and I walked into what used to be her backyard but now was a massive outside classroom with black boards, desks, and books hanging from fences, trees and everywhere else she could put them. Her desk sat at the back of the space, behind all the seats for the children. My grandmother had had a school once, where she taught for 52 years but unfortunately had to shut down because of the pandemic. Her five children begged her to take the closure of the school as a sign to retire, but at her 81 years of age she simply was not ready to do that. “I’m gonna die with a piece of chalk in my hand!” she’d tell them, raising her shaky fist at their faces. She’d tell me that story laughing every time we spoke on the phone, and she told me that story on that January day too.
I saw her, wearing a bright pink blouse and sober black slacks in that scorching Caribbean heat, still not breaking a sweat. And I held her in one of those embraces you reserve for those you love dearly but can’t see often. I held her frame in my arms and rested my chin on the top of her freshly dyed black hair, and for the first time, she didn’t feel immense. Her wrinkles decorated every inch of her body but her hands remained smooth and strong. She had begun to use a cane to help her walk and as we spoke about our histories I could see her little, curious, bright brown eyes, looking through all the drawers of her memory for every single detail but coming up short. The smartest person I had ever met, the person I loved the most, was beginning to forget.
I knew then I needed to have a different kind of conversation with Marito because it felt like we were running out of time. That night, swatting mosquitoes off our legs and eating boiled plantains with fried ham, I asked her about herself. She told me about my grandfather, a man who I never knew enough to love but had always been curious about. “Ay ese hijo de la gran puta” she opened with. “He had another family in Santiago, you know?” I shook my head no, Cat suddenly became very interested in the boiled plantains in front of her. “Well, he did. And he never left her. He would come here once in a while, and then leave and go back to his other wife.” She casually smacked her own leg, catching a mosquito which exploded in a tiny puddle of red she wiped off with her thumb. “I just wish he hadn’t left me pregnant every time!” she concluded, laughing heartily. I joined her, and so did Cat. It was impossible not to laugh with her. She got very serious suddenly and her little brown eyes sparkled, for she had found a memory. “When he died, I stood over his casket… my debt is paid, I told him. Your children are raised, they are all good people… I don't owe you anything…” she laughed cynically and continued “...I won, I told him, you left for good first”. The room got quiet for a minute as we finished our food. Tia Chana walked out of the kitchen with more fried goods and sat next to us, swatting mosquitoes away. She had heard this story before.
“Mis hijas…” Abuela spoke again. “You’re both young. At that age we all get impressed so easily. But suffering is not worth it. Love doesn’t hurt. If it hurts it’s not love, and if he’s hurting you… leave him! Leave him even if you love him! Leave him even if it hurts!”.
I didn’t necessarily need that piece of advice then, but I would need it soon. And in the frozen, distant, isolating Waltham winter that followed right after, the day came when I had to leave even though it hurt. That night in Villa Vasquez replayed in my head constantly those days. Fueled by nicotine and cheap sweet red wine, I’d hold onto her advice and know that a day would come where it would be my turn to not only pass down wisdom, but also be living proof that we really don’t die from heartbreak. Not even when your heartbreak gives you five children. I know I will always remember that night, the heat, the mosquitoes, the ominous premonition, the boiled plantains and fried ham, as the night I met my grandma, not the legend, not the hometown hero, but the woman.