1986: Negra not Morena
1986— I’m so broken. My eyes focus and drift and focus again. I see what’s in front of me, as if it’s really there. I see visions from the womb. I see me in her. I hear her. I hear the door slam as he comes in and passes the living room. He plays a vinyl. Hendrix. Sits in the chair and as she walks by to get him a drink, he grabs her and starts to tongue her neck. Her lips find their way to his ear and she whispers, “I’m pregnant.” “What?” Still kissing her. “I’m four months pregnant, Frankie.” He slides his freshly manicured hand through his silk spun black hair, steps back, and asks, “How?” She looks down at me, then back up at him. “You know how.” I can hear him. I want him to hold me through her dark brown belly but instead, in his strong Dominican accent, he tells her, “I don’t want a Black baby.” She stops speaking. Mommy don’t know I can hear her thoughts. They’re racing through her veins from her brain to my ears, screaming at me. Saying everything she won’t say out lou