~2008~

Catalina Guadalupe Concepcion Henderson Gutierrez.

That’s the name that I was giving at birth and a name that I have been regretting for so long. It carries the weight of the ancestors I never knew, and the truth of an upbringing people just don’t understand.

Catalina. Like the island.

Caty. With an English accent.

Cati. With a Spanish accent.

Catty.

Lina.

Lupe. To my grandfather.

Guadalupe. To my grandmother who’s devoted to her beliefs.

Loopy. To the cousins who could never understand me through my years long Goth phase.

Shit.

The list of names goes on and on, but it’s always the same. The world I am stuck in between is always the same and daunting. My features say I’m most definitely mixed—with the dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and fair-skinned complexion—but my parentage is a little different.

My mother is Mexican, born and raised to Mexican parents who instilled in her the fear of being a good daughter, of being a good housewife, and of the Catholic church beliefs and traditions. How she ended up married to my Caucasian father is a mystery, but not too much of a mystery. She is beautiful, with her black wavy hair and dark eyebrows, her brown eyes, and high cheekbones that would have painters and photographers swooning. I’ve seen the pictures in the family albums my Mama Concha always keeps in the living room of her house.

She was the winner of the Beauty Pageant in 1986, 1987, 1988, and 1989 and it was in that last year that she met my father by chance, on one of her trips to San Diego.

Tall, blonde, and blue-eyed, my father was that epitome of the ‘guero’ that my grandparents always told my mother to stay away from. They wanted a ‘hard-working good Mexican boy’ for her to marry, but love works in mysterious ways and I was the mixed baby result of their love.

And let me tell you, you would think that being a mixed child is not that hard… Buddy, it’s the damn hardest thing ever.

Hanna Montana was right about it being about two worlds…

“Cat... Cat… CATALINA GUADALUPE! Are you listening?”

“Huh what?”

I raised my head to look at my grandmother who was giving me the stink eye. You don’t mess with Mama Concha (or any other grandmother) and if you know what’s good for you, you make sure to show them respect and listen to what they’re saying.

“Your head in the clouds, otra vez? Mi’ja, what is up with you lately? Is it a boy?”

I laugh at that because she is not completely wrong. It is partially about a boy, but not one that I have met or know, but the imaginary man that I hope to one day meet.

The One.

“No, Abuela. I’m just tired, is all.”

“Sure, mi’ja, sure. I know that look on your face! You’re probably pensado about some boy again. Is that all you ever think about?” Mama Concha waves her wooden spoon in the air between us as she stands in front of her trusty old stove. “You need to learn to make a decent meal before you think about boys.”

I grinned. I know she means well, but she always tells me the same thing. She said the same thing about Carlos, my first boyfriend, that first guy I had ever brought home to meet my parents. He was Mexican and mixed with something else. I was about sixteen and naïve and we had the same interests in video games, music, and fashion style—I’d thought it was meant to be. He didn’t know how to speak Spanish and my grandmother didn’t like him.

“Not a proper Mexican boy”, she’d told me one day when he’d left my house after a visit. “He doesn’t even speak Spanish. That’s not good, mi’ja.”

“But what does it matter if he doesn’t know how to speak Spanish, Mama Concha?” I asked as I took my seat on the couch and faced the wrath of my grandmother. “I barely know how to speak Spanish, too. Isn’t that too much?”

“Well, you have an excuse, I suppose. I don’t know. Never mind.” She’d waved me off and headed back to the kitchen to continue her cooking. She was living with my parents and I and my baby brother, Teo. Timothy. Or Timoteo to my grandma.

That shipped sailed quicker than I could say ‘ ready, set, go.’

Mama Concha continues her lecture as she hands me a couple of tomatoes, onions, and cilantro to chop up. I can deal with the tomatoes and cilantro, it’s the onion chopping that kills me. I don’t say anything because she will only tell me how I need to suck it up and learn how to be a ‘real woman’ who doesn’t complain in the kitchen. I'm not kidding. I've gotten that before.

I'm eighteen now and Carlos has been in and out of my life for the last couple years. I don’t tell my grandmother that because I know that she would be very upset to find out that the boy I had dumped already is back in my life. We only ever see each other every other month or so, or whenever we feel lonely. Besides, he plays a mean guitar and I like to hear him play. He's not the brightest bulb in the pack, but he’s fun. 

I listen to Mama Concha go on about her sister in Mexico who got herself pregnant by a married man. She tells me that she loves her sister, she was always school smart, but not very bright when it came to men. Her kids grew up without knowing a father and being labeled illegitimate by the guy's family whenever they ran into them on the street.

I promise myself that I will never do that. No cheating in my life. That sounds exhausting to be honest.

"And then what happened?" I ask my grandma so she sees that I am in fact paying attention to her.

"Well, they're grown now. But it is sad to see them suffer because their mother couldn't figure out her life. Now, let me tell you about the time that Juan..."

I’ve read somewhere that you fall in love at least six or seven times before you actually marry The One.

Given that count, I should have already been married or getting closer to marriage, but I don’t see that happening any time soon.

The years have been interesting and the types of guys have been different, but not all that different. In the end, it comes down to one thing or another and it doesn’t work out between me and the guy.

I've always wondered if perhaps there was something wrong with me? Because I kid you not, the guys I've dated have either moved on to marrying the next person they’ve dated, gone to jail, gotten rich, or come out as gay. I wish I was lying about that part...

Maybe it’s my fault for being that encouraging trusting person?

Good for them, just sucks for me.

This will be a short story about my adventures and misadventures in dating and how I finally ended up being dubbed the Queen of Heart Break by my cousins... 

......

Hello everyone! I know I've been here and there and everywhere. But I wanted to start on this one here.

It's a little something that's been in my head for a while.

It might have a slow build up. Or it may be a quick run through. I'm not entirely sure. TAPAS has a weird 15,000 character limit which is roughly 7 pages or so...

This is something different, a little close to home and personal, and I think it's stuff many of us deal with.

I hope you enjoy it.

Let me know what you think.

..