1.10 – Muñecas

Coralis Rodríguez

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  FIGHTER WOMAN – At eighteen-years-old, with an innocent but determined look, I present Gladys Matílde López, or better known as Matílde, my grandmother. Born in 1939 in Juana Díaz, Puerto Rico, she was the first girl among seven siblings. She was raised mostly by her grandmother, which was not unusual at that time. She did not receive a formal education but did possess great intelligence, which allowed her to work efficiently, solve life problems, catch opportunities and be the authority amongst her brothers. From the time she was young, she had a beautiful face reflecting sweetness and determination. She always dressed elegantly, adding a feminine touch with simple accessories and makeup. She learned to survive with the tide of life. Rather than...

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Walter A. Crespo Alameda

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                            BUT I DON’T WANNA! – “Get ready, Lydia, we are going to Las Fiestas!” Las Fiestas Patronales! Oh joy, I’ve been waiting for this. Ya voy, mommy! It’s that time of the year. “Your dress is on the door,” I hear. It’s a nice outfit, I guess, I try to fit in my dress, But my mother gave it a really good press. It had so much starch, Getting in was pretty hard.   I’m ready to leave, But I can barely move. I feel trapped, I feel like a tin can, But I don’t care much, I just want to have fun. I try to dash outside And hop into the car. We live in Paris So the plaza’s not far. Just a few blocks And we’re already there.   The plaza looks stunning, Shiny...

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Linda M. Rodríguez Guglielmoni**

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EXCERPT FROM THE MEMOIR, CHIRINGAS/KITES – Dolls Somebody brings me a doll’s house. It is Christmas again. I look at the kitchen. The chairs and table. The four bedrooms upstairs. A big house with glass windows. Not like houses here. The house opens up and closes. Then the house is gone. I would like a doll’s house and a doll, a Barbie, like the ones my cousin Carmencita has. When I visit her I play with them and all their clothes. My mother says I do not like dolls and tells this to everyone. I do like teddy bears, and soft kitties and puppies, but I do like dolls too. I remember the one advertised on TV. She was a ballerina. She wore a short pink skirt and turned pirouettes on satin shoes. She wore a silver crown on gold hair. “No, you cannot have her,”...

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Luis Nieves Malavé

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THE UNWANTED DOLL – My mother only has a few pictures of my grandparents. She had an album that she lost when she moved from her house. It was a painful loss because the album not only contained pictures of her parents (my grandparents), but it also pictures of her when she was a baby and when she was young. That’s why it was such a shock when one day, she was looking in a box full of old books. She had accidently dropped one  and two photographs slid out from between the pages. I saw the photos fall and her bend down to pick them up. When she held them in her hands, tears ran down her cheeks. Her eyes turned red and her lips trembled. I know she wasn’t sad at all. I know because when she took a deep breath it was if she was feeling relief from pain. I...

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Laura C. Franqui Domínguez

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MEMORIES OF MY GRANDPA LUÍS – The Hole in His Neck – My grandfather, Luís Domínguez, died when I was seven-years-old, one year after the death of my grandmother, Gilda Trinidad.  He left us with many memories to treasure. Laura: “Mommy, why does grandpa have a hole in his neck?” I asked her every time my grandpa left the room. I felt scared to ask him. Mom: “He used to smoke two or three packs of cigarettes a day, Laurie. He got sick and the doctors had to make a hole in his throat to let him breathe.” Seeing him cleaning and removing phlegm from that hole instead of his nose when he had a cold was really impressive. He covered it with soft gauze most of the time. Laura: “Mom, tell me more about why Grandpa had a hole in his neck. I asked again when I...

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Jonathan Fernández Colón

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ROMEO & GLORIETA – Looking at the old wardrobe at home, located in the guest room, I found a small black shoebox. Curiosity made me open the box that seemed to be there for many years. The humidity inside the box released a horrible smell – like stinky feet – that made me sneeze. I removed many old photographs. Inside was a cream envelope full of pictures of my mother. The one of her when she was a toddler captivates me. In the picture she is hugging a family friend, Michael, at a party in Villa España. On the other side of the photo is a message in red ink, “Glory, love of my life. I am always thinking of you. Memories of Michael Rivera.” I could not help but open my eyes as big as an owl. This picture must have a story. “Mom,...

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