The Latin Renaissance

Colonialism is the practice of exerting power over another group of people, oftentimes involving enforcement of culture, religion, economics, and such.

During the colonization of the Americas, the Spanish, Portuguese, and many others exploited the indigenous populations who had lived there for centuries prior. These acts of exploitation involved slavery: mutilation: cultural erasure: and even murder.

Horrified and angered by the despicable actions of the conquistadors, a group of former colonizers set sail for a new land, one that wouldn’t be established with violence. In time, they discovered an uninhabited island off the Western coast of South America. This place would come to be known as La Mezcla.

In the many years to follow, the group of former colonizers would offer refuge and safety to the indigenous, and the enslaved. Accomplished in secret, the exploited boarded Spanish cargo ships that were sailed by the founders of La Mezcla. Along with their bare essentials, the enslaved also brought their culture with them.

As La Mezcla gained more inhabitants, as well as the confidential support of international former colonizers, Latin culture began developing as its own unique cohort; ranging from language and dialect, to food, music, and more.

The events you are about to witness are a reconstructed interpretation of a moment in Latin American history, made accurate and possible through the consultation of historians, translations of documents, and restored artifacts. An era favored by many Latin American historians, and retold through generations of storytelling, this era came to be known and referred to as “The Latin Renaissance”.

CH. 1 THE STORY BEGINS

La Mezcla was an island consisting of four boroughs. Some were urban, packed with business buildings and blocks of identical apartments. Aspiring performers and singers played on the streets, often to the beat of Latin sounds and well-known songs. Obviously, not all four boroughs were the same.

Some were more rural in appearance, blooming for miles on end with lush greenery, sparkly opal shores, and family-owned ranches. The island was so magnificent and diverse, that one of its boroughs had its buildings built on the very waters of the ocean in which it sat. Rather than dry streets, this area of the island had rivers for its roads, where citizens had to travel by amphibious cars and motorboats.

But the story didn’t start there.

On the southside of the island was the half-rural, half-urban borough of Cruz. There was a major event going on.

“RECITAL GRANDE: LAST CHANCE”

“TICKETS SELL OUT QUICKLY. MASSIVE CROWD EXPECTED”

“LARGEST CONCERT IN ISLAND HISTORY: REMEMBERING THE LEGACY OF PREVIOUS PERFORMANCES.”

For weeks, there had been massive publicity about the Recital Grande. Celebrities had to hire bodyguards to avoid being stampeded in public. Citizens were selling enormous amounts of belongings to get front row seats.

Celebrities, tribute performers, and original artists had come from all over the island for the performance. Many island citizens had traveled to Cruz as well, even if they had to walk all the way from the northern blocks of Las Ciudades to the southernmost streets where the concert took place.

Attendants sat eagerly in the outdoor stadium, the front rows shaded by a large canopy that stretched over the stage. There was chatter and buzz about the life stories of celebrities, both living and deceased. Fans eagerly and happily conversed with each other, dressed up as their beloved singers, characters, and icons.

“He’s supposed to be performing today!” one of the women in the audience said.

“They’re going to play the original soundtrack, with the original actors and dancers!” another audience member exclaimed.

There was a sudden explosion of cheer as the velvet curtain upstage parted, revealing a small band of music players. The conductor wore a suit, much darker than the ones worn by the instrument players and singers. Everyone’s skin in the band was painted gray, as if they had stepped off the laminated surface of a black and white photograph.

The conductor waved to the audience, the instrument players getting ready to play. He calmly brought the cheering people to silence, turned to his orchestra, and waved his baton.

Strings were plucked, and piano keys were tapped. There was an instant aura of Afro-Cuban rhythm, reminding the audience of the noir age of Latin jazz. The beat went on, and soon switched to another song.

The cowbells rattled, and the distinct, smooth male voice began singing. The gray faces of the woodwind players smiled as the audience cheered and danced. People watching the show swayed their hips to the beat.

One, two, three- five, six, seven. Their arms swung in loose circles, men spinning their partners. The band continued.

Dust was kicked up when the lead singer started singing in nearly unintelligible verses of Spanish. The chorus echoed his voice and sung in masculinized unity, tapping their feet and snapping their fingers by the retro microphone. No one was counting their footsteps anymore; the rhythm had them in full control.

The climactic tones rose, women in the audience spinning faster, hips grinding rapidly. People shouted and cheered, tossing flowers and caps as the band approached the end of the song. Everyone struck a pose as the last note was screeched in a back-breaking pitch.

The citizens of La Mezcla could feel their insides rumble as applause roared louder than ever, the conductor and his band taking one long bow. But the performance wasn’t over yet.

The curtain dropped, and there was the sound of a new set being rushed on stage. The velvet drapes immediately rose, showing one of the tribute performance groups.

There was the start of another rapid cowbell, and three quick piano keys.

A woman in a streaky, glittery rumbera dress speedily chanted the starting lyrics over the instruments. Her dangling earrings and powerful voice had already cast their spell amongst the audience.

The brass instruments blared, and her sparkly hips started swaying left and right. The countless tulle ruffles wiggled and jumped atop each other, her feet hidden under the rainbows of creases and folds.

Men in white half-done button ups striked their percussion instruments, keeping up with the singer’s quick vocals. They smiled and chanted along under their mustaches and goatees, their mop-top and disco hairdos gaining sweat.

The show went on, ranging from rock artists downplaying their roots, to singers who gained international recognition through crossovers and live performances.

Heritage didn’t stop the audience from enjoying the show. Many descendants of the former colonizers were seen dancing and smiling in appreciation of the artists. A good portion of them were dressed like the performers too, wearing similar styles and accurate replicas of their stage costumes.

No one mocked the singers either. “Validation” wasn’t a thing on the island, regardless of first language, ethnic group, or preferred genre. Reconsidering the reason why La Mezcla was founded, “validity” was the least of the people’s concern.

At the final curtain draw, the singers, performers, and band players took place on the mighty stage. They were absolutely flattered by the massive applause and never ending love their countless admirers gave them.

Tears of joy and happiness were shed as bouquets of roses, cantutas, and orchids were thrown. Not one of them fell unnoticed to the ground.

Everyone took one final bow, concluding a legendary performance that would go down in the history books that no one would ever forget.

…

Fans stood in long lines, waiting to meet their heroes after the performance. Photographers were taking millions of pictures of celebrities with their admirers, and at no extra cost. These photos would be put in the papers to forever preserve this historic event.

Among the long lines of people were three adolescents. They were known as the Ximenezes by the people of Cruz. Their names were Joaquín, Xiomara, and Guillermo.

Joaquín Reinaldos Acosta Cevallos, the oldest of the three, was sixteen.

He looked like his father’s side of the family. He had olive skin, short wavy black hair, and lashy brown eyes. His entire left eye was covered with a light brown birthmark in the rough shape of a circle, making him look almost like a spotted puppy. It leaned upward toward his brows, complemented nicely with smaller spots at two of the corners.

Joaquín valued hard work, as his parents had always taught him when he was little. His current guardians, however, were those of his primos.

His real parents had died in a work accident when he was only six. When his tía first heard the word, she and her husband instantly took action for adoption. Ever since then, Joaquín was raised as one of their own, and was given nothing but love and affection from his tía and tío.

Joaquín was commonly caught doing something school-related. He read books, wrote observations and entries in his little notebook, and oftentimes was carrying something in his hand.

Not surprisingly, he was in the top percentile of his class. He usually helped his classmates with understanding their work, and was always the first to hand in his test. Despite his academic discipline, he was still a very sociable guy.

Next to Joaquín was his prima, one of two he lived with.

Xiomara Pilar Ximenez Acosta, the middle child, was fifteen. She was the artistic and productive one of the trio. Although she was Joaquín’s close cousin, she looked more like her father’s (Joaquín’s tío) younger siblings.

She had brown, rather than olive skin. Under the hat she was currently wearing, Xiomara had long black hair, curly in comparison to Joaquín’s. Her eyes were still brown, similar to most of the other people in the Ximenez family.

Being the artistic one, she was obviously messier than her older cousin.

The sides of her hands were always covered in charcoal, or any other art medium. Despite her needed movement for an artistic lifestyle, Xiomara still wore corsets and crinoline cage dresses, like many other women in Cruz. In the context of producing art, she would switch into petticoat skirts instead.

Xiomara went to the same school as her cousin Joaquín did. They had few classes together, given the age gap. She did however, frequently talk with him between classes, and her younger brother would always invite him to sit with them during lunch.

Anyone that knew her would know that she was influenced by the loving doctrines of the Catholic church. She was never inconsiderate of morals and ethics, and was seen as the most mature beside her older cousin. Her faith, however, never blinded her judgment, and she was far from naive. She wasn’t afraid to give a broken nose to anyone that attacked her family either.

Last of the trio was Guillermo.

Guillermo Tome Ximenez Acosta, the youngest, was also fifteen. Considering birth order, he was an hour younger than Xiomara. He was a bit lighter than his big sister, his hair on the wavy spectrum. He too had brown eyes, lashy like Joaquín’s.

A total stranger would’ve expected him to behave in a ruly manner like Joaquín and Xiomara. How wrong they’d be in assuming so.

Guillermo was the least serious and most immature of the three, having a reputation for disregarding the rules. From pulling jokes and adult disapproval, to in-school suspension and forgetting assignments, he was somehow always the center of attention.

He was the type of gent to not wear a hat in public. On formal occasions when men weren’t supposed to show their sleeves, he’d be the only one to do so. He’d walk around in his mud-caked boots amidst the leather gentlemen’s shoes.

If there was anyone that got after him, it was always Joaquín. With the two’s juxtaposed personalities, no explanation was needed to say why. Despite his differences with his big cousin, Guillermo very much loved Joaquín and Xiomara.

Although he pretended not to show it, he had an emotional and sensitive side, which only showed on the grimmest of occasions.

Putting aside their differences, the Ximenez trio moved forward together as the line progressed. They excitedly murmured about the performance they had just witnessed.

“Twenty years later, and he hasn’t aged a bit!” Xiomara said. She was clutching a detailed oil painting she had made, depicting her favorite singer in all his beauty.

“What do you think he’ll say when he gets to see it?” Joaquín asked as he observed the singer in a booth far up ahead.

Xiomara was too excited to respond. She kept singing the lyrics and moving her legs to the beat of one of the singer’s songs. He had performed it mid-way during the concert.

“He ’s gonna ask her to marry him, y pués ella va a correr con él.” Guillermo tittered. Joaquín held back a laugh as Xiomara gave Guillermo a playful punch on the shoulder.

The line advanced.

As if Guillermo wasn’t tall enough in his heeled leather boots, he extended his ankles and stood on the balls of his feet.

Joaquín adjusted the straw boater hat he was wearing, making sure his striped pleated trousers rose all the way to his natural waist. His purple suspenders were tucked under his giant textiled collar, his espadrilles showing perfectly under his pants’ hem.

Xiomara dusted the black flowered surface of her crinoline dress, tucking in her matching fitted huipil over her corset. The paneled flowers of her Chiapas dress lay perfectly flat, the embroidery remaining firm and fresh.

“Is my corset tight enough?” she hurriedly asked Joaquín. The line had moved forward again.

“Mara, te pareces bién.” Guillermo scoffed. He was fully aware that he was wearing a white ensemble, unbuttoned with rolled sleeves, and a loose bright green jabot and cummerbund.

Guillermo sighed and put a hand to his face as Xiomara fustled with her small straw hat. She kept re-adjusting the stuffed bird, as well as the colorful exotic flowers that nestled it on the hat’s left side.

Xiomara clenched her parasol tight, leaning on it and switching sides every few seconds.

After a long wait, the Ximenez trio at last met the celebrities from the performance.

Xiomara asked her favorite singer endless questions about how he had made his most iconic outfits, as well as what had inspired them. Joaquín was stunned as one of the dancers explained in detail their choreography routine.

“It was just like the movie! You all did amazing!” he said, shaking hands with the performers.

Guillermo and his celebrity had several laughs as they had a heartful discussion about childhood mischief. He smiled in flattery as the celebrity admired his informal fashion sense. He liked Guillermo’s way of rolling up his sleeves, and sticking to a simple white ensemble. The creases and wrinkles on his black boots draped like rich silk to the celebrity.

After the Ximenezes delightedly conversed with more of the enthusiastic performers, they felt ready to return home. They each had a souvenir happily given to them by their favorite celebrity.

“He loved my portrait of him!” Xiomara squeaked, hugging her canvas painting. It had been signed with the distinct signature of her favorite singer, who had also asked for a picture to be taken.

“I ought to know how they made this stunning piece of jewelry.” Joaquín said in bedazzlement. He was admiring and appreciating a beautiful jewel ring that one of the dancers had given him.

Guillermo’s visual appearance had somehow been made formalized with the souvenir he was given. He flaunted the tinted aviator shades that his favorite singer let him keep, strutting beside the lines of waiting fans. Everyone gasped and envied his souvenir, pointing and shouting praising remarks at him.

“Well,” Joaquín said as he documented the day’s events in his little notebook, “we better get home before Tía Maggie has a fit.”

Maggie, short for Magdalena, was Joaquín’s adoptive aunt, who also took parental responsibility for Guillermo and Xiomara. Her husband (their father) was Ismael.

The three exited through a small iron gate. The guards patrolling the area bid them a good and happy day.

The trio thanked them in return, and turned to the cobblestone streets. Any newcomer to the borough of Cruz would’ve had to blink twice, and ask themselves if they were in Heaven to believe what they were seeing.

Two-wheeled carts lined the cobblestone streets, controlled by men in bright wool vests, embroidered with the most vibrant of flowers, zig-zags, and swirls. Sacks of wool, coffee, and tobacco were loaded on their carts, pulled by oxen with their owners’ insignia stamped on them.

Horse and buggy drivers assisted their passengers with prices and locations, reminding women to keep their rebozos away from the wheels. Storeowners in guayaberas, tiered skirts, and leg-o-mutton blouses unloaded crates overflowing with tropical fruits. They signed the delivery slip with the drivers, who stood next to carts pulled by donkeys.

“Driver!” Xiomara shouted as a magnificent horse carriage approached. The driver pulled up in the rich ebony vehicle, happy to see another customer. He stepped down from the front seat, opening the carriage door for the Ximenezes.

The three ascended the step into the carriage, the driver shutting the door with a gloved hand.

The trio wiggled in the lush blue interior, breathing in the aroma of fresh luxurious velvet and leather. No fee bothered the youth, as minors rode the carriages for free.

The driver stepped back into the front seat, sliding the passenger window open.

“¿A dónde señora?” he asked.

“Breakfast Grinds!” Xiomara said.

The boys took one look at her.

“Scenic route please!” she quickly added, realizing they were right. These were the hills in which the Ximenezes lived.

“¡Cualquier cosa para ustedes!” the driver cheerfully said, fastening his straw hat. He shouted a command to the horses. They whinnied, getting ready for action. Hooves clicked, and the elegant carriage was in motion.

The enormous wheels grinded over the millions of little stones composing the road. Joaquín reached for the sunroof above, feeling the island’s winds happily greet his face.

Though they seemed miles below the roofs of the blocky, colorful buildings around them, Joaquín felt a thousand miles tall when he stood from the carriage sunroof. The identical faces of the Neoclassic, and Art Deco buildings smoothly glided by with their mandatory balconies and trims; flashing countless rainbows of painted wooden railings and greenery hanging along the walls and columns. It was exactly as if someone had grinded up a million Jordan almonds, and had used their pigments to make buildings of green, yellow, pink, blue, and every other color imaginable.

Joaquín couldn’t conform to societal expectations of “modesty”.

He took off his straw boater hat, letting the mighty breeze ruffle his hair.

Joaquín smiled at everything in existence.

All the people were waving as he passed by, dressed entirely in the most colorful and elegant variety of skirts, hats, corsets, and woolen garments. Fans fluttered and waved as the women greeted him, their red lips smiling and brown blush cheeks pursing.

His cousins joined him on the sun roof.

Xiomara pointed and laughed playfully as multiple toucans and parrots flew all around them. They squawked and settled in twirly shrubs of ivy, where their owners, or wild nests waited for them, blossoming with a number of exotic and vibrant flowers.

“Boa noite!” Guillermo shouted to a well-known street vendor, who was serving a number of different pastries and drinks to their customers. How badly he wished he could’ve stopped by for a guaraná juice, or a small shot of coffee.

The towering green mountains at the horizon stood proudly above the city of Cruz, embracing its diverse residents. The Ximenezes felt as tall as the verdant summits when they stood from the carriage.

Never once could they grow tired of their home’s lifestyle. To them, and to everyone on the island, everyday felt like the maiden voyage of a mighty passenger ship.

From the unstoppable horse carriage, the Ximenez children smiled and gazed lovingly at their rightful home. The lifelong memories each building had given them smiled back, their potted plants waving as they zoomed by in the carriage. They had the hope, trust, and faith that nothing bad would ever happen to it, and that the island’s culture would be going nowhere.

They were going to graduate here. They were going to fall in love, marry, and have children here. They were going to live, see new things, and grow up here with the rest of their family.

With every bit of love and meaning in his heart, Joaquín stretched back, took a deep breath and shouted,

“¡LA MEZCLA, TE QUIERO-SIEMPRE Y PARA SIEMPRE!”

He waved his hat to all the island as his cousins whooped and cheered with him.

The horse carriage made one last turn, and the trio found themselves at the streets just below Breakfast Grinds.

The three thanked the driver, Xiomara giving him a tip. They stepped off the carriage, and onto the sidewalk.

Xiomara greeted a local street artist she passed by everyday. In the mornings when she waited for the school bus, he was always drawing someone’s portrait on his little easel, or was away for a quick cup of coffee.

“Hello Xiomara.” the artist said, scratching his goatee with a graphite-smeared hand.

“Hello! Do you have more commissions today?” Xiomara asked as he began drawing scribbles that vaguely resembled a face.

“Definitely,” the artist replied, “today’s been just a bit busier for work.” He pulled at his white newsboy cap, reaching for a new piece of graphite in one of the pockets to his red guayabera.

“I hope you do well!” Xiomara said. “And I hope you get enough money for your tuition!”

The artist waved a grateful hand to Xiomara as he adjusted his white jabot, thanking her as she walked away with Guillermo and Joaquín.

The Ximenez trio started up the dirt road to Breakfast Grinds. It was so named for its coffee and sugar plantations, located on the way up to the homes atop its hills.

They passed the fields, encountering workers who had ended their work shifts for the day. The Ximenezes smiled and nodded at them, and they waved back, removing their straw hats and wiping their foreheads.

The highest point of Breakfast Grinds slowly came into view, preceded by a lower level of the hills containing more houses. Evening shadows of the verdant plant life began flickering over the trio’s skin, their emerald leaves glittering like fresh green candy.

A canopy began twining over their heads as they entered the road in which they lived. The long snake-like branches above allowed for patches of light to shine in between.

In this part of Breakfast Grinds, there were only four houses that occupied this short dirt road. They shone in creamy shades of pastel colors, only two having white picket fences.

Joaquín, Guillermo, and Xiomara passed by the long tuft of floral shrubs that sat in the center of the sand pathway. Scarlet Macaws chirped from the tree canopy, hopping along branches and showering the Ximenezes with foliage.

The three arrived at their house, a big, compact, two-story building with a cozy appearance. It was painted a lovely shade of blue, with red wooden accents, as well as green doors and window panes.

Everyone climbed the small steps to the front porch, wiping their feet on the welcome mat. Guillermo opened the door.

A wave of warm welcome greeted the youth, the mosaic chandelier shining like it always did.

Xiomara and Joaquín hung their hats on the coat rack, going through the left arch in the tiny foyer. This led to the living room, a well-furnished and homely area.

Guillermo followed, unaware that he was leaving a trail of dirty footprints from the entrance. He was careful not to run as he descended the threshold into the living room. That was how he lost his first tooth.

In the room up ahead, there was a woman’s voice.

“Mm-hm? Yes. Client number is-”

It was Tía Maggie. She was in the kitchen, making an important phone call by the fridge. She held the receiver end to her ear with her shoulder, hurriedly scribbling dates and notes into her planner.

Joaquín, Guillermo, and Xiomara stepped quietly onto the tile floor of the kitchen, waiting for Tía Maggie to finish.

She looked up from her notes, spotting the three waiting for her.

“¿Esta bien, este viernes a la doce?” She pressed her full red lips together. “Be ready with the files and have questions planned ahead of time…” Tía Maggie continued scribbling.

“¡Bueno, gracias por todo!” She placed the phone back on its rotary base with a ring.

“There you are!” Maggie exclaimed in a motherly voice. She kissed all three youth on the cheek, hugging them tight. Her bowed head wrap tickled their faces. The beaded necklaces she wore around her neck clinged and rattled as she moved.

“How was it?! Who was there?!” she excitedly asked. She and her husband were unable to attend the performance due to work duties.

Everyone took turns discussing the show.

Xiomara showed her mother the oil painting she had made and presented to her favorite singer. She proudly pointed to his signature in the bottom right corner.

Maggie gasped and clapped her hands to her mouth as she sat, awed in amazement.

“How was he?! Qué pensó your painting?!”

“He loved it! Photographers from the newspapers were taking our pictures!” Xiomara exclaimed. Maggie squealed in excitement, eager to hear more. She too was a fan of Xiomara’s singer.

Joaquín and Guillermo showed their souvenirs, Maggie instantly recognizing the memorabilia.

“I’ve always wondered what type of jewel this was!” she said, inspecting the gemstone ring Joaquín had presented. “I never noticed the little details either!” Maggie added, running her finger over engravings that swirled along the sides of the ring.

She squinted through the tinted aviators Guillermo handed her, observing the color difference behind the lens.

“My skirt looks nearly orange behind these shades!” she chuckled. Maggie was wearing a long tiered skirt, ruffled, and a violent shade of red.

She played around with the aviators a few more times, looking around the room in different directions. Her white blouse seemed to get more orange the more times she looked through the lenses.

“I wonder how he can see in these…” She carefully handed the shades back to her son.

Maggie rose from the dining table in her strap leather pumps, strutting to the kitchen counter. There was clatter as she reached into the oven, pulling out one of millions of pots and pans that were already jammed inside.

“Voy a cocinar.” Maggie said as she snatched two sacks of hominy she had grown for a month now. Her gardening skills certainly made profit too.

“Your papí is in the back. Be sure to tell him ‘hi’.” Maggie swiped countless glass tubes of spice from the spice rack.

The trio started for the backdoor, Xiomara having to carefully step through the archway in her crinoline dress.

Outside, the sky had bloomed into a gray shade of blue, long streaks of orange fluff stretching beyond the horizon.

Guillermo carelessly emptied a jar of old coffee grinds, egg shells, and fruit peels into a hibiscus shrub. He was supposed to have done this at nine in the morning, when everyone was cleaning, first thing on Saturday. No one heard glass shatter as Guillermo tossed the jar onto the back porch.

He sped across the stone pathway, passing colorful clay pots exploding with voluminous green vegetation, marigolds, and other distinguishable flora. String lights, both normal and colored, hung from trees surrounded by short mosaic walls.

From below a tree with normal string lights, Guillermo saw Xiomara and Joaquín. He quickly caught up with them.

“The lights are on.” Joaquín was saying, pointing to a long, light green shack. This was the toolshed, big enough to fit three cars.

Joaquín opened the door, and was knocked off his feet with large blasting tunes of music that reminded him of Saturday morning. His tío (Xiomara and Gullermo’s father), Ismael, was sweeping up mounds of dust from the concrete floor.

He was a short, stout man with short coarse hair, and a thick goatee and mustache that anyone could recognize from a distance.

“Hey mijo.” he said, looking up from the dustpan.

Joaquín and the others stepped in. They instantly tasted an aroma of thick sweet lavender, a purple bottle of cleaner mounted atop the fridge.

Everyone exchanged greetings, immediately talking about the performance. Xiomara was in the middle of showing her autographed painting when-

“Memo, really?” Ismael was looking at Guillermo’s dirty footprints, which had made stains all over the newly-polished floor.

“Sorry.” Guillermo said in a monotone voice.

Ismael gently passed his son, washcloths in hand. He squatted in his canvas espadrilles and pleated pants, wiping away his son’s messy footprints.

“That’s alright, mijo.” he passively reassured, drying the floor. “A few little footsteps is nothing for me.”

Everyone walked back through the large illuminated garden, smiling at fireflies that began to glow in the night. They stepped back into the warmth of the Ximenez residence, tending to their own business.

Xiomara went downstairs into the basement, which served as her art studio and bedroom. She began gathering brushes and cans of turpentine for an illustration she had left off on a few days prior. Her prized painting of her favorite singer went right above her bedpost, along with other memorabilia she had collected.

Joaquín was on the second floor, studying hard for an upcoming exam. His school books, thick and leather-bound, lay all around him in patterns only he understood. He tried not to lose focus from the framed insect specimens that hung on his walls, or the ticking cuckoo clock that stood by the door.

Guillermo snoozed next door in his bedroom. Just before he had fallen asleep, he had lit a scented candle to eradicate the stench of old clothes and stale carpet. Not surprisingly, he left the candle on an end table, right in front of the curtains.

Tía Maggie and Ismael called everyone for dinner. When there was no response from Guillermo, Maggie went upstairs to check on him.

Joaquín and Xiomara restrained themselves from laughing as they heard Tía Maggie shouting obscenities and phrases at Guillermo, Memo barely able to say anything in his defense.

She came back, the scented candle in hand, and Guillermo rubbing his face. There was a red spot in the shape of la chancla on his left cheek. He sat down, quiet and embarrassed in front of everyone.

Maggie went around, serving bowls of pozole. She served Guillermo’s plate, a subtle mannerism indicating an apology.

Everyone said grace, blessing the food with a prayer they knew like the back of their hands.

As Maggie and Ismael had a discussion about “adult things”, Joaquín leaned over to his primito, and whispered,

“Run away, Memo!”

The broth came out of Xiomara’s nose as she remembered how many times Guillermo had told his parents that he was going to run away. She instantly pretended that she had sneezed when Ismael and Maggie looked at her.

As soon as they were finished with their dinner, everyone rinsed their bowls, cups, and utensils. They didn’t want to hear Maggie saying, “who left all these dishes in the sink?” It was just one spoon…

The Ximenezes prepared themselves for bed, washing up, and saying their prayers for the night. They concluded the day’s events, the local gallo sleeping on the roof of the house, ready to crow at the break of dawn.

And that was just another day for the Ximenez family.