Ser Fuerte (Be Strong) was written for Fuerza!, an art exhibit that was shown through the months of October and November of 2014 at the Museum of Art in Columbia, SC. There were 12 pieces of visual art that went (roughly) along with the story. The collaboration involved The Piensa Art Company (Dre and Sammy Lopez, as well as myself), Alejandro Garcia (who put the show together and is seen posing with one of his pieces at the bottom of the post), Mariangeles Borghini, and Ashley Berendzen. The exhibit was focused primarily on domestic abuse in the Latin-American community. It was with pride and humility that I was a part of this show, but also in being able to present it to you. I hope you enjoy Ser Fuerte.


Shhhhhh, mi nieto hermoso,” she whispered, her soft, liver-spotted hand delicately petting the silken black hair of her only grandson. “Ser fuerte. Ser fuerte.” Her voice trembled, broaching the muted screams outside with the fragility of a hunted animal

Miguel looked up at his grandmother in confusion, a slight panic rising in him. Her declaration wasn’t soothing. Instead it felt to Miguel as though she was trying to convince herself, rather than console him. The two of them, alone and shaking in the dark closet while his mother and father worked it out.

It was terrifying. And that made him furious.

He’d grown up with his father drinking - some nights bad, some nights worse - but fathers did that.  Twelve hour days of hard labor under the heavy and burning sun would do that to anyone.  Miguel’s father was exhausted by the time he got home and didn’t have time for his pain-in-the-ass family that he supported day in and day out. 

“Ser agradecido y largate.” Be grateful and be gone. This is how Miguel’s father grew up and he was perfectly fine, wasn’t he? WASN'T HE?! This is what Men do. Get used to it. And he let everyone know by yelling and cursing, and they’d better not push it.  They learned that point quickly.  Don’t push it.  Or he’d do more than just push back. But Miguel was a smart, loving boy, and knew this was pura mierda. 

A sound like a book slamming against a table rang out, followed by the crash of wood, breaking glass, and aluminum cans bouncing off linoleum.  

Miguel’s grandmother shot down to his side, cradling him like he was in swaddling clothes, the smell of her moth-ball sweater mixing with hot, spicy breath and her sweet perfume she’d worn for as long as Miguel could remember. He didn’t like it. She was hot and constricting, and he was almost thirteen- practically a man! It took six seconds before Miguel began shaking his head - a sure sign that he couldn’t take it anymore. 

“I don’t understand, Yaya. Can’t we do something?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed him, rubbed his head with trembling fingers as she peered through the crack in the door jamb and whispered a shaky, “Sh-hh sh-hhh”. Miguel calmed himself. Instead of reacting, he stood silently in the dark, listening to his father’s muffled voice - soft, followed by a pause. Then louder, followed by a pause. Then louder still.  Another book slammed on a table.

This time his mother cried out, praying to God, pleading her love to her husband, begging him to think of his son.

Miguel darted from the closet.

Quick as a snake and strong as steel, his grandmother’s fingers curled around his arm, squeezing white-knuckled as she spun him around.

Miguel began to fight, then saw the state of his grandmother. Tears poured from her wrinkled eyes, finding purchase in the cracks around her mouth.  But that wasn’t what held him. Not that, not her grip on his arm. It was her face as a whole, carved from stone and serious as death.

She enveloped him swiftly and they were back in the closet with such speed that several boxes fell from the shelf above, onto their heads, and to the floor with a thump, thump, thu-thump. It was a strange sound, that last one. Miguel looked down and, for a split second, caught a glimpse of shoes - brown ones and black ones, spilling out of boxes, weathered and worn. And something else had clunked to the ground. 

Before he knew it, his head was in his grandmother’s hands and she nodded up towards the shelf from where the boxes had tumbled. “Que fue eso?” 

Miguel lifted his head to satisfy his grandmother’s question but couldn’t see anything else on the shelf. “Nada,” he said, confused about why she’d care at a time like this. When he looked back down, she was stacking the boxes that had fallen. 

“Yaya?”

Her face had softened. As she sniffed faintly and put her hands on his shoulders, he noted how light her arms were, faded and delicate with age, and saw how worn she really was.

He would note, years from this night, exactly how feeble she looked. How funny that was. She was still shaking

“I must tell you a story.”

Miguel tilted his head, as upset as he was confused. “Ahora?! You must be kiddi-”
Be quiet and listen to your Yaya!” There was something about her voice, something sweet, with an edge of anger and heartache. Something that slapped Miguel in the face. “You should have met mi hijo, Diego. He was so handsome. So brave. Like you, Miguel. Un pequeno principe. He could dance like fire and charm shine from shadow. And like you, he felt responsible por su madre.”

I love my mama.” 

She brushed Miguel’s cheek, feeling the soft peach-fur of his face. She took time to cherish the moment. “Of course you do, mi pequeno principe. All Latin men think it’s their job to love their mothers. More than anything. More than anyone.”   

“Si-”

“And what about their wives? Their children?”

“But-”

“It is a mother’s job to love her children, a father’s job to love his wife, and a child’s job to be a child. When one of these things is missing…” She blinked and a tear fell from each eye.

She ignored them and smiled, “Chico dulce.”

Miguel turned away, angry that she couldn’t understand that he was almost a man. That he could do something about his mother being beaten by a man who claimed to love her. Maybe he wasn’t big enough now, but soon. And though his frustration stung his grandmother, she smiled ever so slightly and brought him closer. He couldn’t fight. He was too small. Too damned small.

So instead he hugged her tighter, and tears crossed the fury of his face

“Diego thought like you. But mi esposo…”, She let out a sob, then caught herself almost immediately. Another sigh and she continued, “He came home a few times a week, stumbling into the house smelling like he had tequila en vez de sangre.”

She leaned down and kissed Miguel’s temple, smelling his hair and mourning what it was like to be young. She sighed once more. “And he beat us.”

Miguel’s eyes went wide. *He whispered a promise to himself, a prayer to the future Miguel

“We’d only been married a few months when it started,” she continued. “He would stay out with his friends and drink and sleep with other women. Maybe he thought this made him more of a man. Pero porque es pensando no quiere decir que es verdad. In fact, he was a monster. And this monster would come back home and nothing I did would ever be enough. At first, he just pulled my hair or shook me or pinched me. And then it got worse. Much, much worse.”

Miguel had nothing to say. Nothing and everything. So he stayed quiet.

“When I had Diego, I thought he’d be happy, and he’d… he’d love me. And it did get better for a time. But then it got worse. So I had your mother.”  She grabbed Miguel’s cheeks and said, “Your mother was a beautiful baby.”  She hugged her grandson once again and smiled sadly. Miguel was beginning to become irritated, impatient at all the affection. It was excessive.

He didn’t need to be held. He needed a weapon. 

“But that didn’t help. And Diego, he loved me so much, loved your madre so much! And one day, a day like this one, and at an age like yours, he saw what his father was capable of doing to me. Saw me bloody and beaten and crying out to God. When… when Diego hit him, I didn’t know what to do. How to act. Mis hombres. Mi esposo y mi bebe. I was frozen. I couldn’t move.” 

Surprised, Miguel looked up at his grandmother.  A youthful, ignorant judgement began gaining momentum within him.  

“Like mama. But… Why didn’t you fight back? Why wouldn’t you just leave?!

She looked down at Miguel, shaking her head and wiping a tear away.  “Because Latin women love their husbands.

Panic shot through him, starting in his backbone and ending in his scalp and fingertips. If this was true, what hope did he have? 

What happened to Diego?” he whispered softly.

“What happens all too often, pequeno principe. He hit Diego like he was a man, when he was still just a boy. And Diego died. Mi esposo went to prison and I took care of tu madre.”  She clutched Miguel tighter, as if there wasn’t enough of him to hold. “And Diego died.” With this statement her whole body shuddered - one last tremor for one final nightmare.

And then she stopped shaking. 

Another book hit a table and Miguel’s mother screamed out, as if her voice - now filled with gravel -  could stop another blow. Tears slid down his face as Miguel looked up at his grandmother, just as Diego once had.

“What can we do, Yaya?”

She kissed his forehead and with a smile so filled with joy her eyes hurt, she whispered “Ser fuerte.” Then she gestured to the floor by the shoe boxes.

“And pray.” 

Miguel fell to his knees. The closet door opened with a groan. More panic. 

Where are you going?

“Just pray. I’ll be with you.” She turned away, giving Miguel no choice but to bow his head and close his eyes.

“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.”

As Miguel’s grandmother turned the corner into the hallway, Miguel’s father called out, the venomous curses gliding past her on a wind of righteousness. 

“Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

“Nunca mas!” The click-clack of a handgun marked the change in his father’s voice. Miguel kept praying.

“Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of death.

And the shot rang out.

“Amen.”




ART BY DRE LOPEZ

ART BY DRE LOPEZ

ART BY SAMMY LOPEZ

ART BY SAMMY LOPEZ

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