Aren't We All a Naked Tomato Wearing a Robe? | Chronicles Of The Young Immigrant Women

It's the first time you can hear the birds singing at Lexington Avenue. It was a pretty quiet morning before the window on the second floor opened. This woman, who's holding a very loud phone, puts her head out. She's using the speaker as she talks to this other woman. Birds flew away of course.

- I don't use clothes anymore. To be more specific, eight days ago I got a light beige robe - you know I can't really have white stuff - and I've been wearing it ever since.

- Well I'm doing this yoga every morning with this guy from Asia. I've been wanting to connect with myself for a while now. Yesterday I thought about planting tomatoes on my balcony.

- How do you know he's from Asia? The last thing I wanna do is connect with myself. I don't even know if I'll have wifi inside there. I mean what resources am I going to use to figure what I'm feeling other than google?

- Maybe he is from India. Is India in Asia? Wait, no clothes? So are you naked right now?

- No I have my robe on. Just told you I got one.

An ambulance is crossing the avenue so they wait in silence. When it's finally gone the woman at the window lights up a cigarette.

- Is this a lighter sound? Are you still smoking?

- No. I mean, sometimes. Actually why do you even care? You should be immersing yourself in ice cream and smoke too. Like every other human being in their twenties in the middle of a pandemic.

- You know, this is going to be over soon. And by the way haven't you heard about what this thing does to your lungs?

- Anyone that smokes knows that.

- I'm talking about the coronavirus!

- I'm not even thinking about it. Have you seen that movie Parasite?

- I tried to, but I couldn't really follow the subtitles. 

If a bird could shit on someone's head right now, I'm pretty sure it would be on this woman's. Birds are all immigrants and they probably have to learn the local language to be around the city every season. How hard is it for a bird to be flying to different places so many times? Do the birds have a home to come back to? Do they come back? Considering that half of the world was colonized by the European pattern, which means stealing lands and acting as if they own and saved everything. I wouldn't be surprised if most birds lost their home too. Like the indigenous people, because we killed it. This is literally what the world's been up to for a long time. Just killing everything that looks like home. In the end, aren't we all parasites on this planet? Including the birds? Personally, I hate everyone who didn't watch that movie.

- Maybe that's why you don't understand when I talk. 

- What do you mean?

- Joo know English is not my first language. 

- I don't get it.

- Nada. How are you going to plant tomatoes in your balcony? — The woman asked while puffing the smoke.

- I still have to figure this out.

- Do you know where tomatoes come from?

- No. Do you?

- I don't. Shouldn't we know? Wondering if they were always out there. 

The silence now is because the cigarette is done and she's smashing it against the wall. It falls on the windowsill. 

- Shit.

- What? — Her voice sounds scared.

- Nothing 

She puts half of her body out the window to pick it up and finally throws it away.

- They were probably.

- What?

- The tomatoes!

- Oh.

- How about like when Adam and Eve were alive?

- Were they ever alive?

- I don't believe so.

- Me neither.

- Why did you bring this up then?

- The tomato thing?

- No, Adam and Eve.

- I don't know, it just came to my mind.

- Do you think our society is ever going to be what Adam and Eve are for us now?

- An example of sin?

- No. What? I guess?! It could—but that's not what I mean. What I'm trying to say is what if we become a fairytale? Just a story that some people believe and some people don't?

- That's too complex.

- Well I forgot you didn't even watch Parasite. — She said very angry.

- What's up with you?

- I'm tired of you ignoring where things come from.

She probably doesn't know where her robe came from either. It's the end of the phone call. And maybe of the world, too.

Welcome Home | Chronicles Of The Young Immigrant Women

I’m waiting to cross the street on my way back home – Brooklyn, New York, when I see this woman holding 3 or 4 balloons. One of them is pink and shiny and it says “welcome home!.” She’s also holding her purse, some plastic bags and a cake. Nothing weird, we see women carrying more than they should everyday (take this anyway you want). To me, she's a perfect-happy-character from a French movie and I now have my own script for her, ready to shoot after the light is green again.

I notice that we have a lot in common and this kind of connection happens around here, as walking in Manhattan does feel like a constant déjà vu sometimes. 

Fact is, I'm  always holding a lot more than I should as well, and the way she pretends to be okay when she’s actually eating her hair that’s coming into her mouth because of the wind, just makes me feel less lonely for a second. Regardless if she seems to be a happier version of me doing all of that or not, I do wonder if someone ever looked at me like this. I wouldn't fit in a happy french character though. Make a me the not-so-manic not-so-dreamy pixie Latina girl. Considering that I might be the only soul on the block making assumptions about this woman before I cross the street, on my way to never seeing her again, I have now the rare feeling of being free of competition in the "concrete jungle where dreams are made of." Wait, if I keep wandering about I'll lose what could be her story. 

Quickly, here's what I guess: she is late and trying to find a way to check the time on her phone, that's why she keeps moving her purse up and down. She's ready to surprise someone that is coming back home. A happier version of me, clumsy and late for something important like a warm welcoming party. “He’s home again!” she must be thinking . Or maybe “she’s home again!” (honestly hoping she's gay). Or grandma’s home, or the mom, the roommie is back (as if it's possible to love your roommate in New York) but whatever it is the human connection she might have, it's gotta be a wonderful person, acknowledging it's the end of Tuesday, street's busy and she can barely stand on those shoes. 

It's noticeable– nothing will blow away the joy she has, not even if she has an itchy nose. Which would be a complete nightmare as she has no hands to deal with such a tragedy. No doubts, she's meeting a wonderful person. Maybe they’re coming home for the first time I think. Might be that she hasn't seen them for quite a while. She loves them. Likely I'm thinking this because I want her to be the perfect scenario of my own feelings and wishes. And how can I not want this when she’s so happy? 

Happy to be carrying more than she can handle, happy that she’s going I don’t know where. Happy, against the wind and her hair that keeps coming into her mouth and happy, even if it’s rush hour. She is… joy. She's pure joy. On the other side of the street I'm in black, my hair is back, no wind takes a single strand away from my ponytail. No cakes for me because my joy will come when I'm free of sugar. No balloons for me because if no one will welcome me why should I welcome someone? The happy me will learn how to be bitter and free of expectations. No happy walk back home for me, because I don't even know what the hell (or heaven) is home anymore. Is she from here?

The light is green, she’s crossing the street when suddenly the wind takes the “welcome home” balloon away from her. Up to the goddamn sky as if Jesus hasn't had enough of welcoming parties. Damn it, life! Worst or best part is, she doesn’t notice the balloon is flying away. I’m thinking maybe I should say something but she is happy as a clam and I simply… can’t. I can’t be the person who's gonna tell her something went wrong, even with all the effort she's putting into this mission. She passes by. 

I can't help but wonder about the real meaning of that balloon. I imagine the smile she opened to the store-guy next to her when she found it. I can see the store-guy wishing he would get a balloon too, because like me, her and everyone in this city, he misses someone. I can’t help but smile too. Not at her, at the wind. I'm breathing out as I realize I'm not ready for this plot twist. 

I never expect life to take away the meanings I give to things. But it does, all the time. It's not that I’m sad about it. Just sucks not to have a break from this constantly resignification the immigrant life requires. Now, it's me going back on my way home without balloons or a cake or running late. But I do let my hair down. 

Here am I. Writing about random people and random moments just to say I can’t wait to be the person she’s coming to surprise. I can't wait to surprise someone. I can't wait to welcome someone or to be welcomed. Again or for the first time. 

I’m writing about a woman and a store guy and all of us living far from the land where we were born– I won't say home though. Home is the hardest resignification. I want to give balloons to someone that is coming back. I want to come back even if it's only for those seconds I have before crossing the street. 

I miss home.