I was the fourth child born to Puerto Rican parents in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. I was raised in Brooklyn and began to write poetry and short stories in my preteens. By the time I was fourteen I was already drinking alcohol and experimenting with drugs. After the death of my husband due to drugs, I sought help and recovery for my emotional problems and my addictions. I became a substance abuse counselor and educator two years after treatment and worked in an inpatient facility for people in recovery.
I have been working on my memoirs now for a number of years, which will possibly be completed in another year. However, my collection of survival poetry entitled, Tainted Soul, will follow the publication of The Apple. Tainted Soul is a collection of poems I wrote during my years in treatment and is filled with a great deal of anger and pain. Although my wish was to have Tainted Soul published first, I am proud to release The Apple. Why? Because I had lived a life of depression and deep emotional pain that you will see clearly in Tainted Soul. I had always believed I was incapable of writing anything humorist and was quite surprised when I began to give birth to The Apple. The poems in The Apple are events and personal experiences of my life, my culture and my environment while growing up. I had discovered that in the mist of great pain in my childhood there was also humor, good memories and joy that I could not see before treatment. That is way I am so proud of this collection and happy that it’s the first among my work to be published. It is not intended to offend anyone. So I hope you enjoy it and remember to look for my other books.
In this city, in this little city
I search and search on the west side and the south
where my brown people live: ¡Pasteles! ¡Pasteles!
I am looking for Pasteles!
I haven't had one since I moved away from home
Graham Avenue, Brownsville, Brooklyn
loaded with corner restaurants, "La Paloma."
oh, yes, can they cook!
But this town called Syracuse somewhere upstate
nowhere to be found, my Pastel!
can't nobody Latin round here own a restaurant?
man, my mouth waters just thinking about them.
and the first Pastel I found in this hick town
tasted like overcooked plantains hardly stuffed
and yet stuffed with ground meat!
what an insult to a Pastel!
When my mom creates a Pastel, it is a work of art.
she - the Pastel - is wrapped up in hojas de guineos
wrapped again in pastel paper and boiled in salt water
to a juicy steaming golden brown.
then you unwrap her, the tips of your fingers burn
and your mouth waters as her hot steam caresses your
face with and her aroma causes your taste buds to
become anxious for the pleasure she brings.
You discover in her chunks of juicy pernil
seasoned well, chick peas, olives without pits
and a mixture of plátanos, guineos, papas and
calabaza - a Latino masterpiece!
voy para el campo, where my abuelita lives
she will sit me at her table and feed me plate
after delicious Latino plate - I love the way her
house smells - her verduras con bacalao - her
arroz con gandules - but her Pasteles, amigo,
¡VAYA! ARE THE BEST!
PA AND ME
Shortly after my return, my worker calls my name. I jump to my feet with a tight grip on my brown envelope filled with ammunition, and follow her big butt to a long narrow section of office tables. She is heavy, black, well-dressed--with a two-piece suit, and high heeled shoes--and obviously on a power trip.
As we reach her designated office space, she ever-so-gracefully sits upon her meticulous and majestic throne and, with her long bright-blood-red claws for fingernails, reaches for her only needed weapon: her pen. "Do you have ALL your documents?" She is cold, rude, and hates the fact that she must work eight hours a day while I, in her opinion, sit on my butt at home, eating, sleeping, drinking and waiting for my check.
