El cuarto de Tula

A few days ago, I had a terrifying thought: none of my actions will ever make a difference in the world, and then I’ll die. Yes, I could see how that could be a relatively dramatic statement, although in my defense, it came at a moment of weakness. For one, I was in a bit of an argument with a professor over a paper she wouldn’t grade because I had turned it in as a PDF and not a Word document (she still hasn’t responded to my last email); secondly, I was feeling immensely bitter about my social life, that is, my lack of a social life, having moved from Cuba only a few months ago, mid-pandemic, and being in a self-education program that allows me to meet about zero people a day; and lastly, I, just like the rest of the country, was waiting anxiously for the announcement on which the next four years of our lives depend. Powerlessness pursues me every which way, and yet I fear it like the sun fears the ocean. For me, it’s tragic to think how little is really in our reach, and sometimes I

As a little girl, I was always eager to grow into the woman that has become the “epitome” of the female sex. We all know who she is: relatively tall, thin, tan, big boobs, big butt, small waist, hairless body. Her nails are long and sharp, her hair looks like she’s been living in a spa for the last three years. These days, she is the “ideal” woman. We see her scrolling through Facebook, on screens and posters advertising throughout the city, and even in movies and art. Of course, over time I realized how impossible it really was to become her. At seven, I was diagnosed with precocious puberty, which essentially meant that everything came earlier, but also stopped earlier; by twelve, I had already reached my full height of 158 centimeters (five foot one and three quarters) and my full cup size of 32AA. My confidence plunged to the depths of the sea. I would find random things about myself to criticize for absolutely no reason: my hair was too frizzy, my skin was too pale, my nose was to

When I was thirteen, I finally realized that I would never have the answer to the constant  where are you froms  that hunt me from every pocket of the planet. If you’re a bicultural teen like me, you probably understand the dread of responding to this question when meeting somebody new. Because in the end, what is home? Is it where you live? Where you were born? Where you spend the most time? Where you feel most identified? All of the above? None of the above? I’m not embarrassed to acknowledge my home, I just don’t know where “home” is, and every time somebody asks me this question, I spend a little too long rolling my tongue around in my mouth, trying to figure out how to summarize where I’m “from” in less than a 3000-word essay. My most common, go-to responses are: 1) I‘m not sure. 2) It’s complicated. About me: I was born in Miami, lived there until I was eight before moving to New York for five years, and then, out of the blue, moved to Havana, Cuba, because my mother decided she

     El otro día una de mis mejores amigas, a quién llamaremos Maria, me escribió para decirme que necesitaba hablar por teléfono urgentemente para contarme del sueño que había tenido la noche anterior. Había soñado en cuatro planos distintos con un antiguo amor a quién llamaremos Pablo. En el primero estaban en una sala de juegos y de repente pasaron a la parte superior de un árbol que a la vez era un hongo. Estaban rodeados de animales. Pablo le dijo que los animales eran personas que habían caído bajo una maldición. Y entonces todos se precipitaron al suelo, el cual no era visible desde la altura del árbol-hongo; los animales se convirtieron en personas con ropas muy coloridas y excéntricas. Cerró los ojos y de momento pasó a un cuarto oscuro ahogándose en paquetes envueltos y maletas, y salió al pasillo donde vio una luz cálida — allí estaba Pablo, y de repente vieron una mancha larga y negra con una falda rosada. Comenzaron a correr y llegaron a una puerta. Salieron al cuarto plan

Lela Tula Singer As soon as Lelo fell asleep we went out to the balcony for lunch. Lela made  mariquitas  and black beans, and I cut an avocado for the salad, then dressed it with olive oil and vinegar. We each served ourselves and took the plates outside to eat.  Neither one of us spoke while we devoured our food. Once I had finished I gazed at the sea for a few minutes; the water was blue and green and old. When I was younger, we would go down to the coast and swim for hours while Lela sat on the rocks and watched. Enrique was always the first to get out of the water because he hated being the only boy. Soon after, my grandmother would ask us all to get out; the rocks always smelled like excrement and trash. Then she would wrap us up in towels and take us inside and we would drink hot chocolate and eat the tamales she had made for dinner the night before, even though I never liked  tamales . When my cousins moved to Miami, we stopped swimming as often, and on the days that we