i remember when i was a kid i would pretend to be a felled mannequin or play dead until someone like my mom would notice.
maria has five children at this point and they all play some version of this game: hide until someone finds me, play dead until someone cares. i’m sure if my mom had energy enough after working two jobs (cleaning houses and watching other peoples’ kids) she would play with us. really, she just came home and cleaned her own house and watched her own kids, basically working all over again for very little pay (just kidding, no pay). no complaints from her.
i realized a while back why my mom never participated: it wasn’t because she didn’t care- which i think is what i’ve been trying to prove to myself for 22 years- but for twenty minutes, or however long it took for us to get bored of holding our breaths under an end table or stifling giggles under the bathroom sink, Amá had some time alone. for the players and the observer, twenty minutes can feel like forever, ¿que no? she appreciated silence and solitude in a way that i have only recently tried to learn about from books and articles and advice from my friends. my mom is zen, stoic. i am the exact opposite: a mushy, feely mess of emotions that can sometimes turn into crippling resentment and depression.
i reanimated only when i realized no one was going come looking for me and when they did find me fake dead, to fake cry very loudly over my fake limp body. that kind of meditation is just way too good to pass up.
Das some white people shit.