’Buela/Gloria Character Analysis

All I know is she cried into her plate that night. And so at the age of four, I learned someone could cry from a happy memory.

Ever since then ’Buela is convinced I have magical hands when it comes to cooking. And I don’t know if I really have something special, or if her telling me I got something special has brainwashed me into believing it, but I do know I’m happier in the kitchen than anywhere else in the world. It’s the one place I let go and only need to focus on the basics: taste, smell, texture, fusion, beauty.

My grandmother chose to raise me when my father settled me onto her lap, asking her to watch me for a while, and then left the hospital. “A while” became seventeen years. It was in that exchange of my body from his hands to hers that the entire course of my life changed.

[’Buela] sits down next to me and removes the book from my hands. I sigh and put my head on her shoulder. She pats my face and I snuggle more deeply into her side.

“You want me to read to you?”

“I don’t think the Applied Mathematics textbook will allow you to practice your character voices,” I say, closing my eyes. She shifts a bit and I hear her pick up the book.

“Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away.”

And maybe because I struggle to learn certain lessons, this one has taken me years and years to learn: You can’t make too much space for a father like mine in your life. Because he’ll elbow his way in and stretch the corners wide, and when he leaves all you have is the oversized empty—the gap in your heart where a parent should be.

I let go of a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I don’t know much about pathogens and storing sugar, but damn if I don’t know how to cook good food that makes people hungry for more, that makes people remember food is meant to feed more than an empty belly. It’s also meant to nourish your heart. And that’s one thing you won’t ever learn from no textbook.

“Fuentes knows any school I apply to will have to be in Philadelphia. She’s had me research La Salle, Temple, St. Joseph’s. She’s pushing for Drexel, which has a culinary arts program, but you know I’m not good at school, so a scholarship is out of the question. I don’t even want to think about taking out loans. And how can I work full-time and go to school full-time and raise Babygirl full-time? I think in order of most important, school is at the bottom, right?”

I look at Ms. Fuentes. She’s young, maybe early thirties, not like a lot of the teachers at the school. And she’s hip to most things like fashion and music, but she doesn’t have a kid. She doesn’t have a grandmother who’s spent the last thirty-five years raising a son and then her son’s kid and now her son’s kid’s kid. No, Ms. Fuentes has a job that she seems to like, and she can afford nice perfume, and cute outfits, and pretty manicures, and to give out advice nobody asked for.

“In a couple of months you’ll be an adult. I trust you with that child; I should trust you with yourself.”

And although her trust should make me feel better, I feel a slight pang in my chest. Every day it seems ’Buela is stepping back, not just giving me full rein in Babygirl’s life, but also in my own. And I know I should love the freedom, but I don’t think I’m ready for all the safety nets to be cut loose. Doesn’t she know I still need her? That I still wish someone would look at the pieces of my life and tell me how to make sure they all fit back together?

“Emoni, pregútate, are you ready? If you have this baby, your life will no longer be about you. Every decision you make will have to include this child. You can’t be selfish anymore; you can’t put your wants above the baby’s. This is the last time someone will ask you what you want before asking you what your baby needs. Piénsalo bien.”

The guard is new, and I know he doesn’t know me or my circumstances because all he can do is remind me of the same tired rules. “If you want your phone back, you’ll need a signed release form from your parent or guardian.”

And I almost laugh in his face when he utters those words. I can sign permission slips for my own daughter but can’t sign one for myself.

“Sir, I really think you should speak to my advisor. I have a kid. I need my phone.”

She’s off before I can wave back. Before I can say thank you. Before I can say I always have plenty of Children’s Tylenol. Before I can ask her why Tyrone wasn’t the one to pick up Babygirl, or why I’m accused of being the irresponsible one but he’s so often excused from having to be as much of a father as I am a mother.

’Buela fiddles with her wedding band before looking at me. “I’m not sick, Emoni. I’ve lied to you. I haven’t had all those doctor’s appointments. I just needed a private afternoon with my thoughts where I’m not in this house. Where I’m Gloria again, and not only ’Buela. I don’t know how to explain it. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

I bury my face in Babygirl’s neck so neither one of them can see the tears in my eyes, the relief laced with hurt.

I think about Babygirl. How I wake up every day expecting to see her crib and how it clogs my throat with tears not to be near her. How I miss ’Buela’s shuffling slippers, and her yelling directions at the Eagles’ quarterback. How I need to find a new job and figure out what I’m going to major in if I’m accepted into college. My life when I get back is full of people I love and the responsibilities I have. And I love them, and miss them, but I also want to hold this feeling of freedom tight in my fist, because it has wings and I know as soon as I loosen my grip it will fly straight away.

I didn’t think I would be accepted into Drexel. My grade point average was a little below what they say a student needs, so I’m still shocked. Unlike the guidance counselor in middle school, Ms. Fuentes pushed me to apply even though it was a reach school. It’s close to home. It’s a great school. And it has a culinary arts program that focuses not only on cooking, but also on restaurant management.

But I don’t know how I’ll help pay bills if I’m also paying for school.

“I go to the doctor so much because sometimes I need to get away from all of…” She swirls her hand in the air and “all of” must mean everything in the house. “I go to the doctor to remind myself I am more than a great-grandmother to a toddler, and a grandmother to a teen mother, and a mother to a rascal of a son.”

She clears her throat. “Okay… The real reason I ‘go to the doctor’ so much is because of Joseph, Mr. Jagoda. […] And nena, it’s…” she pats her chest, and I know just what she means. “He isn’t perfect! I mean, he’s a Giant’s fan, for God’s sake, but he makes me feel like a woman. Not only a mother so many times removed.”

“Your grandmother says your food reminds her of Puerto Rico. But for me? Your food doesn’t make me think of back home, it makes me think of the home I had here. Every single one of your dishes makes me think of your mother. It kills me to see memories of her face every time I take a bite of something you made. It kills me to be here in Philadelphia, and every street corner reminds me of her. I always think with time it will get easier. But it hasn’t.”

All I know is she cried into her plate that night. And so at the age of four, I learned someone could cry from a happy memory.

Ever since then ’Buela is convinced I have magical hands when it comes to cooking. And I don’t know if I really have something special, or if her telling me I got something special has brainwashed me into believing it, but I do know I’m happier in the kitchen than anywhere else in the world. It’s the one place I let go and only need to focus on the basics: taste, smell, texture, fusion, beauty.

My grandmother chose to raise me when my father settled me onto her lap, asking her to watch me for a while, and then left the hospital. “A while” became seventeen years. It was in that exchange of my body from his hands to hers that the entire course of my life changed.

[’Buela] sits down next to me and removes the book from my hands. I sigh and put my head on her shoulder. She pats my face and I snuggle more deeply into her side.

“You want me to read to you?”

“I don’t think the Applied Mathematics textbook will allow you to practice your character voices,” I say, closing my eyes. She shifts a bit and I hear her pick up the book.

“Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away.”

And maybe because I struggle to learn certain lessons, this one has taken me years and years to learn: You can’t make too much space for a father like mine in your life. Because he’ll elbow his way in and stretch the corners wide, and when he leaves all you have is the oversized empty—the gap in your heart where a parent should be.

I let go of a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I don’t know much about pathogens and storing sugar, but damn if I don’t know how to cook good food that makes people hungry for more, that makes people remember food is meant to feed more than an empty belly. It’s also meant to nourish your heart. And that’s one thing you won’t ever learn from no textbook.

“Fuentes knows any school I apply to will have to be in Philadelphia. She’s had me research La Salle, Temple, St. Joseph’s. She’s pushing for Drexel, which has a culinary arts program, but you know I’m not good at school, so a scholarship is out of the question. I don’t even want to think about taking out loans. And how can I work full-time and go to school full-time and raise Babygirl full-time? I think in order of most important, school is at the bottom, right?”

I look at Ms. Fuentes. She’s young, maybe early thirties, not like a lot of the teachers at the school. And she’s hip to most things like fashion and music, but she doesn’t have a kid. She doesn’t have a grandmother who’s spent the last thirty-five years raising a son and then her son’s kid and now her son’s kid’s kid. No, Ms. Fuentes has a job that she seems to like, and she can afford nice perfume, and cute outfits, and pretty manicures, and to give out advice nobody asked for.

“In a couple of months you’ll be an adult. I trust you with that child; I should trust you with yourself.”

And although her trust should make me feel better, I feel a slight pang in my chest. Every day it seems ’Buela is stepping back, not just giving me full rein in Babygirl’s life, but also in my own. And I know I should love the freedom, but I don’t think I’m ready for all the safety nets to be cut loose. Doesn’t she know I still need her? That I still wish someone would look at the pieces of my life and tell me how to make sure they all fit back together?

“Emoni, pregútate, are you ready? If you have this baby, your life will no longer be about you. Every decision you make will have to include this child. You can’t be selfish anymore; you can’t put your wants above the baby’s. This is the last time someone will ask you what you want before asking you what your baby needs. Piénsalo bien.”

The guard is new, and I know he doesn’t know me or my circumstances because all he can do is remind me of the same tired rules. “If you want your phone back, you’ll need a signed release form from your parent or guardian.”

And I almost laugh in his face when he utters those words. I can sign permission slips for my own daughter but can’t sign one for myself.

“Sir, I really think you should speak to my advisor. I have a kid. I need my phone.”

She’s off before I can wave back. Before I can say thank you. Before I can say I always have plenty of Children’s Tylenol. Before I can ask her why Tyrone wasn’t the one to pick up Babygirl, or why I’m accused of being the irresponsible one but he’s so often excused from having to be as much of a father as I am a mother.

’Buela fiddles with her wedding band before looking at me. “I’m not sick, Emoni. I’ve lied to you. I haven’t had all those doctor’s appointments. I just needed a private afternoon with my thoughts where I’m not in this house. Where I’m Gloria again, and not only ’Buela. I don’t know how to explain it. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

I bury my face in Babygirl’s neck so neither one of them can see the tears in my eyes, the relief laced with hurt.

I think about Babygirl. How I wake up every day expecting to see her crib and how it clogs my throat with tears not to be near her. How I miss ’Buela’s shuffling slippers, and her yelling directions at the Eagles’ quarterback. How I need to find a new job and figure out what I’m going to major in if I’m accepted into college. My life when I get back is full of people I love and the responsibilities I have. And I love them, and miss them, but I also want to hold this feeling of freedom tight in my fist, because it has wings and I know as soon as I loosen my grip it will fly straight away.

I didn’t think I would be accepted into Drexel. My grade point average was a little below what they say a student needs, so I’m still shocked. Unlike the guidance counselor in middle school, Ms. Fuentes pushed me to apply even though it was a reach school. It’s close to home. It’s a great school. And it has a culinary arts program that focuses not only on cooking, but also on restaurant management.

But I don’t know how I’ll help pay bills if I’m also paying for school.

“I go to the doctor so much because sometimes I need to get away from all of…” She swirls her hand in the air and “all of” must mean everything in the house. “I go to the doctor to remind myself I am more than a great-grandmother to a toddler, and a grandmother to a teen mother, and a mother to a rascal of a son.”

She clears her throat. “Okay… The real reason I ‘go to the doctor’ so much is because of Joseph, Mr. Jagoda. […] And nena, it’s…” she pats her chest, and I know just what she means. “He isn’t perfect! I mean, he’s a Giant’s fan, for God’s sake, but he makes me feel like a woman. Not only a mother so many times removed.”

“Your grandmother says your food reminds her of Puerto Rico. But for me? Your food doesn’t make me think of back home, it makes me think of the home I had here. Every single one of your dishes makes me think of your mother. It kills me to see memories of her face every time I take a bite of something you made. It kills me to be here in Philadelphia, and every street corner reminds me of her. I always think with time it will get easier. But it hasn’t.”