Chapter One | Grace C. Diaz
Grace [g-ra-ce] Latin Origin. Means blessing; favor.
Favor [fey-ver] (Noun)
1. The state of being approved or held in regard.
2. A gift bestowed as a token of goodwill.
Saturday, June 11th, 2011.
Harlem, New York.
Stiff with concentration, my hand gripped around the knife's handle while my other hand held onto the white onion as I made the first quick incision. One after the other, chop after chop the onion slowly disappeared from a whole, to a half, to a quarter. Feeling the water grow in my eyes I quickly took the pile of chopped onion and dropped it in the pan of half cooked hamburger meat. I then moved on to the red peppers. Washing them, cutting the tops off and scooping out the seeds. My bowl of salad sat between the peppers and the cutting board, all dressed up in grilled chicken strips, red plum tomatoes, black olives, red onions, and shredded mozzarella cheese and garlic croutons. All that was missing with my homemade spicy Caesar salad dressing.
The bell on the oven went off in the kitchen making me scurry over to take out the jalapeno cornbread. The sweet-spicy smell of the homemade bread made my mouth water and drops of drool slip out the side of my mouth. I couldn't wait to sink my teeth into this along with the jambalaya stuffed red peppers and garden salad, with a tall, ice cold glass of Pina Colada.
I filled up each pepper with an equal amount of meat, sausage, shrimp and a thick top layer cheese, three in total, and put them in the oven to bake. Taking a step back I let out a loud breath. Cooking all of this food was starting to take a lot out of me. This whole day was taking a lot out of me. Little by little I felt myself grow weaker from defeat, depression, and deprivation.
The defeat came from what I couldn't conquer.
The depression came from what I couldn't smile about.
And deprivation came from what I couldn't and didn't have, but desperately wanted it in my possession.
Love. I wanted love.
The organ in my chest that was identified as a heart didn't feel like one. Sure it had a heartbeat, pumped blood through my veins and kept me alive, but at the same, I myself didn't feel alive. My heart felt more like a lump of coal: cold, hard, and blackened by scars accompanied by a huge, gaping hole in its center.
Empty. My heart was empty.
I pulled the peppers out of the oven and put them on a big, glass plate. Cut two slices of cornbread with big globs of butter. Place a large serving of salad onto the plate as well then showered it with salad dressing. My plate was full to its edges. No holes. No spaces. Completely occupied. Everything fit perfectly in its place unlike my life where it was filled with holes and spaces resembling a bunch of scattered puzzle pieces waiting to be put together.
My feet led me to my living room, settled me onto my couch with my plate in my lap. I turned on the TV to channel E! in the middle of an episode of Fashion Police. I picked up my fork and knife, cutting a piece of stuffed pepper and sliding it in my mouth.
My eyes glanced towards the date at the top right hand corner of the screen.
June 11th. Today was my father's birthday.
I cut a bigger piece of pepper, popping it into my mouth.
It was quarter to three. In fifteen minutes my father would be entering some fancy home in Manhattan, jumping out of his skin as his friends and relatives jumped out from behind furniture greeting him with a big, collective, 'SURPRISE!'. He would laugh and smile and thank them for throwing him a party.
I took a huge bite of cornbread, chewing hard and fast.
He would dance with his wife and open presents and take pictures to forever remember his 45th birthday. Pictures that I would not be in.
My forked stabbed repeatedly into the salad.
My father would enjoy his birthday without me there--again--under the impression that I was too busy with the restaurant to attend the festivities. It was a lie. It always was, and will be a lie. As much as I would love to help my father celebrate his birthday, I couldn't, because that side of the family was too ashamed and disgusted to be around me. I was the traitor in their eyes. I was not Jamal S. Stephenson's daughter; I was identified as "that bitch's child", or "the slut's baby", not Grace. Neither my existence nor my feelings mattered to them. I was not considered a blood relative to them; just a mere stranger who did not belong.
Self-loathing began to wrap itself around me, creating a thick blanket upon my body, suffocating me. I busied myself by stuffing my face with large bites of cornbread, peppers, and salad in attempt to keep myself from crying. Food was always there for me when it seemed like nobody else was. I loved food, and it loved me back. Over the years I've grown accustomed to eating my love. Though no matter how much I ate, the hole in my heart only seemed to get bigger.
I didn't crave a five course meal; I craved the love I knew I deserved.
