One of the many stories I have about my mom... Completely true well, I may have gotten the name of the wrestler wrong but I know it had to do with Taino something or other. How I met him is another story.
-mama alaghom
“I love you!” my mom screamed as she stood next to him on stage. Her voice muffled by the band that accompanied his crooning voice. “I love you too” I saw him mouth to her as security guards gently guided her away.
It was her first time in New York City, mine too, but I’d been there for two weeks enjoying the first summer I hadn’t worked since I was 14. Now I was 22, grown and sexy, thriving off of everything a New York summer had to offer, a Fela Kuti dance party, Toni Morrison reading from Paradise in Central Park, and a crush on a Puerto Rican wrestler whose stage name was Taino Crusher. I could have never guessed that my mother would be what truly made that summer memorable.
By the time she came I was starving for the rolling green and brown hills of the Bay Area. Tired of the concrete edifices that penetrated the sky. Home sick for the comfort of tamales on street corners and corner stores that sold liquor. When my mom arrived her eyes lit 5th avenue on fire. Ablaze with the possibilities New York had to offer, shopping, shopping, and shopping. But she soon wanted to experience the nightlife hungry for the stories she had heard of pulsating salsa clubs where the singers of her youth continued to “rock the mic”. So, when we heard of Fania’s appearance at a New Jersey club she was determined. I had to convince her it was a bad idea for the two of us, wide-eyed and naïve Californios to venture into the New Jersey wastelands. Venture outside of Manhattan to a club even if they were the legendary Fania. Ponchada (defeated), she agreed.
“Pero mija, tenemos que salir por lo menos una vez, afterall this is Nueva York, we have to go out”. I knew she deserved a night out. Still high from the end of a 30 year marriage she fiend for a slither of the world she’d lost in her youth. There was a salsa club within walking distance of our hotel, the Copacabana. There, Jose El Canario Alberto would be performing with a special guest. I knew this would be a good enough fix for my mom that night and looked forward to spending time with her in a way I never had before. We got dolled up and started our trek down dark Manhattan streets in search of my mom’s youth. When we arrived I was blown away by the size for the club. Never having seen a salsa club so enormous and ripping at the seams with people.
We entered and I was transported to the hot sweaty clubs of a patria I’ve never known, filled with fellow tight rope walkers of the Diaspora ready to celebrate the union of European instruments with African percussion and rhythms. My mom and I headed for the bar ready to quench our thirst for music, movement, and libations. I opted for a Long Island Iced Tea cause well, we were in New York and well, it was the most “bang for our buck”. My mami entranced by the environment didn’t think twice when she began sipping on this brew.
Slowly she let her guard down, let herself live in the moment as men asked her to sashay and step away their worries to the ta-ta-ta-tata of the clave. Her face bright with the innocence and newness of the experience made me envy how free she felt as she twirled her way into a new phase of her life. Then, the legendary Dominican vocalist, El Canario, took the stage. His voice truly encompassing his apodo, he sang with the elegance of a bird and soon the club was pumping with his hypnotizing call. We had moved our way to the front of the crowd, close enough to the stage to see the pellets of sweat starting to form on El Canario’s brow. With growing anticipation at who the mystery guest would be we continued sipping on our Long Island and moving with the crowd. I, on the periphery, self-conscious daughter of a wild woman, watching children of the Americas play with the complex identities we’ve inherited. Shades of brown a whirlwind around me moving with the grace of waters and prowess of jaguars.
El Canario performed his set, his accompanying band feeling the magnetic force of his voice and the audience. Then, El Sonero del Mundo made his way up the side of the stage and my mom, invoking her inner 16 year old, let out a scream that a Beatles fan would be jealous of. I’m not exactly sure how it happened. I wish I could give you the play by play of how she did it. It may have been that the Long Island had me more mesmerized then I’d believed but all I saw was a petite blur of white mount the stage. Determined to not let this opportunity pass her by my mother, all 4’10 of her 46-year-old frame, was standing face to face with Oscar d’Leon. Handsome, bald headed, Venezuelan brotha who she’d sashayed with in her fantasies since 1975. Quickly, two suits darted towards her ready to grab her as she salsa’d with Oscar for a few seconds. For the few seconds where she was able tell this stranger she loved him and he returned the affection. She strutted off stage like a beauty queen and I could only stare.
We walked back to the hotel mostly in silence. Our heels tapping away the night, tapping away the intoxicating mix of vodka, tequila, rum, gin, and triple sec in the iced tea, tapping away the moment where time froze and I saw my mom as a woman and all I could manage to say was, “Mom, I can’t take you anywhere”.
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