By April Vazquez
I can’t tell if my husband’s unmarried cousins are lesbians. Three or four of them put pictures of themselves on Facebook with other girls, faces pressed together, with posts about their undying love. But in this country, where women friends hold hands in public and dance together at parties, I’m not sure what it means.
I’m the only one angry that the house is in a state of perpetual dust and chaos because the builder, Raúl, doesn’t work on Mondays… or other days, sporadically and without notice.
I can’t understand why to get residency here I’m required to provide a letter from the Consulate verifying my citizenship when, at this very moment, the Immigration official making the request is holding my United States passport in his hands.
I can’t make out why my two-year-old’s shoe was stolen within five minutes of falling out of the stroller outside the the park. I know the shoe was stolen because when I went back for it, the lady who sells food there told me she saw another woman pick it up, but what I don’t understand is why, what she thought she could do with it. Or is the impulse not to let anything–anything–go to waste so strong that it extends even to one tiny shoe? Continue Reading…